The When and the How: A Bone to Pick
by MoxieGirl
Summary: Following VNM's death & spurred by an unlikely catalyst, B&B navigate the rough terrain of their neglected relationship. Facing their mutual pain over the previous year while working a case, they discover the true meaning of partnership-in life & in love. "This story will make you laugh and cry, think and feel. It's the secret that every Bones lover deserves to be let in on."
1. The Absolute Truth

Reviews for **The When and the How: A Bone to Pick ...**

_"I am new to fan fiction as of 2 days ago. OH. MY. GOD! I love this story.  
><em>_I am so hooked. I can't stop reading. You have tapped into everything I love about B&B.  
>You've opened a window into what their private life could be like ...<br>200+ chapters isn't enough ~ I don't want it to end!" ~ CraftyjHawk_

_"**TWATH:AB2P'** is the secret that every Bones  
>lover deserves to be let in on. <em>_It's the unfolding story that will make you laugh and cry and  
>everything in between, especially think and feel." <em>_~ Caracoleta07_

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><p>Author's Note:<strong> The When and the How: A Bone to Pick<strong> is my version of what happens AFTER the episode when Vincent Nigel-Murray is killed and BEFORE the season 6 finale when we learn that Brennan is pregnant. THE WHEN refers to when, exactly, Booth and Bones became a romantic HOW refers to what they went through to get to that point. A Bone to Pick refers to the absorbing case they get wrapped up in during which the metamorphosis occurs. If you like a fast pace, lots of detail, fluff, case and MORE FLUFF, you will enjoy **The When and the How: A Bone to Pick **... or your money back!

~MoxieGirl  
>~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter<br>~Catherine Cabanela; TV Critic on ScreenSpy

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><p><strong>The When and the How: A Bone to Pick<strong>

**Chapter 1. The Absolute Truth**

Booth enters the diner and pauses, as if looking for someone. The lunch rush is winding down and the place is half empty. He sees Hannah sitting at his usual window table and advances slowly.

Hannah stands up, not knowing what kind of reception she'll receive, searching his face for a clue. Tightening the belt of her black leather coat, she plunges her hands into her pockets, as if preparing for a brisk breeze.

Booth advances slowly and stops in front of her.

"Hannah," he says, unemotionally with a nod.

For a moment they stand there as he appears to be weighing options. After a pause, he leans forward and kisses her on the cheek. Not a frigid greeting, but not a particularly warm one either.

Sensing now that he will at least listen to her, she exhales, realizing she hadn't taken a breath since she spotted him through the window crossing the street a moment ago. A flash of memory recalling their affectionate greetings at this very café, at the bar, even at his office in the middle of the day, tugged at her heart.

"Thank you for meeting me, Seeley." She grimaces, watching him to see what kind of mood he might be in.

"What's on your mind, Hannah? I've got about 5 minutes. You are … looking good … as usual." He says without smiling, and not breaking eye contact. All business.

She smiles, grateful. "Thanks, Seeley. You look … healthy." Pause. They sit on opposite sides of the table. She takes her hands out of her pockets and picks up a rubber band she discovers wrapped around the salt shaker on the table. She fiddles with it nervously, then slips it around her wrist and takes a sip from her coffee cup.

"I have missed you, Seeley. Do you ever think about me?" Hannah doesn't look him in the eyes, nervous about his response.

"I've, uh, been kinda busy."

"How's Temperance?"

"She's fine, Hannah. Why'd you ask me here?"

She looks up, but still says nothing.

"You're not rethinking my offer, because it's no longer on the table."

"I wouldn't expect it to be." She puts her hands in her lap, fiddling with the rubber band once again.

"I didn't believe it was over, we were over, for a long time," she says. "But then I had to face what I had known all along ... that our relationship was a detour, but not the real ride. I never really expected it to last. We had a great present, but our futures, your future, was always meant to be with someone else. We did have some amazing experiences. But we were never a team, Seeley."

"It felt real to me."

"Did it really, Seeley? I mean really?"

The waitress tops off Hannah's coffee cup and puts one in front of Booth. He puts his hand over the cup.

"Not for me, Liz. Thanks."

Hannah fidgets again with the rubber band, slipping it on and off the handle of her coffee cup. She is obviously anxious, and trying to muster the courage to say what she's come to say. It was a lot easier saying it to her reflection in the mirror this morning, and in her car on the way over.

Hannah puts creamer into her cup, stirs it with a spoon, takes a sip. Puts the cup back on the table and takes a sharp breath in. Here goes nothing.

Booth just looks at Hannah, not yet sure where this is going.

"How are things at the Jeffersonian? I assume you and Temperance finally have the chance to be together?"

"It's complicated," he answers as he looks out the window. This is going slow, but he can tell there's something she's working up to, though she's having trouble getting to it. He decides to wait her out, but not for too long.

Hannah looks at him and slowly nods, as if she's assessing what exactly that might mean. Has he moved on from Temperance?

Facing her once again, Booth says, "Listen Hannah, when you called, it sounded like you had something you wanted to talk about."

"I did. I do. I wanted to find out how you are. We haven't seen each other since, you know, the night I moved out."

Booth lets out an exasperated sigh. Is that the most significant thing she remembers about that night? He had asked her to share the rest of her life with him …

"Yeah, I remember when we last saw each other."

"You mean a lot to me, Seeley. I don't want to just leave it how we did. I feel like I've committed an egregious crime against you – and you might never forgive me."

"So, what? You wanna be friends?" He looks at her disbelieving and somewhat annoyed.

"No, Seeley. I'm trying to move on, but I ... can't until I explain some things. I can't live my life knowing that I hurt the one man I came close to abandoning my independence for. You deserve more than that from me. I really did, really do, love you. Even though it will never be the same between us."

"What's with you people? If one more woman cites her independence as an excuse not to share their life with me ... I will shoot her. No questions asked."

He holds her gaze for a heartbeat, expels a lengthy breath, then softens visibly. Six months ago this would have enraged him. But he's learned a lot since then.

"Hannah, I really don't need you to …" he starts, then remembers Sweets' encouragement to meet with her. _"Listen to what she has to say - gain some closure."_ Releasing the anger and pain of rejection had been a long process. "Well, what the heck … maybe I do."

"Seeley, there are some things I want … no, I need, to explain to you."

He nods, saying nothing, but maintaining eye contact. He doesn't want to make this easy for her ... but he understands, from personal experience, the need to unburden one's self, to set right what has been wronged

"You have my undivided attention for the next (looks at his watch) three minutes."

"I'm going back to Afghanistan, Seeley. For good. Or at least until there's nothing left to report on."

She lets that sink in. This is not what he expected, and it shows on his face. All of his defenses drop, which is exactly the effect she was going for.

"It's where I belong, Seeley. I miss being in the middle of it. The important news is all over there. I just want to say good bye. And tell you … and tell you that I was always truthful with you. I loved you and I loved being with you." She smiles, but her eyes tear up. She brushes a tear away quickly.

"I know, Hannah. I know," he says, a bit surprised that he's calmly participating in this conversation with the 3rd woman who broke his heart.

She goes on, "In journalism, there's something we call The Absolute Truth. It's the simple truth at the center of every behavior, every opinion, every good deed. Uncover someone's Absolute Truth, and everything else makes sense. Even the craziest beliefs or motivations behind a behavior become clear."

"And this is supposed to mean something to me ... why?" He looks at her blankly, shaking his head.

"Most people spend their lives oblivious of, or in denial of, their own Absolute Truth. Sometimes they just don't want to know. The Absolute Truth about us, Seeley, was that you were on loan to me from the beginning. I only had part of your attention." She tears up again but this time lets the tears fall, reaching in her purse for a kleenex. "Deep inside, I knew that. And I was okay with it. But it didn't include happily ever after, Seeley. It wasn't supposed to. I understand that now."

"Hannah – I was always truthful with you. I was in love with you," he says, almost beseechingly. Then reminds himself to remain calm – there's been a lot of water under the bridge since that night on the lawn overlooking the reflecting pool.

"Not really in love, Seeley. Your heart was always divided."

"But Hannah … I gave you my heart – couldn't you feel that? Didn't you know that?" He looks away from her and out the window once again. He's surprised and confused, frustrated … and sad that she must not have felt this back then.

"Just let me finish," she says, waiting until he looks in her eyes again.

"I believe you wanted to give me your heart – but you have an Absolute Truth that says there is really only one person who completes each of us. And for you, I am not that person."

"But …"

"I think having lost that one person, you were reaching for the next best thing … and luckily for me, I was in the right place at the right time. I could see your pain," she says, pausing. "Men aren't the only ones who have the "white night syndrome," Seeley."

"Hannah," He reaches across the table toward her, puts his hand on the table, a pained look on his face. "You were never a consolation prize to me. I would not do that to you."

She puts her hand on his, and squeezes it reassuringly. It felt … really good … to touch him again.

"I don't think you would ever intend to, Seeley. But I think it happens to people all the time. You think you know what you're doing, and why you're doing it. But it doesn't change the fact that you're settling for something different than what your heart knows is possible."

She pauses and lets this sink in for a minute, still holding his hand. She interlaces her fingers with his. She smiles compassionately at him, knowing that he does not see himself as someone who would knowingly hurt someone he loves.

"Hannah, I'm sorry," He says finally, anguished. This is a truth he didn't want to hear, but couldn't bring himself to deny ... because, he admits to himself, it is most likely true. He'll have to think about it.

"It's okay. It's really okay. Now." She smiles weakly. She straightens up, as if preparing for round two.

"I really was in love with you, Seeley, I still love you. And that's the second reason I wanted to see you. There are some things that I've learned about Temperance that I would never forgive myself if I didn't share with you … things you should really know …"

Booth's phone rings. He disentangles his hand from Hannah's and sees that it's Bones. He answers, leaving Hannah's outstretched hand on the table.

"Booth."

"Booth, it's me. I've assembled the bio and abstracts regarding Dr. Enrique Larrinaga. You wouldn't appreciate the complete text of his publications, they are quite scientific. But I think you'll find this guy's life fascinating …"

"Bones, I'm in the middle of something right now. Can I call you back in about 15 minutes?"

"Sure. When do you have to be at the airport?

"No later than 2:30. Can I meet you at the Jeffersonian in about twenty minutes, half hour?"

"Sure, we'll head to the airport from there.

"Thanks Bones." He hangs up and places his phone on the table.

Across the street, standing on the sidewalk a half block from the diner, Bones says, "You're welcome," looking at her phone, knowing that he had already hung up. She looks back toward the diner where she can see Booth and Hannah sitting at the window table, holding hands and leaning across the table toward each other. Booth looking very serious. Hannah, a little upset. She pauses, pensively, before turning around and slowly heading back to the lab.

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><p>Thank you for allowing me to share my love for writing Bones with you!<p>

My other Bones fics are:**  
>Bed of Lies: A S8 Finale: '<strong>_What Happens Next?'_**  
>The Meaning in the Episode:<strong> Season 7: The Missing Scenes  
><strong>The Culture on the Club: <strong>Booth and Hodgens get into hilarious trouble  
><strong>The Sexy Anthrpophagist:<strong> Missing Moments from TWATH:AB2P  
><strong>I Decide: <strong>What really happened between Booth and his father  
><strong>Trust Is A Five Letter Word:<strong> Booth Considers telling Sweets about Pelant's Threat

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><p>Thanks for giving MoxieGirl Bones Fan Fictions a chance! If you enjoy them, please tell others about them.<br>~MoxieGirl


	2. How Did I Not See This Coming?

**Chapter 2 How Did I Not See This Coming?**

Back at the Jeffersonian, Bones goes straight to her office and sits down in front of her computer.

"Dr. Brennan," interrupts Wendell, poking his head in her door. "I've identified four distinct bone collections in the samurai remains from the 1877 Battle of Shiroyama. The Satsuma Rebellion Exhibit this year at the Museum of Natural History will finally get the recognition it deserves." He notices she's not even listening.

"Have I come at a bad time, Dr. Brennan?" He asks. "I can come back later."

"No Mr. Bray. Good work. I'm on my way out, but I'll be back later to review your findings." Not once did she turn her head to look at him.

Wendell remains at the door a moment longer, recognizing that look of concentration on her face. She was trying to figure something out – and she rarely gets it wrong.

Alone once again, Dr. Brennan slides forward, puts her elbows on her desk, interlaces her fingers as if she is praying, and rests her chin on her knuckles_. Is he getting back together with Hannah?_She wonders_. This would certainly explain why nothing happened last week when I got into bed with him the evening after Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray was killed. Wow_. She lets out a long breath, and swallows loudly, shaking her head. _"How could I have missed this? Why didn't he say anything? Have I truly lost my chance?_

She knows that Booth may be many frustrating things, but an infidel he is not. He claims he's never cheated in a relationship – and she believes him. She closes her eyes as a wave of humiliation washes over her. Once again she's the high school Tempe Brennan in love with Andy Flooger, the Varsity LaCross Captain who taped Brainy Smurf to her high school locker._What did I think was going to happen when I got into his bed?_

At least this explains why he didn't take advantage of the situation, though she really wanted him to. _He's not Andy Flooger – and we are not in high school. We are partners – partners who have feelings for each other. Booth wouldn't shame me for climbing into his bed. Thank the universe I didn't take advantage of the situation. I don't think I could have handled rejection in the state I was in that night …"_

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><p><em>All reviews are very welcome - please be generous with them!<em>

_Thank you for allowing me to share my love for writing with you! ~MoxieGirl44_


	3. Get Me to the Airport On Time!

**Chapter 3: Get Me to the Airport On Time**

"Where's Bones," Booth shouts toward the lab platform as he walks briskly toward her office.

"You're going in the right direction," Wendell shouts back. "But good luck getting her attention. She's got that _- I'm about to crack this case wide open_ - look on her face."

"What's she working on? Nothing has come in since we put Broadsky where he belongs."

"Bones? Bones, we gotta go!" He walks briskly into her office. She's sitting, inert, at her desk. "Bones," he says once again, whistling and waving his hand in front of her dazed eyes. "Earth to Bones. We've got a flight to catch."

With his right hand he grabs her purse from the floor at her feet. With the left hand he grabs her by the upper arm as she begins to stand up.

"All right. All right! Stop pulling on me!" She slaps him on the forearm as she slings the purse over her shoulder and grabs her keys. _We're just Booth and Bones. Nothing is different._She tells herself.

As they exit the Jeffersonian, he heads to the left of the parking ramp.

"I thought we were taking my car," she says.

"We're in a hurry, Bones. And I have a siren and flashing lights," he says with a conspiratorial grin. "Benefits of having the word _SPECIAL_ in my job description."

"Why are we in such a hurry, Booth? Your flight isn't for an hour and a half."

"Just work with me here, Bones. I got held up and I'm running behind. I promised Parker I'd stop by school and give him a hug before taking off today."

They hop in the car and he pulls out of the parking ramp.

"What held you up this morning?" Asks Bones.

"It was personal," he answers looking forward at the road as he pulls onto the ramp for I-495 toward Dulles International Airport.

"Personal?" She asks. "You always tell me personal things. Why is this any different?"

"Look, Bones," he says looking over at her for a moment and shifting in his seat. "I don't keep anything from you, you know that."

_Here it comes_, she thinks to herself, bracing for the news that he and Hannah are going to give their relationship another chance.

"I tell you everything. And I'll tell you about this too, eventually. But right now I just need to do some thinking by myself. Figure some things out."

"Is everything okay? Is Parker okay? And complications on the Broadsky case?"

"I wish it were that easy," he sighs. "Don't worry about it, Bones. Just concentrate on completing all that paper work stuff you guys do so Caroline can lock him up forever."

"And you'll tell me what's so personal you can't tell me right now?"

"Bones – have I ever not?" He had a point.

"You are being truthful, Booth. But I worry about you when you are agitated."

"I'm not agitated, Bones! I'm running late – and my reason for living is waiting for his hug before his dad flies off to Pennsylvania for two days."

"Okay. Just concentrate on driving. I thought you said you were going to use the sirens?"

"I say a lot of things, Bones."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Fine."

"Fine." They spend the next 5 minutes in silence.

"Aren't we stopping to see Parker?" she says as she sees their exit pass by out the window.

"Dammit – grrrrr. Yes!" he says as he takes the first off ramp and goes through the back roads to get to the school.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading. Do you think Booth is going to tell Brennan about his appointment with Hannah? <em>  
><em>If he doesn't, will she bring it up?<em> _Share, share, share you thoughts! _

_Yes, that means ... Review?_


	4. Out of the Mouths of Babes

**Out of the Mouths of Babes**

"Daddy! I knew you'd make it!" Parker runs to Booth who scoops him up in his arms.

"Are you being a good boy today?"

"I always am, Dad."

"Is Bones here? There she is! Hi Bones!" Parker rushes to Bones and gives her a big hug almost knocking her over.

"Should we show Dad our game, Bones?"

"Sure – should I go first?"

"Dad, watch this. Bones has been helping me develop a clean sense of observation."

"That's a KEEN sense of observation, Parker. And remember, it's all about the facts."

Bones adopts a playful posture and voice. "Dr. Parker, you smell interesting."

"Watch this, Dad. Bones, tell me what I've been up to."

"Come here, big guy," she says grinning. Brennan crouches down, gives Parker a hug, lingering right in front of him, breathing in deeply through her nose and looking him up and down.

"Hmmm. Salt, dirt, grass, hard plastic, galvanized steel, iron, rain water, and sunshine."

Parker smiles, not surprised. This is obviously a game they have played before. "And what have I been doing?"

"Hmmmm. From my observations I can deduce the following: Dirt and salt - You've been playing hard enough to sweat, in a park with exposed soil – maybe a baseball diamond. Hard plastic and grass - You tossed a plastic Frisbee in the grassy part of the park. Galvanized steel and rain water – you stepped in a puddle, then played on a swing set, the older kind without the plastic coating on the swing chains – explaining the iron. Oh, it was a sunny day.

"That's exactly right," says Parker, delighted. He giggles and hugs her again.

"Your turn, Parker, What have I been up to?"

"You smell like your lab coat. And coffee. And those tiny plastic gloves. And shampoo. You smell like a big ol' bunch o' love, Bones!"

Brennan Laughs and hugs him. "Whoa – a romantic, just like your dad. You are amazing, Parker." She stands up.

"Daddy I can do you too." He moves over to Booth and hugs him, leaving his arms around Booth's neck. "You don't smell like the lab so much. You smell like coffee and French fries, ketchup, your office, and …, " he looks confused. " and … Hannah? Are you and Hannah back together, daddy?"

Booth shoots up to a standing position and tousles Parker's curly blond head of hair. "Whoa Whoa whoa! That's enough, buddy. I think your teacher is calling you for snack time. I'll call you tonight from my hotel room. I'll be back in two days and we're going fishing for a whole three days. Just us men. How about that?"

"I can't wait, Daddy. Bring me something back from Philly, Daddy."

"How about your own Flyers cap? I need mine back!"

"That'd be AWESOME! I love you, Dad. And you, Bones."

He leans toward Booth conspiratorially, "Is that okay, Dad. If I tell Bones I love her?"

"Of course it is, Parker. Love you, Buddy. We'll talk tonight. Say hello to your mom for me."

"He's such a smart little kid, Booth," says Bones with a smile as they walk through the grass back to Booth's car.

"Sometimes too smart," replies Booth sheepishly. "He must have gotten that from Rebecca."

"Oh no. He clearly got his ability to read people from you." They both laugh and get back in the car.

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><p><em>What do you mean, you wait until the end of the story to write a review?<br>That's ridiculous - share the love TODAY! HERE!  
><em>

_I'm on Twitter as MoxieGirl44!_

**You will now write a Review (Jedi mind trick)**


	5. Panasonic with a Dongle

**Chapter 5: The Panasonic with a Dongle**

Pulling back onto I-495, Booth's phone rings. With his right hand he takes it out of his suit pocket and holds it to his left ear.

"Booth." He pauses, listening to the caller for a couple seconds. Assessing the look on his face, Brennan can tell this is not good news.

"Uh huh." Closes his eyes momentarily, shaking his head side to side, his shoulders dropping. Brennan watches as his jaw tightens and loosens several times. She can tell he's just shy of losing his cool.

"Who is it?" Bones asks while pulling on his sleeve, attempting to whisper audibly over the tiny voice she hears coming from Booth's cell.

Booth, puts up his hand, shrugging her off, attempting to remain calm.

Bones pulls out her own cell. If it's about a case, they usually receive calls only moments apart. Nothing. Brennan relaxes visibly, realizing she's just gonna have to wait this out. It must be "Personal."

"Look … what's your name?" Booth asks, then pauses for the caller's answer. "Really? Gator? Who names their kid Gator?" He looks at Bones, rolling his eyes and shaking his head once again.

"That was a rhetorical question, Gator! Look, this was supposed to be delivered 4 days ago. I've rearranged my busy schedule to be home waiting for you. This is the 3rd time you people are rescheduling on me, and once again your timeframe absolutely DOES NOT work for me." He pauses, listening, shaking his head.

"I understand. I understand." He says, pseudo-calmly, condescendingly. "Let me talk to whoever's in charge there." He listens, sighing exasperatingly and mouths to Bones, "Where do they find these people?" She just shrugs her shoulders, still not sure what's going on.

"You should have let me drive," she says looking out the window.

"Listen, Gator. Listen! To! Me! Let me talk to your boss."

"I'd listen to him," ," shouts Brennan toward the phone. "He shoots people for a living"

"You're not helping!" says Booth giving her a pissy look.

Booth is put on hold. "I swear I will never do business with those idiots at Plasma World again. Why does a high tech company hire the moronic delivery company in D.C.?" He's clearly exasperated, but keeps an eye on the road. "This crap always happens at the most inconvenient times!" He pauses. "Where's my exit?"

"Next right."

"Time?" Asks Booth.

"2:05." She answers.

"Flight time?"

"3:55," she answers before he even gets the words out of his mouth. "I can drop you at the …"

"Nope. This time I WILL use the lights. We're parking at drive up."

"You're the boss."

"Time? Where is that supervisor?"

She starts to say. "2:07," but Booth's attention has returned to his cell.

"Yes, hello. This is Special Agent Seeley Booth. I purchased a 65 inch Panasonic TC-PVT30 with 3D glasses and a connective dongle - on your website a month ago. It was supposed to be delivered four days ago – and your people keep rescheduling on me. Mr. Fawaz, was it? Mr Fawaz, I catch murders for a living, that's why I'm called Special Agent. I catch murderers so your family can feel safe in their own home. The more time I spend WAITING at _my_ home for a delivery that never comes, the longer it takes to get criminals off the street and more people end up dying …"

"Special Agent Booth," Bones can hear the supervisor's voice from across the car. "Your purchase will be delivered to your home this evening, even if I have to personally deliver it myself."

"Finally! Thank you." After confirming his address, Booth flips the phone shut and puts it back in his pocket. "Now that's what I'm talking about. Sometimes you gotta go straight to the top to get things done."

"Booth?"

"What Bones? If You're going to tell me that by getting a 65 inch HD TV I'm fueling consumerism and supporting big businesses that drain our nation of its natural resources and exploit children from third world countries … look, I'm a simple guy …"

"According to whom?" she says under her breath then turns to look out the window before looking back at him.

"… who takes my work seriously. When I have some down time, I like to kick back wth a cold one and watch a good game. Why shouldn't I get to do that with the greatest clarity and the finest sound system known to man? Just because your television hasn't come out of the closet in 3 years …."

"Booth," she interrupts him with a calm, yet quizzical expression on her face.

"What?"

"Two questions," she begins.

"Here it comes," he announces, slapping his hand on the steering wheel.

"First, what's a dongle?" She asks, undeterred by his attitude.

"A dongle? A dongle is a … a … cord … thingy that connects to your computer so the tv and the computer can communicate. Don't ask me how. Angela probably has loads of them."

"Oh. I thought it was a high tech sex toy – or another euphemism for the male sex organ."

Ha ha! Bones, you still manage to surprise me on occasion!" He flashes a smile and relaxes a little.

"Second question. You must quite literally be Superman – which I assure you I would have deduced by now, or you've managed to perfect the highly implausible ability to physically manifest yourself in two places at one time – thereby accomplishing that which eluded Albert Einstein his entire life."

"That wasn't a question."

"The question was implied." She looks back at him, waiting for an answer.

"In English please – we left the Twilight Zone crew back at the lab."

"Booth, how can you be at your place to meet the delivery guy and be flying over Boston Harbor at the same time?"

"Holy sh**," says Booth eerily calm. "Bones? Would you mind …"

"I thought you'd never ask," she says before he finishes his sentence.

"Thanks, partner," he says relieved. "What would I ever do without you?"

"You're knuckles would still be dragging on the floor and you'd have a much smaller office than you do now."

Booth tries to formulate an equally snarky remark, but can't. "You're absolutely right, Bones," he admits with a somewhat sly grin, which turns into a full smile as he locks eyes with Bones. "You're absolutely right."

Bones reaches across the gap between them and pinches his cheek. "Damn straight, SPECIAL Agent Seeley Booth. They both laugh.

"I'll give you my key."

Booth pulls up to the curb for passenger unloading, turns off the ignition, and reaches behind his seat for his flashing lights. Turning them on, he places them on the roof of his SUV. They both get out of the car and head to the back where Booth unloads his gear.

As they start to move away from the car, Booth flashes his badge to an approaching security guard and they continue on, leaving the car at the curb, lights still flashing. "And that better be here when I get back," Booth shouts out authoritatively to the security guard.

"Booth, you don't really expect them to let you leave the car here for two days, do you?" asks Brennan, more than a little concerned.

"No, Bones, but they don't need to know that." They push through the double glass doors into the cavernous lobby of Dulles International Airport.

Unexpectedly, Brennan gets the giggles which quickly turn into a throaty laugh. She can't stop.

Are you gonna share, Bones? Come on, spread the wealth. What's so funny?

"Do you think they'll make me sign for the dongle?" she says, still laughing. "You've got to admit it's a very strange sounding word."

"Or, how about this, "What size batteries does your dongle require?"

Booth can't help laughing now, amused that she is laughing so hard.

"How about this," he offers, "Is that a dongle in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" They laugh so hard they have to lean on each other so they don't fall over.

"Never a dull moment with you, bones," says Booth, wiping the tears from his eyes.


	6. Sweet Cheeks Goes First Class

_A/N Are you ready for some more humor? Cuz, I have loads of it ... and lots of fluff too, plus a case ... and some romance. Enjoy! ~ MoxieGirl (MoxieGirl44 on Twitter)_

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><p><strong>Chapter 6. Sweet Cheeks Goes First Class<strong>

Brennan walks with Booth to the counter for check-in and waits with him in line.

"I don't see why you don't go the e-ticket route and bypass all this waiting in line."

"Bones," replies Booth, "Some people actually enjoy seeing a friendly face when they check in. Great customer service is a lost art! I suppose you buy online, e-check-in, drop your luggage at the curb, put your ear phones on and sleep all through a flight?"

"Actually, Shanara makes all my travel arrangements."

Booth just stares at her, "Who's Shanara?"

"My publicist. One of the benefits of being a best selling author and renowned forensics anthropologist." She shrugs her shoulders.

Booth checks his watch." Well, this time I've got a premium seat in the new Economy Plus section. I get five extra inches of leg room," he says, a smug look on his face.

"Is the seat wider?" Asks Brennan, dryly.

"No, but the drinks are free. Jack Daniels, don't wait up for me."

"Shanara always books me in First Class. I get seven additional inches of legroom and the seat is 3½ inches wider. And they fully recline."

"Bones, you know how to suck the joy out of some of life's simplest pleasures. Can we change the subject?"

"Oh, and I get those little footie things to keep my feet warm." She says crossing her arms and looking at the lengthy line in front of them. "That reminds me, I brought you these," she says, reaching into her bag and bringing out a three pack of fluffy baby blue footies with little white pompons sewn onto the mouth of the heal.

"Bones … you didn't have to do that," he says delightedly and a little bit in awe.

Brennan's pleased with herself to have gotten this reaction from Booth.

"I wanted to. Besides, you always steal mine when we fly. Now you've got your own … and I don't have to worry about posting bail for you when you're arrested for stealing from First Class." She smiles, then continues, "Hey, Sweets was right – you do try to change the subject when you feel out done or uncomfortable with the topic!"

Booth smirks at her. "What would he know, he's only twelve."

"He may be preadolescent, but he's got you figured out to a P."

Booth stares at her blankly until comprehension dawns. "Its 'figured out to a T,' Bones. A 'T.' Sweets has got me figured out to a 'T."

"It's impressive that you have so readily accepted Sweets' assessment! Aw, look how much you have evolved in just a few short years of therapy," she chides him and chuckles.

Booth turns away from her when he hears, "Well, I'll be damned if it ain't Special Agent Seeley Booth as I live and breathe!" coming from the direction of the First Class check-in counter. The attendant with a name tag that says, "SHARON is at your service," in five languages gives him a mega-watt smile and leans across the counter to check him out, giving him an eye-full of her own deep neckline.

"Well, heh heh! Sharon, how nice to see you!"

"Agent Booth, my counter is free, get your bad self on over here!" she croons in a syrupy southern drawl straight from the bayou. She waves him over, leaning even further over the counter. She flashes a full set of blindingly white and perfectly straight square teeth.

"I'm not First Class, Sharon," he says a little too excitedly, grabbing his luggage and walking toward her counter anyway. "Look at that, Bones, heh heh," he says to her with a snooty air and wiggling his eyebrows at her.

"Well, that's a matter a 'pinion t'which I do not ascribe." She winks at him. "You sure are lookin' fine as ever. Goin' somewhere special?"

"Just work, Sharon. I get to present an award to a hard working citizen who helped us solve the anthrax case a couple years ago."

Sharon leans over again and asks in a hushed voice, pointing at Brennan who is mostly obscured by Booth's tall frame. "She goin' with ya'?

"No. No, she's not. Sharon, this here's my partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian." He moves to the side so Sharon can fully see Bones behind him.

Sharon does a once over of Brennan and nods, "Howdy-do?" then returns to Booth without waiting for a reply.

"So, you still single, Sugar?"

"I guess you could say that …"

"Still out there with your junk blowing in the wind, huh? Say listen, my sister Petra's moved back to D.C. Y'all should catch some dinner sometime. A man's gotta eat, right?"

"I appreciate the suggestion, Sharon, but I kinda have my hands full right now," he demurs.

"Well, things change for ya', you know where you can find me!" She flashes him a mega watt smile. "Now lets get down to business and getcha on your way…" She takes his ticket and starts clacking away at her keyboard, squinting at her screen.

"Are you sure you're not in First Class seating with us today, Sweet Cheeks?"

"Well, I prefer to fly among the people. The real people. I'm in Economy Plus, seat 9A. If it's good enough for the people I serve, it's good enough for me." He gives Bones a smug look.

"Well, lookee here!" exclaims Sharon as her bright pink lacquered talons clickity-clack on her keyboard. "My trusty computer here has you assigned to seat 1B in First Class with extra leg room due to a cutout in the bulkhead."

"I'll take it," he says, maybe a little too quickly.

"You're incorrigible, Booth," says Brennan.

"What? I serve the good people in First Class too."

"Yeah, usually with a little extra salt and vinegar," she replies.

"What …? Thank you, Sharon," He says following after Brennan as she walks away from the counter.

"Anytime, Sweet Cheeks!" Sharon replies with more enthusiasm than necessary.

"Man, you know how to work it, Booth," says Brennan as soon as they are out of earshot.

"It's one of my super powers, Bones." He grins and winks at her.

Her stomach does a flip and she loses her balance for just a moment. Fortunately, she regaines composure before he sees the affect he has on her.

As they near the security gate, Brennan says, "You know, we've never taken a trip together, Booth."

"Sure we have – we've taken lots of trips together, Bones, " he says stopping and turning to face her.

"Yeah, for business. But never just for pleasure - - - " It's out of her mouth before she realizes she's said it. In a split second, her cheeks feel hot, she can feel the pulse of her heartbeat is beating out a Rhumba on her temples, and her mouth goes dry. He's still looking directly into her eyes and has moved, slowly, even closer. Time feels like it's standing still all of a sudden.

Booth's look is penetrating, but its surprisingly warm, soft, sweet. The affect his proximity has on her simultaneously disturbs and delights her. Oh how I love this man, she thinks to herself. In the warmth of his gaze she feels relaxed yet euphoric, eager yet apprehensive. This can't be happening until I find out what's going on between him and Hannah, and why he's been so distant lately, she tells herself.

"Partners can do that, right?" she asks without breaking the eye contact.

"Sure. I think even Sweets would agree that it is important to keep the relationship well rounded – share some non-work related experiences." He pauses, and tries to swallow. His mouth has gone dry … and he's suddenly aware that he's been sweating. He can't stop looking in her eyes. "Not like we don't already. I mean, we do. But we've never really … traveled … together," he says never looking away.

"We could go see one of your favorite hockey events," she suggests, as if waking from daydreaming.

"They're called games, Bones. Or we could go to New York and take in a show – or how about this," he says excitedly "we could go visit someone else's museum and look at old bones."

They look at each other in silence for a moment.

"Nah!" They both say at the same time, laughing the tension away.

"Anyway, maybe we can talk about it when you get back from Philly," says Bones, as they walk companionably toward security.

"Thanks for bringing me to the airport, Bones," says Booth as Bones turns to leave. "It means a lot to me." He looks at her with a sweet and appreciative expression.

"That's what partners are for, right Sweet Cheeks?" she says with a southern twang, batting her eyelashes at him. They both laugh. She turns and walks away.

As he empties his pockets at the security check, he realizes he still has his keys. But Bones needs them to get into his house – and, he realizes in a moment of panic, to drive his car out of the airport drop-off area! He jumps over the security barrier and almost gets tackled by several security guards. He flashes his badge all around, shouting, "FBI. This is official business. Do not deter me!"

He runs to the check-in area and sees her outside the doors, standing in front of the car. He's flooded with such relief that he can barely breathe.

She turns just in time to see him through the glass doors. Their eyes meet and he stops in his tracks, stunned at how, even after 6 years, the sight of her makes his heart skip a beat and his knees turn to rubber.

He runs through the doors and into her arms.

"Booth, you're only leaving for two days. I know you'll miss me, but …"

"Bones, you're gonna need these to get out of the parking lot." He holds his right hand up, the car fob held between his second and third fingers, the keys dangling in front of Brennan's face.

"You are correct," replies Brennan, smiling as Booth drops the keys into her hand.

Booth leans closer to Brennan, puts his arm around her shoulders to pull her to him, and kisses her on the forehead. "Thanks for everything, Bones."

"Sure," she answers softly as he steps backward.

As he starts to walk backwards toward the glass doors he adds, "And thanks for the thing at my apartment …"

Booth notices a security guard paying a little too close attention to their conversation while ogling Brennan. "Hey, Buddy. Show a little respect. It's not what you think. Get your mind out of the gutter!" He turns and leaves as Brennan presses the unlock button on the key fob.

* * *

><p><em>Come ON! Give a girl some props for putting in the time, people!<em>  
><em>I appreciate that you're reading THe When and the How: A Bone to Pick.<em>

_Now let me read YOUR writing ... in a review!  
>~ MoxieGirl <em>


	7. Hannah Spills the Beans

**Chapter 7. **

Seated in first class, Booth stretches his long legs. "Now THAT'S what I'm talking about!" He loosens his tie even further, kicks his shoes off and stows them under his seat, and pulls a pair of baby blue footies out of the briefcase laying on the unoccupied seat to his right.

As the aircraft leaves the runway, he's got the dossier on Enrique Larinaga that Brennan prepared for him open on his lap. He knows he should be reading it, but after the first two paragraphs, his mind drifts back to the coffee shop and his conversation with Hannah earlier in the day.

"Your Dr. Sweets would probably say that meeting with you and spilling the beans on Temperance," she began, "Is an attempt to gain control over the situation … or maybe as a final effort to really prove to you have much I love you. Or," she paused, pursing her lips and speaking as if she were talking to herself, "maybe it's just to assuage my over developed sense of guilt over hurting you."

He had looked at her wondering if he should stop her right there. He felt sure he had been clear about their potential future as a couple. As far as spilling the beans about Bones, he was not interested in hearing anything against his partner.

With all he and Bones had been through, he was certain without reservation that there were no secrets between them. He already knew all the details of her heart-breaking childhood abandonment when she was sixteen and her years in the foster child system. He'd helped her reconnect with her only sibling, Russ. He'd captured Bones' father, a wanted fugitive and murder suspect, and put him in prison – all in the line of duty – only to be instrumental in getting him acquitted of the charges

Booth stood by Bones as she faced the truth about her mother's death. He knew about her awkward and lonely childhood, her unsuccessful romantic relationships, her commitment to the truth, and her ability to come across as intimidating or heartless in her efforts to uncover that truth.

He'd witnessed her struggle to interpret the nuances of social interaction, and been there to hold her hand or offer a shoulder when she'd been devastated by others' less than flattering impressions of her. He knew her to be a compassionate, loyal, and generous person. He treasured the countless times she had publicly and eloquently voiced her appreciation for who he was to her. More than once he'd found himself pleasantly embarrassed and short of breath as Bones made a toast to him or shared with their friends the valuable insights she'd gained through their relationship as partners and friends.

He could comfortably disagree with her – actually appreciated spending most of his time with someone he never had to pretend with. He spoke his mind; she spoke hers. She didn't back down just to be nice and would have been disappointed if he did. Being with Bones was as comfortable as being with a guy – but nothing like it – she was beautiful and, he couldn't deny, powerfully attractive and fascinating – at least to him.

They had both literally saved each other's lives several times over. There was nothing he wouldn't do for her, nothing he hadn't already done for her. He knew she felt the same.

He'd seen her happy, disappointed, delighted, sad, heart-broken, angry, frustrated, and jubilant. The one and only time he'd seen her afraid is when he had told her he wanted to give their relationship a chance to be more than just a partnership. She had been afraid then. Afraid that she would hurt him. Other than that, she seemed to have no fear, something he rarely witnessed in any human being regardless of sex.

She liked guns, solving cases, and catching murderers. She saw the best in him. To her, he was a hero. To him, she was too. They were partners, and he'd been in love with her since the first time they met.

Reflecting on all this, he recalled the conflict within him as he sat across the table from Hannah this morning. Should he allow her to continue with whatever it was she had come to say? Or should he thank her for the coffee, wish her success in Afghanistan, and leave for the Jeffersonian?

Her opening was so provocative; he had been at a loss to figure out what she could possibly be about to share with him. He was wary, however. He'd known many women who would scratch their best friends eyes out in a heartbeat if they thought it would advance their chances with a mutually sought after male conquest. He had never doubted Hannah's competitiveness. You don't get to where she is in her profession without clever maneuvering and ruthless strategy.

There was nothing she could tell him that he did not already know about his partner. What did he have to lose? He had decided to let Hannah say what she came to say … to a point.

Booth had sat quietly while Hannah laid out her case.

"Seeley, when I moved here to be with you, I was, in a way, coming to fight for you. The whole time we were together in Afghanistan you didn't mention Temperance or the particulars of your situation, but I could see someone had hurt you. When you told me you were coming back – and that you'd be working every day with a woman who had broken your heart and sent you off to Afghanistan to lick your wounds … I intended to come here to rescue you, I guess. I came to D.C. ready to fight for you, for us."

He almost objected at that point. Seeley Booth does not sit around licking his wounds – and no one SENDS him anywhere. He went to Afghanistan of his own accord to train soldiers in combat strategy in such a way that lives on both sides of the conflict could be spared. Hannah was making him sound like a victim. Like a boy, not a man in charge of his own destiny. However, he let her continue. There had to be a point in there somewhere …


	8. Female Mud Wrestling

**Chapter 8. Female Mud Wrestling – and Then Booth Woke Up**

Booth shifts in his first class seat and wiggles his toes inside the silky baby blue chenille footies. Do these look like girl sox? He wondered to himself. Who cares – they are awesomely warm and cozy. Too bad they don't make these for you hands, he mused as he noticed his fingers were getting chilly from the dry, sterile, circulating cabin air. "Wait," he actually said out loud sitting bolt upright and looking back in his briefcase. Bones gave me a whole bunch of these things, he said, this time to himself. How stupid would I look wearing a pair on my hands?

He straightened up again and peered over the back of his seat to assess the possibility of being observed wearing girl sox on his hands. Satisfied he was safe from scrutiny, he slipped the footies over his fingers all the way up to his wrists. Immediately he could tell that something wasn't right. There was something scratchy and flimsy inside the right footie. "What the …" he said loud enough for the two ladies in the row across and behind his own to look in his direction before lapsing back into their conversation about grandchildren, he assumed, or something else equally banal. "Nothing to see here," he tossed out as he eased back into his cushy seat.

Do these things have tags sewn into the seams, he wondered. He pulled the footie off his right hand and found that Bones had left him a little note. It reminded him of the notes his mom used to put in his Green Lantern lunch box when he was in grade school. Mom's notes usually said something mushy or reminded him about something going on after school that day. This note was different. He read it, smiled to himself, and put it in his wallet for safe-keeping.

Snuggled back into his cozy seat, his hands and feet wrapped in silky luxuriousness, a gift from Bones, he attempted to take in a little snooze before the brief flight landed in Boston where he'd catch another flight into Philly.

Sleep eluded him, however. What Hannah had shared at the diner had ended up surprising him. He would forever be grateful for what she sacrificed in order to bring him that information. Now he fully understood the depth of her feelings for him.

Booth wanted to recall every word of her revelation so he could savor every one. "When we met in Kabul," she started, "I could tell that you were hurting. I jumped at the change to be your Knight in Shining Armor – You men aren't the only ones who suffer from white knight syndrome, Seeley. Why do you think I go all the way to Afghanistan, when I could easily take a less dangerous and less heroic assignment stateside?"

Booth had smiled when she shared this. He knew full well the lengths to which a person would go to protect or defend those they love. He'd seen it many times in the war. Too often he'd witnessed soldiers make unsafe choices … sometimes stupid choices … in the name of bravery or honor. This last time in Afghanistan he'd made a choice to give up combat heroism in exchange for something much more important, though not nearly as glamorous: the chance to actively participate in his son's life. If Booth had continued in his final assignment, the likelihood of him making it home was not great. In his mind, that was unacceptable. Just when he was formulating a plan to return to D.C., he received a call from Caroline, his colleague and friend who was also the district attorney who prosecuted most of the criminal cases for the criminals Booth had captured and incarcerated.

"Well Seeley, I ended up falling for you," Hannah had proceeded. "I didn't expect that. When you said you were leaving, I had to follow right behind you. I wanted to find out how serious it could be between us. Of course, I also wondered about this Dr. Temperance Brennan you had finally told me all about."

"I was ready for a catfight, Seeley, and I made the first move. Remember when you first saw me in D.C.? I came into the diner and stood there kissing you right in front of her. You don't think that was by accident, do you? The number one rule in journalistic combat: draw first blood – put the opponent on the defensive. So that's what I did."

"You conniving … " he had started to say, half irritated, half amused, and, he had to admit, more than a little flattered.

"Now just wait, Seeley. I didn't say I was proud of what I did. Just let me continue."

"Go ahead. By all means continue. But I sure hope it is worth it to show me the side of you I've always suspected but never actually seen with my own eyes," he'd said, shaking his head and motioning to Liz for more ketchup and a fresh cup of coffee. "Maybe I should get some pop corn and a slushy for part two of this show," he quipped. "I love a good catfight – especially when the cats are in wet tee shirts and the beer is flowing freely. Or better yet, how about mud wrestling?"

"Anyway," she continued, rolling her eyes and grimacing at his attempt at humor and his blatant display of testosterone. "You seemed determined to get past that painful relationship, though for some reason, I wasn't so sure that you could."

"What I found when I met Temperance what not at all what I expected…"


	9. Bones Doesn't Do That

**Chapter 9. Bones Doesn't Play Games**

Booth grins as he recalls making Hannah uncomfortable with his chauvinistic comments about mud wrestling while she was so serious. He realized now, that he must have been more relaxed by that time in their conversation or else he wouldn't have been so flip. Anyway, he was glad that conversation was over and he was on his way out of state for some time to himself to do a little thinking.

"Instead of getting a catfight or a competition," Hannah had explained, "I found that I liked Temperance. I began to see some of the reasons why she had been so important to you and still is."

"Right away when you introduced us, Temperance was welcoming. She seemed genuinely happy to meet me and happy to see you happy."

"She was, Hannah. That's how Bones is. She doesn't wish ill for anyone," he had commented to Hannah.

"Well, Seeley, I wasn't so sure she wasn't just putting on an act so I stopped by her office not long after we first met to see if I could detect any kind of … I don't know … animosity … or jealousy … or whatever one feels when someone else is dating a person you love."

"You stopped by the Jeffersonian?" Booth had asked.

"Yep."

"Without me?

"Yes, I did. It's not like I needed your permission, Seeley."

Booth's eyelids had shot up at this comment. No, she didn't need his permission … that is true … but for the first time in his life he was realizing how much more goes on behind the scenes than men are aware of. There were things that women share with each other that men are rarely privy to. This was the first he had heard of Hannah's visit to the Jeffersonian. Bones hadn't said anything to him about it then. Neither had Hannah. How strange.

He realized how oblivious he had been to Hannah's concerns during those first months here. How could he live with someone and not know what she was thinking? Dr. Sweets would have some brilliant insight about all this – but Booth was at a loss … And more than a little concerned that what he was hearing about today was just the tip of the ice burg.

"Hannah, why do I get the feeling that what you just told me is just the tip of the ice burg?" he asked.

"Because you are a freakishly perceptive man, Seeley Booth," she answered.

"Well apparently not THAT perceptive, because I was clueless about all this going on. We lived together, for Christ's sake … and when I wasn't with you – I was with her almost every moment of the day!" He was getting a bit agitated.

"Simmer down, Seeley!" she chided him, using one of his own catch phrases intended to command order in a commotion or interrupt a heated discussion that was about to get out of control. "I haven't even told you what happened that day at the Jeffersonian."

"Something HAPPENED?" he sounded alarmed.

"Seeley," she said, reaching across the table. "You're acting like Temperance and I are teenagers who stole a car and got caught speeding the wrong way down the highway with a back seat full of pot and Jack Daniels. If you just stop being a little girl about this, I can continue. Don't you have a plane to catch?"

"You're right," he said, breathing in deeply through his nose and exhaling. "Hannah, this is taking too long. Whatever you have to tell me, you better just rip it off like a Band Aid. I have a feeling some of what you have to tell me is going to be painful?"

She had looked at him, considering if he was ready for this information. Considering if she really wanted to go through with this. What the hell, she thought. I have nothing to lose.

"Seeley, when I went to the Jeffersonian that day, I went to get a reading on her. This was right before I moved into your apartment. Temperance greeted me without rancor and invited me to sit down. My pretense for being at the Jeffersonian was that I wanted an idea of what I should get you as a gift to celebrate our new living arrangement."

"Ahhhh … the antique phone." Seeley had guessed.

"You are correct," confirmed Hannah. "Temperance knew that you had been looking for a heavy, black, antique telephone for quite some time. Instead of keeping that information to herself, she told me about it. Without hesitation."

"So?" Booth had given her a blank stare.

"So," Hannah explained, "She didn't have to make that suggestion. She could have suggested something ordinary and meaningless like – he loves Froot Loops, or he needs a new microwave. She knew the phone would be a wonderful, thoughtful and surprising gift … and that it would make you happy – so she told me about it. Don't you see? She let me be the hero. Most women in her situation would not have done that." Hannah paused, looking for the right words. "Temperance … doesn't play the games that most other people play."

"No. Bones doesn't play games. What you see is what you get. More than with anyone else I've ever seen, anyway." Booth was beginning to understand. He was suddenly quiet. Pensive. He looked at his coffee cup and tipped it back and forward, watching about a tablespoon of amber liquid roll back and forth.

"Before I left her office, she stopped me asked me and made an odd request. Well, I thought it was odd anyway."

"What do you mean?" Booth asked.

"She said I should consider how serious I was about you before moving in with you. And I thought she was finally about to show her true colors. But what she said next proved me wrong. Her colors had been true from the start, and they never wavered."

"What did she say?" asked Booth, placing the coffee cup flat on the table and scrunching up his eyebrows. Several vertical wrinkles appeared at the base of his nose like a pair of quotation marks.

"She told me to be sure about how I felt about you – because you would give me your whole heart." The irony of the situation was not lost on either of them as they sat in silence for a moment. "Seeley, she didn't want you to get hurt again."

When Booth didn't say anything, Hannah went on. "A person who was competing for your affections wouldn't have done that, Seeley. I mean, she put your happiness above her own, even if she didn't know that that was what was at stake."

"I disagree, Hannah. My money says she knew exactly what was at stake," said Booth.

Booth was awakened from his reveries by a petite blond flight attendant letting him know they would be arriving at Boston Logan in 10 minutes. Booth sat upright and looked out the window. The Eastern evening sky was winding down into shades of orange and pink. He reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. Once more he opened the "footie note" Bones had left for him. He smiled to himself, smelled the paper the note was written on, refolded it, and slid it back into the wallet.

Taking the footies off his hands and dropping them into his briefcase, he reached below his seat and pulled out his shoes. One at a time he pulled the baby blue chenille footies off by the toes and put his shoes back on. Such a small gesture on Bones' part had moved him. He realized for the first time that the scent of the footies, the same pleasant scent now left on his hands by the footies, was the same scent that tickled his senses whenever Bones walked past him or stood near him. With a pang, he wished that she was on this trip with him.


	10. Maggot Puree

**Chapter 10. Maggot Puree and Deep Fried Jalapeno Peppers**

Exiting the parkway at Dulles International, Brennan can't help but notice how empty Booth's SUV feels without him in it. She knows that the integrity of the vehicle's dimensions had not been compromised during the brief interim it was parked at the curb at Dulles. She notices that she finds it interesting that when Booth was with her in the SUV, his presence appeared to fill the space, making it appear much smaller than it empirically was. She also notes that she felt physically at least 20% smaller in stature while alone in Booth's SUV. Perhaps this is a sensorial illusion, perhaps a trompe l'oeil of some sort (.org/wiki/Trompe-l'œil). Could it be that one's perception of space and dimension could appear altered as a result of physical orientation?Was this because she was in the driver's seat of his SUV instead of the passenger's side? This conundrum disoriented her.

Perhaps this spatial disorientation is a neurological manifestation of the simple bodily requirement for regular sustenance. When was the last time she had eaten? Stopping by the diner on her way to the Jeffersonion, she orders a fresh spinach salad with walnuts and raspberry vinaigrette in a Styrofoam to-go box. As she waits for her order her best friend and colleague, Angela, calls.

"Hey Sweetie, where ARE you?" is the first thing out of Angela's mouth.

"I am waiting at the diner for a to-go order. I'm on my way back to the Jeffersonian. Should I bring you something? I understand the potato cheese soup is quite excellent."

"No – stay right where you are. Cam is out of the office today and I've been stuck here with the two stooges and almost nothing to do for the last three hours. I need to take a breather. I'll be there in five."

"Is it good for the baby for you to walk four and a half blocks this late in the pregnancy? I can bring you anything you need."

"Did you not hear me, Sweetie? If these boys run into my office one more time begging me to judge who has concocted the vilest combination of unknown slimy crap, I will personally castrate the two of them with my fingernail file."

"Ange, we need a case. I myself have been experiencing uncharacteristic neurological anomalies that cause me to question my sensory perception. Let me order you something so it will be ready when you get here."

"Thank you, Sweetie. I'll have a bowl of that soup, a slice of that kidney pie if they have any left, a large order of fries with mayo on the side … "

"Got it, Ange. It will be …"

"Potato salad, a banana milk shake, and deep fried jalapeno peppers. Do you think they still serve those?"

"If not, I know kumquats are in season. They serve an unusual yet delightful – "

"Oh, and a vat of Tabasco sauce on the side. That's all I can think of now …"

"Ange, is this for Hodgens and Mr. Bray as well, or is that all for you?"

"Oh, its not all for me, honey. All I want is the soup. It's the baby who's craving the rest of that stuff. See you in a minute.'

"Wait, Ange. I find that it might be best if I advise you that my mood is not as festive as you are accustomed to."

"What? Honey, you gotta give me more than that if I'm gonna be left alone to my own imagination for 4½ blocks."

"Ange, I think Booth and Hannah might be getting back together."

"Shut the front door, Brennan. If that is the truth I will swallow whatever Hodgens and Wendell have in their blender RIGHT NOW."

"You might want to reconsider, Ange. Earlier today I saw Booth and Hannah at the diner holding hands and leaning toward each other in what I can only assume was deep conversation."

"Did you ask him about it on the way to Dulles?"

"I did."

"What did he say?"

"He said it was personal. Then, he was acting strange at the airport when I dropped him off …"

"Strange? Wait, what? Just hold on. Bren, hold that thought. I'll be right there!"


	11. Hankie Pankie Under the Blankie

**Chapter 11. Hanky Panky Under the Blankie**

"This has been great, Liz, but I'm still gonna need that cheese burger and fries for my husband – so could you make that to-go? He's working so hard, he just can't get away from the office."

Angela had arrived just fifteen minutes ago and was already surrounded by empty plates containing only crumbs, drippings, and the remnants of what had once been steak and kidney pie though now resembled the carcass of a small woodland creature. Angela didn't actually like kidney pie. She just liked to pick out the savory steak parts and nibble the puff pastry soaked in gravy.

"Sure, Ms. Montenegro. Do you think he'll want a big ol' chunk a' this here chocolate fudge cake I made this mornin'? I'll put it in a separate box so he can save it for later," suggests Liz, her right eyebrow raised like a sideways question mark.

Liz knows full well this whole mess is for Angela anyway. But that's okay. Liz went through five pregnancies herself and understands that when a pregnant woman needs to eat, she needs to eat. It don't matter what time it is or what you think about her diet choices – because she don't give a damn what you think. And why the he11 should she? She's the one preparin' to shoot a watermelon out her privates and spend the rest of her life trying to erase stretch marks with coconut oil.

"Yowsa. That chocolate fudge cake sounds perfect," purrs Angela with a wide beautiful grin that showcases her gorgeous teeth. "Why don't you make that two pieces of cake and I'll have some too." Turing to face Brennan, she adds, "Hodgens knows I don't believe in sharing cake … unless there are two pieces of cake."

"Comin' up!" Liz walks behind the counter to place the grill order and gather the Styrofoam containers. "You gonna be here for a while or should I get this going now?"

Angela looks at Brennan and chews on the inside of her bottom lip. "I think you better assume we'll be here at least another half hour."

"You got it sugar," replies Liz and heeds into the kitchen.

Now that Angela (and the baby) is no longer famished (at least for now), she is all ears.

"Okay, Bren. Spill!" Angela eyeballs her best friend and prepares for a tale of highly uninformed and disconnected details about what's up with Booth and his ex-girlfriend. Deciphering what was really going on is Angela's specialty. This is the ex-girlfriend of Booth's, by the way, whom he had brought back from Afghanistan, invited to move-in, made googly eyes at for several months, proposed marriage to, and then unceremoniously dumped when she shot him down. Not that there was anything wrong with that. The dumping, at least.

"What is the deal with men and proposing marriage all the time, anyway?" mused Angela. This question plagued Angela after, once again, having to perform another premature eject-ulation on some adorable yet deluded suitor after the proffer of excessive adulation and expensive gifts though after still way too few dates. "Nip it in the bud if you don't plan to take it home," was her philosophy. "Life is too short to be saddled with a puppy." Though she had to admit she did like the gifts ... and puppies. I digress. Back to Brennan and Booth …

The verdict had been handed down a l-o-n-g time ago that Booth and Brennan belong together. Already are together, some would say, even though they hadn't yet managed to seal the deal with more than a sous-mistletoe lip-lock motivated by Brennan's commitment to gathering her incarcerated family together for a Christmas celebration in a conjugal trailer on prison grounds a couple years back. (Try saying that ten times fast, Dear Reader!)

"Well, as I mentioned on the phone," Brennan began, "Booth and Hannah were at the diner earlier today. They were holding hands across the table and had their heads very close together. I find that quite disturbing, considering our recent discussions about our potential and theoretical sexual compatibility. Mine and Booth's I'm referring to, of course. I have no interest in delving into the …"

"I … know what you meant, Brennan."

"Thank you. It was not my intention to offend. It appears I am quite traditional when it comes to my choices of partners …"

"Okay – that was not at all awkward," teased Angela, her mouth dropping open exaggeratedly. She knew there was not a single topic on God's beautiful green earth that she and Brennan couldn't discuss with ease. That is part of what made their friendship special.

"Why didn't you go into the diner and join them?" she asked? "That would have been a ballsy, yet somewhat bunny-boiler-y move. If you didn't want to intrude or feel like you were stalking them, you could have called me. I'm not above a little espionage in the name of getting the real scoop on the poop.

Angela, I know you are speaking English, at least I think you are, despite your half-Chinese facial musculature and bone structure … but I don't know what anything you just said means past the words that would have been a …"

"Never mind, Sweetie. It was more of a rhetorical question anyway," Angela said, considering a different approach. "So, exactly where are you and Booth with the whole 'You're-unattached-I'm-unattached-so-why-don't-we-get-drunk-and … act-like-more-than-partners' situation? You said you got into bed with him the night Vincent was killed, but you didn't give any details. So dish, girlie, or are you going to make me drag it out of you?"

"There's really not much to tell, Ange. I was considerably upset. I couldn't get back to sleep. The couch was uncomfortable. I thought Mr. Nigel-Murray had been afraid I would make him leave the Jeffersonian and I was feeling remorseful that he may not have been aware that he was my favorite squin - - I mean, intern."

"And?" prodded Angela, her eyes wide and her chin dipped toward her chest in a posture of true rapt attention. "And then what happened? Details. I need details!"

"Nothing happened. I cried myself to sleep in Booth's arms …"

"In Booth's arms. In Booth's arms and in his bed."

"Correct. … And woke up on the other side of the bed. In the morning we got up, got dressed in separate bathrooms, grabbed some toast, though I had a bagel, and headed straight back to the lab."

"You're joking," said Angela, an expression of incredulity plastered across her face.

"No, Angela. I wish I were."

"But you gave me that … that … that I-just-romped-all-night-and-could-really- use-a-nap-and-a-fresh-change-of-clothes look after dropping the got-in-bed-with-Booth bomb."

"Angela. I admit there was a certain … peacefulness … about me … as a result of … as a result of … I mean, when I told you … but it was more about – - - oh, Angela, you know I am no good at sticking my phalanges in this kind of thing."

"Do you mean – 'putting your finger on' - which feeling you experienced?"

"Precisely. Thank you."

"Okay. So, just to be clear: there was no hanky-panky under the blankie and nobody woke up with fewer clothes than they had on when you got into the bed? With Booth."

"Succinctly, Ange. And I actually understood you this time. No hanky-panky. No Bingo Baby. No intercourse … but there was something that I cannot explain. Maybe I hallucinated it. There was something ethereal about the experience."

Angela regarded her friend and slowly raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Ethereal? Ethereal, meaning extremely delicate, heavenly, or spiritual in a way that seems too perfect for this world? And you're … sure … there was no sex?"

"Ange, I may be awkward and lacking in some interpersonal acuity, but I know when I've been visited in the biblical sense," explained Brennan, straight-faced. Then she sat up straight and laughed at her own cleverness. "Ha, ha, ha. Angela, ha, ha, ha. – that could be considered a joke, as Booth … is Catholic," she explained, delighted.

"Bren, I think it is a good thing that nothing happened that night."

"You do? I don't understand. Why is that? I thought maybe there was something wrong. And now I think it must be that Booth has been considering reconciling with Hannah. His heart was very much broken by her refusal to marry him."

"No, Bren. Booth is a lot smarter than you think. This proves it. You will thank him one day for this stroke of genius on his part."

"I am acutely aware of Booth's … intelligence … brilliance is a more accurate descriptor when it comes to Booth in that it includes a component of clarity of insight that illuminates … something … which he uses to figure out … " She pauses, then exhales and closes her eyes. "Now I have no idea what I am talking about, Angela. Make me shut up."

"I think we're finally getting somewhere, Bren," declares Angela. "Liz, I'll take that food to-go now. Better make it three slices of cake, and Dr. Brennan will be paying."

"Not to disagree, Angela, but why am I paying for your order?" asks Brennan.

"Listen, Sweetie, its cheaper than what I'd bill you for this one session alone."

Brennan pauses, then smiles and slowly nods her head in agreement. "On this point we are in agreement, my sister-friend."

"Bingo, baby," Angela replies with a grin.

Brennan picks up the take-out tab, grabs the two large white bags of Styrofoam-encased food and cake, and offers her elbow to Angela to hold onto as they exit the diner in the direction of the Jeffersonian.


	12. The WHA WHAWHA

**Chapter 12. The "WHA WHA-WHA"**

Brennan is standing in Angela's office after having spent two hours with Wendell reviewing his findings regarding the samurai remains from the Battle of Shiroyama.

"Angela, the Satsuma Rebellion Exhibit is going to be quite fascinating this year. Wendell has identified two additional contributors within the collection of remains we've been reviewing. That makes five in total. Have I ever told you about the Chi'zahmi expedition I lead as part of my doctoral thesis in grad school …"

Brennan stares at Angela, attempting to ascertain whether or not she's actually awake. She notices Angela's eyes are open, but there is no movement. "Ange," are you okay?"

"Sorry, Bren, all I heard was WHA WHA WHA, WHA WHA-WHA, WHA'S. WHA WHA?" replies Angela as if awaking from a sugar-induced stupor.

"Is this a common side affect of the increased volume of estrogen and hCG resulting from the pregnancy?" Brennan asks, concerned.

"What? The stupor, or the WHA WHA WHA?"

"The WHA WHA WHA, of course. The sucrose-induced stupor is not at all surprising."

"Unfortunately the WHA WHA WHA has been going on for quite some time – about six years or so …" Angela chuckles at her own joke alone, as Brennan does not comprehend what Angela is really telling her.

"Well, Ange, you may want to have that looked at by an otolaryngologist. You may be suffering from a rare case of tinnitus. A simple audiometric test will determine the cause. I can recommend an excellent facility just outside D.C. if you are interested."

"Sweetie, I already know the cause, and I'm not interested in a cure … why did you come to my office?"

"Ange, I find I am experiencing what I can only assume is an anxiety disorder - and you are the one person I know who can help me decipher the cause of it."

"Doctor Montenegro, at your service," says Angela as she attempts to get out of her desk chair. "Can you help me? Just grab hold of my hand and pull."

Waddling across her office and lying down on the couch, Angela has an idea of what is coming. Their earlier conversation had been cut short by the arrival of Wendell and Hodgens who continued waving around beakers of maggot puree in varying colors and consistency. On any normal day, this would have been enough to make Angela hurl. Today, her reaction was magnified exponentially. It is no small wonder she is a little pale and quite dazed.

"Try some of that cake, Brennan," offered Angela, hungry once again as a result of the maggot puree-induced evacuation of her stomach contents. "There's one piece left."

"Ange," said Brennan as she flipped open the only remaining Styrofoam container of chocolate fudge cake. "This one is half eaten."

"Baby got hungry. Sorry. Please take the rest … "

"I don't think I could handle even half of that cake considering the increased heart rate and gastrointestinal discomfort I am currently experiencing. That's why I'm here to talk to you."

"Sorry. Yes. Please. What's up?"

"Just in case we get interrupted once again, here is a list of my concerns so you can help ensure that each is addressed. First, why didn't Booth initiate intercourse when I got in bed with him? Second, what do I do if Hannah reemerges as a permanent fixture in our lives? Third, I think I may be experiencing perimenopausal symptoms."

"Oh. Is that all, Sweetie?" says Angela rolling her eyes.

"Yes. Am I overreacting? Are these absurd concerns?"

"No-oh-oh! Those are exactly the concerns any normal woman would have in your shoes. Except perhaps the peri- whatever. You are decades too young for that."

"Well, I don't think another woman would necessarily have to put my shoes on to have these concerns. Besides, I'm a little anal retentive when it comes to other people wearing my clothes – or shoes for that matter. Do you think you could help me with your own shoes on?" Brennan asks with that semi-sad, semi-supplicant look on her face.

"Bren, I'm not even wearing my own shoes these days – look, I'm borrowing Jack's today. They are the only ones that fit my swollen feet! But lets get down to business."

Brennan takes a seat on a cozy chair across from her best friend, who keeps shifting her considerable girth, trying to get comfortable on the couch.

"Lets do this in an orderly fashion. Issue number one …" begins Brennan.

"Bren. Sweetie. I think this will go much more quickly if we go backwards," interrupts Angela. "That is, if you want to address all three issues before this baby goes to kindergarten."

"In the interest of time, I will defer to you, Angela, though my inclination would be to utilize the traditional consecutive numerical process of …"

"Before kindergarden … remember?"

"Right, Ange. I trust you. Proceed."

"Thank you. Third concern: early signs of menopause. We have no information about when your mother started menopause – so that avenue is a bust. But as I said before, you are way too young for that. Why do you think you might be perimenopausal?"

"I've been displaying typical first level symptoms: bouts of excessive perspiration, shortness of breath, rapid pulse rate, difficulty sleeping …" Brennan crosses her arms as if to say she's already convinced she's staring straight down the double barrel of childlessness and mother nature has her finger on the trigger. "Mother Nature is a bitch," she blurts. "Oops! Sorry, Ange. Perhaps Tourette Syndrome is another symptom of early-onset menopause?"

"Sweetie, this is crazy. Make an appointment with your OB/GYN and get this figured out with a hormone level test. In the meantime, you do realize that all those things are also indicators of emotional distress?"

"You are making sense, Ange. However, I'm experiencing these symptoms at an intensity which, if measured by a Geiger counter, would result in a very loud and rapid beeping sound," replies Brennan, not convinced by Angela's dismissal of the menopause theory.

"Make the appointment, dearie. If that doesn't resolve the issue, go see Sweets."

"Is Sweets experiencing perimenopausal symptoms as well. You know that is implausible, Angela, as he is most definitely not a human female in her waning years of fertility. No. I don't see how Sweets can be of any assistance here." Brennan shakes her head and bites the inside of her lower lip.

"Bren, Sweets is a psychologist. If this is caused by emotional distress – it is right up his alley. He will be thrilled. Well, that didn't come out right. I meant that he would greatly appreciate the opportunity to counsel you about whatever might be causing you to … freak out."

"Could I really be … freaking out … Ange? I have never … freaked out … in my entire life."

"The ability to freak out is one of the happy benefits of becoming a less-impervious adult female human. Didn't you say you've been working toward that goal?" insisted Angela.

"You mean these symptoms could be signs of success toward my goal of becoming stronger?"

Angela just smiles. The teacher proud of her progeny.

"Issue number two," asserts Angela, "is a non-issue and not worth our time."

"What is your reasoning?" asks Brennan a little put-off by Angela's comment.

"The way I see it, you've still got your gun, right?" Angela adopts a droll expression while looking Brennan straight in the eyes. Getting no response, she continues, "It was a joke, Honey. A joke! Jesus!"

Brennan is at a loss for how to respond. She is only slightly relieved that Angela asked that question in jest rather than as a homicidal conspiracy.

"Bren, look. If he's seeing her again, which I sincerely doubt, there's nothing you can do about it. Le coeur veut ce que le coeur veut." The heart wants what the heart wants – Woody Allen." Angela lets that sink in for a moment, then continues.

"It will be sad, sweet girl, but you will move on. And I will be right here beside you while you do it … that is … if I'm not in prison for maiming an FBI agent and spray-painting Agent Booth is an A$$ Hat on the front doors of the Hoover building."

Finally, Brennan grins, then breaks into a throaty laugh which ends with something akin to a sob. "Bone head!"

"Moron. Numbscull."

"Twit."

As they regain composure after a fit of tension-releasing laughter and a couple tears, Angela looks in Brennan's eyes and says as gently and affectionately as she can, "But that will never happen. I'd bet my first born Stacatto on it." She waits until she can tell that Brennan is taking in what she is telling her.

"You listen to me, Temperance Brennan. There is a reasonable explanation for what you saw. Give Booth time. He is a good man. An extraordinarily good man. He will tell you what it was about if it is important. Booth loves you. He's always loved you, Sweetie. I know these things to be true."

"I wish I had your confidence, Ange. But for now, I choose to trust you. Because that is my only option."

"Good girl."

Brennan heaves an enormous sigh and stares off into space, attempting to compartmentalize all she's just taken in.

"Now," begins Angela once again, "let's tackle concern number one …"


	13. The Passion in the Chemistry

_A/N Dearest Readers: There are many chapters to **The When and the How: A Bone to Pick**. Please don't feel like you have to rush right through them all ... or catch up to the most recently posted chapter. Take your time and enjoy! The other chapters will be here when you are ready for them. I say this in response to a reader who wrote, "Stop writing! I can't keep up!" The hiatus is a long one this Fall ... enjoy yourself! ~MoxieGirl  
><em>

**Chapter 13. The Passion in the Chemistry**

"Angela, we still on for dinner and probably our last mini-babymoon before the kid makes an appearance?" Asks Hodgens, entering Angela's office.

"Go!' she shouts, startling him. "Yes on the dinner thing. But right now you are to leave. This. Office."

"But … what …"

"Trust me on this and LEAVE!"

"Okay, okay!" he submits, his hands held high like he's at gunpoint. Under his breath and out of earshot, he continues, disgruntled, "Those wacked out hormones are seriously damaging my calm. I'm married to the Incredible Hulk. Which reminds me – I gotta make a run to the comic book store…"

Brennan hops up and closes the office door, locking it. Returning to her chair across from Angela, Brennan jumps right in. "Nothing happened in bed with Booth, Ange. Why is that? Why is nothing happening? I thought we had agreed that we would be physically compatible. We are both physically fit and possess quite remarkable stamina. According to his physical attributes, Booth would qualify as a good breeder. I myself qualify as well, obviously."

"Physically compatible, Bren? Really?" Angela asks with a sigh. Is she up to the task set before her, she wonders? Time will tell. But hopefully not too much time …

"Bren, you and Booth are not software programs created by competing developers in two different languages, nor are you a USB port and he an electronic device cord.

"But human anatomy of adult males and females are very much like USB ports and electrical cords in that … Look, it's basic biology, Angela. What is there to discuss, really?"

"I know you are good at biology and science, Brennan, but you are NOT going to be the one to give my kid the sex talk when the time comes," says Angela, rubbing her eyes with closed fists and shaking her head.

"Oh, I think I'd be quite good at that …" offers Brennan.

"Bren, my dear sweet wonderful girl," she begins again with an affectionate expression on her face, "There is more … so much more, to love and romance and sex than plusses and minuses, screws and washers, USB ports and electrical cords. … And I guarantee you it is more than basic biology."

"I know," concedes Brennan. "It's also chemistry."

"It's even more than chemistry, Bren. Though, God bless chemistry," says Angela patting her considerable abdomen and rubbing circles around her navel.

"Angela, I find both the biology and the chemistry of sex quite satisfying. The rush of norepinephrine, serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, nitric oxide and prolactin …" Brennan looks dreamily off into space. "But perhaps you are correct, and perhaps there is more to sexual intercourse than biology.

Angela pauses until Brennan notices no one has said anything for a while. She looks over to Angela, who launches into a Angelesque soliloquy on one of her favorite topics.

"Brennan, you can have sex with anyone. But we are talking about making love. With Booth. With the man you have loved … for I don't remember how long and I'm sure you don't even know. Between the two of you there is a chemistry – a good chemistry. A solid chemistry. With that kind of chemistry, and that kind of love, it's never just sex. It's vulnerable and emotional and safe and thrilling and cathartic and frightening and important and wonderful and fun and passionate. It's passionate, Bren."

Brennan looks back at Angela with an expression that's difficult to read. She listens with rapt attention. She sits very still. Angela almost thinks Brennan looks a little frightened. She continues anyway.

"Passion is about being in a meeting with the team and wanting to crawl across the table and nibble on his earlobe. It's about having to put your hand over your own mouth while he's speaking because all you can think of is how he tastes and how his kisses melt you in places you didn't even know could melt."

"Sweetie, passion is about wanting to rip his clothes off every time you see him. It's about getting hot and cold flashes at the memory of the way he kissed and touched you last night - or an hour ago in the Family bathroom at Macy's – or yesterday in the Egyptian exhibit."

"Passion is about being so hot for each other. Because underneath everything else is the closest and most beautiful relationship known to our species. So powerful that it was put in charge of the continuation of the human race."

"Being hot for each other is tucking your lace panties into his coat pocket, or his brief case and calling him an hour later to see if he's found them."

"Being hot for each other is not remembering the last time you went to bed or woke up without making love…"

They sat in silence, each caught up in their own thoughts.

"That doesn't last, Angela," Brennan finally says, quietly. "Fifty per cent of marriages …"

Angela shakes her head in disagreement. "Maybe the frequency of the love making slows down. And when he's showing off his ass crack, insisting he'll get these pipes fixed himself instead of calling the plumber and spending $100 – maybe he may not seem so hot at the time. But this all turns into even better stuff. When you're with the right person." She pauses before landing the final punch.

_"And Booth knows this,"_ she arcs an eyebrow knowingly. She slowly nods as Brennan coughs and fidgets in her chair. _"Being the guy he is – the intuitive one in this relationship – he knows all of this."_

_"Shit,"_ Brennan whispers, then swallows audibly.

* * *

><p><em>AN Do you agree with Angela's description, or do you think she's full of warm hooey?_


	14. A Good Look in the Mirror

**Chapter 14. A Good Look in the Mirror**

Brennan leaves Angela's office in a daze and heads for the bathroom. Splashing cool water on her face, she lets it drip onto her collar and run down her neck. She peers into the mirror and thinks to herself, "Why is this so difficult for me? Why is it so hard for me to relax, give in, allow myself to be vulnerable … like everyone else?"

She knew Angela was right. The kind of love making and passion Angela described, the kind of love Brennan knew Booth was capable of giving, and inspiring, was exactly the kind Brennan desperately wanted to believe she could have. She had seen it in him; had heard him say it with her own ears.

As she gazes questioningly into the mirror, she recalls something Booth said to her one evening after they had just wrapped up a curious case involving grown adults who enjoyed engaging in "pony play." In pony play, one partner takes on the characteristics of a pony and the other plays the part of the rider. While Brennan had conceded that she was not averse to role-playing with sexual partners as a way of mixing things up, Booth found the whole concept of pony play disturbing and disingenuous.

At the diner that evening, he had insisted that pony play participants went to a lot of expense pretending to be something in the name of crappy sex. Brennan recalled objecting to how he could know that these people, unconventional though they were, were having crappy sex. His reply had left her speechless and breathless and had been indelibly written into her memory – like a cranial tattoo – as the most sensual and beautiful thing she had ever heard one person say to another. She closed her eyes now, visualizing him across the table from her, and recalled what he had said:

"How do I know they are having crappy sex? I'll tell you why," he began. "Here we are. All of us, basically alone. Separate creatures just circling each other. All searching for that slightest hint of a real connection."

"Some looking in the right places. Some just giving up hope because in their mind they're thinkin', Oh, there's no one out there for me. But all of us, we keep trying over and over again. Why?" he had asked, "Because every once in a while two people meet and there's that spark."

He looked straight at her while saying all of this, as if he had practiced it – or perhaps this wasn't the first time he had given this speech – though she had a suspicion that it was.

She remembers feeling acutely aware of the rise and fall of her own chest, the sound of the ocean rushing around inside her head.

"And yes, Bones," he continued, "maybe he's handsome and she's beautiful and maybe that's all they see at first. But Making love," he paused and leaned further across the table toward her. "Making love," he said just above a whisper, so she had to lean in closer to hear him, "that is when two people become one."

Though she could barely speak, she had managed to whisper, "Booth, it is scientifically impossible for two objects to occupy the same space."

"Yeah Bones," he replied, "but what's important is that we try. And when we do it right, we get close."

"To what?" she had asked, wanting to believe him, but constrained by her knowledge of the laws of the physical world. "Breaking the laws of physics?"

"Yeah, Bones. A miracle," he responded with a smile that melted any parts of her that hadn't already dissolved into a gelatinous puddle of defenselessness.

"Those people prancing around pretending to be something they aren't, that is crappy sex," he said, looking straight into her eyes as he said, "compared to the real thing."

When he had finished, she was speechless ... and shaking. Fortunately, he hadn't seemed to notice that. He couldn't have been more vulnerable if he had been sitting across from her completely naked. The way he had let her see him, know him, created a physical sensation in her she could only describe as how a magnet must feel when it is in close proximity to another curiously strong magnet. There's an undeniable force between them, an urgency to be near each other.

Brennan found Booth's brand of intimacy to be simultaneously frightening and titillating. It dawns on her that the intimacy he had always offered her was more than a physical intimacy – it was an emotional intimacy. He frequently got just close enough for her to feel that intoxicating heat of his body, but he never stepped over that wall that she had erected to protect herself. He respected her need for control.

How is it, she marveled now for the first time, that he has always been able to do that, and I have never felt anything but safe? Why is it that I feel anxious about all of this when I am alone with my thoughts, but in his presence I feel comforted, protected?

Brennan recalls thinking to herself that night in the diner after the pony play case, that whoever finds herself on the receiving end of Booth's lovemaking would have to be someone who would receive him with an equally intimate vulnerability.

This is what she was referring to when she told Hannah to be sure about her feelings for Booth before moving in with him. Brennan had known that Booth would give Hannah his heart, but she wasn't sure Hannah fully understood what this meant – or would be able to fully reciprocate. Unfortunately for Booth, he learned too late that Hannah was not worthy of what Booth was offering. Or Maybe Hannah was afraid – maybe Hannah had the same fears Brennan had had more than nine months previously.

This train of thought brought Brennan back to the mess she was currently in the middle of. What if Hannah also had the same revelation Brennan had had during the case of the surgeon they found buried under a tree in a bad part of town. It was while solving that case that Brennan had an epiphany, realizing that she didn't want regrets. It was then that she had told Booth about her feelings for him. Maybe Hannah had come to the same conclusion and was regretting turning Booth's proposal down. Since Brennan and Booth were not really together – perhaps Hannah wanted to give it another try.

What fresh he11 would it be to finally be vulnerable, and strong, and ready to take the final chance with Booth, only to have come to it all too late?

Brennan closes her eyes at the sadness, the devastation, of this possibility. "I can't go through this again," she says out loud. "If they get back together our partnership will have to change. We will have to stop working together. Watching him with Hannah will break me."

She feels she cannot blame Booth for getting involved with Hannah the first time around. But a reconciliation with Hannah, when he is free to make a choice between the two of them? It was unfathomable. "I will have to get a new partner. I couldn't do it, couldn't watch them together. No longer working together would also devastate her.


	15. I Got It Bad, And That Ain

**Chapter 15. I Got it Bad, and That Ain't Good**

Leaving the Jeffersonian after chatting with Cam about the remains Wendell was still repacking, Brennan gets into her car and begins to back out of her parking space. Suddenly, Booth's ring tone startles her, and she involuntarily slams her foot on the brake, screeching to a halt halfway out of her spot.

Booth had been quite excited when her publisher had given her a new cell phone loaded with every bell and whistle known to man. She had told him that his "bells and whistles" comment was both absurd and impossible, as surely this phone did not contain the unique melodic whistles of the Molbar community in the southern wetlands of the Sudan. The Molbari people felt that recording would significantly distort the warbles and tings created by the hollowed out Mooskla grass that grew only in their particular part of the world. She assured him that they were a dogged people and would never change their mind.

He had looked at her and said, "Bones, why do you have to suck the joy out of everything?"

Chastised, Brennan handed him the phone and asked him to program it so that when he calls her, his ring tone is different than the ring tone for all other calls she receives.

"Really?" he asked, surprised that she had given in so easily. "I'm going to set you up with the coolest ring tone this phone has, something that embodies who we are as partners and the importance of the work we do together." He smiled at her then, his eyes sparkling like a child on Christmas morning spying the bicycle shaped gift leaning against the wall next to the tree.

"That's a daunting task, Booth," she had replied. "Unless you can find a song about bones and guns and murder." They both laughed at that point

"I don't really suck the joy out of everything, Booth … do I?" Brennan asked him, concern in her voice.

"Bones – you don't suck the joy out of EVERYTHING. I was just annoyed. Sometimes you annoy me," he explained while staring at the phone screen and pushing the little buttons. "Then you go and do something like letting me program a special ring tone just for my calls. And I can't stay annoyed for long."

Satisfied with his response, she left him to his task in her office and returned to the lab platform to hear what Hodgens had to say about the purple particulates found growing out of the eye socket of a skull.

Booth had plopped down on her couch and played every single ring tone preprogrammed into the phone, dismissing all of them as lame. Two days later he had arrived at her apartment to pick her up for an interrogation. Immediately after crossing the threshold of her apartment, he asked, "Where's your phone?"

"Over there on the counter top. When do I get to hear the tone you've chosen for us? You haven't called me since last night so I still don't know what you chose."

"I haven't called you because I didn't like any of the preprogrammed ring tones, so I had Angela help me make one for you."

"What? You're kidding, Booth. You didn't have to do that."

"This is important, Bones." He started punching buttons. "Besides, Bones and Guns and Murder was copyrighted and I couldn't use it." He looked at her, and winked.

"You must be bummed up," she said, returning his smile, and giving him an exaggerated wink, which was her way of responding to him when he turned on the charm. She enjoyed it when he directed his charm toward her, but she hadn't yet figured out what to do when he did. She then shook her head, rolled her eyes, and gathered her things for the day.

"It's bummed out, Bones, not bummed up," he corrected her. "Bummed up doesn't mean anything."

Now that she'd recovered from the surprise of the phone ringing, she rolled the car back into her parking space, put it in neutral, and reached into her bag to fish out the phone. She couldn't help but smile to herself whenever she heard the ring tone he'd made for her. Even if she was angry with him, this softened her up a bit.

"**I'm hot blooded, check it and see. I got a fever of a hundred and three. Come on baby you can do more than that! I'm hot blooded … hot blooded," followed by his version of a rock guitar riff.**

Holding the phone to her ear, she says, "Hello Booth."

"Hi – how's it going?"

"It's going fine, Booth. Why are you calling?" She isn't annoyed, just direct.

"Oh. Just wanted to report that I'm here in Philly waiting for my ride. Those first class seats are sweet! I can see why you never want to go back and sit with the general population – though a lot of them are probably your readers …"

"Another reason not to sit in coach."

"Come on, Bones, everyone enjoys a little fan adoration every once in a while."

"I find it stressful. Chit chat is unproductive and a waste of time."

"Bones, these people are your customers. They paid for your fancy car and your techno-phone. It's part of the job of best selling author of the Kathy Reich series."

"Why did you call me?"

"Like I just said – just wanted to check-in, let you know that I arrived here safely, no worse for the wear."

"Was there a problem with the plane?"

"Um, no."

"Did you experience turbulent weather?"

"No – "

"Then why should I be concerned that you wouldn't arrive safely?"

"Bones, you shouldn't. It's just a thing people do when they travel. They call their … they call and report that they've arrived and can now receive any phone calls people might want to make to them."

"Were you expecting a phone call from me?" Bones is still trying to figure this out.

"No – "

"I'm still confused."

"It's just a thing, Bones. Being nice – relieving any worry you might have about my safety or whatever," he continues to explain.

"But you said there was no problem with the plane and there was no turbulent weather …"

"Forget it, Bones." What he wants to tell her was that he misses her already and just wanted to hear her voice. But he doesn't want to argue with her about it –

"Hey, did you try on the footies?" She asks.

"Yes! Ahhhhhh. They are great! Thank you so much. You really didn't have to do that, Bones, but I am glad that you did." She can hear him smiling over the phone and feels a warmth come over her – but she's also curious if he'd found the note. And a little apprehensive at his response. She can't believe her ill-timed gesture – on the same day he meets with Hannah – and who knows what happened between them? But he sure seemed to be in a happier mood since then. And that actually puts Brennan in a worse mood, much to her chagrin.

"They were so cozy I put a second pair on my hands to keep them warm," he informs her, laughing to himself. "You should have seen the looks I got from the old ladies across the aisle from me."

"I'm glad you like them. I find they are warmer and softer than the free ones you get in first class," she offers.

"Well, I don't have much to compare to – but I THOROUGHLY enjoyed these – even if they are baby blue." She could hear him smiling again. She pauses, waiting to hear what he has to say about the note she put inside the middle pair of footies.

Booth listens to the dead air on the phone, not knowing what to say next. Of course, he wants to say something about her note – but he doesn't know what. He finds it odd, that he actually feels a little uncomfortable. The silence drags on, probably for only 10 seconds, but it feels like five minutes.

"Well, I think my ride is here, Bones. So I'll let you go."

"Wait a minute, Booth! Did you read the, um … " she closes her eyes and attempts to clear her throat which has inexplicably and suddenly tightened. I am such an idiot when it comes to these things, she thinks to herself. She tries to speak then, but it comes out as kind of a throaty whisper until she clears her throat once more, this time quite audibly.

"What? Are you okay, Bones?"

"I am fine, Booth. I think I may be coming down with something. My temperature has been a little high lately, I think. But don't worry about it, I'm seeing my physician on another matter tomorrow morning and I'll have her run a streptococci culture."

"What were you saying? You were about to ask me something …" he says, holding his breath and wondering where this conversation might lead.

"Oh, yes. Did you read the dossier I assembled for you. About Dr. Enrique Larrinaga?" This must be what it feels like to dodge a bullet, as they say, she thought.

"Oh," began Booth, relieved, but also disappointed. Everything in it's own time …he reminded himself. "Actually, the footies were so comfortable, I fell asleep immediately and slept through both flights."

"Oh, okay. Well, you should have plenty of time in your hotel before the reception this evening. Make sure you do read it though, Booth. I made notes about some simple questions you can ask him – along with his likely responses – so you can feel like you know what he's talking about. Don't worry about memorizing anything … you'll do fine … as long as you read the …."

"Bones, I'll be fine," he said, much more comfortable with their usual Bones-Booth banter. Oh, I almost forgot – remember to stop over at my place to meet the delivery guy from Plasma World."

"I was actually on my way there right now," she says. "Did Fawaz mention what time he might be delivering it?"

"I'm sorry, Bones – I forgot to ask!"

"Not a problem. I'll just hang out there until it arrives. I have a considerable amount of paperwork to complete before we ship out the samurai remains."

"Hey, how's that going, by the way?" Booth asks.

"It's going as smoothly as expected, and it is truly fascinating, but – "

"I know – It's not a murder case."

"Right," she says and he can hear the smirk in her tone. "Is that bad of me? To wish we were on a case right now? How awful am I?"

"Bones, if that makes you awful – well, I'm right there with you. Not to worry. As long as there are people, there will be murderers. I'll see if I can scrape up something interesting here in Philly for you – Hey! Then you could come see the game with me!"

"You know how I enjoy observing men display their battle skills on the court, or field, or whatever … You must be rubbing on me," she says and laughs for a moment.

Booth can't help it – he laughs as well. Once again he wishes he could share one of Bones' mixed-up idiomatic phrases with Hodgens or Cam. "I think you mean – rubbing off on you, Bones."

"Yes, Booth," she continues laughing heartily. "That sounds much better. Oh … OH! Thank goodness no one else heard what I just said to you. Whoops! Sorry, Booth." Hearing no response, she asks, "Are you blushing, Booth? You know I have been noticing lately that you are quite the blusher. I find it fascinating."

"Thanks for bringing that up, Bones," he says, and can't help but giggle a little bit.

"Did you just snort?" Bones asks in an astounded voice.

"What? Did I snort? No – Bones – I do not snort. I …. Giggled …. Maybe. But I don't SNORT."

"You giggled?" Bones could hardly contain herself. "Like a little girl? Did you giggle like a little girl?" she teased him unmercifully.

"Bones – what's gotten into you? It wasn't a little girl giggle – it was really more like a – a chortle. A masculine chortle. And it was definitely NOT a snort."

"You know, I snort sometimes. When I'm caught unawares and find something unexpectedly humorous."

"Maybe I snorted a little. But lets keep that between us."

"Okay, partner."

"Hey – there's my ride. Look at that – they are even holding up a sign with my name on it!"

"Okay – Booth. Will you be calling me to let me know you have safely arrived at the hotel?" she asks stifling a snort.

"Bones ….. and you say I am the incorrigible one," he replies. Call me after the tv gets there. Have them put it in the middle of the living room on the floor. Whatever you do – do not touch anything! I will open the boxes when I get back."

"Okay, okay. You can have the honor of breaking open your little gift of self-love."

"I mean it, Bones."

"I know," she replies. Then, "Booth …"

"Yeah?"

"Be safe."

"I will," he says, and adds, "You too." They both pause for a moment, warmed by the knowledge that the other one is on the other end of the line. Then they each hang up the phone.

Turing off her phone, Brennan says out loud, "I got it bad, and that ain't good, recalling one of her favorite old Billie Holiday melodies.

In another city, two plane rides away, Booth rests his phone on his chin and thinks, "I am in so much trouble …"


	16. Honor Among Men

**Chapter 16. Honor Among Men**

"Special Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI, I presume?" Advancing toward Booth, and waving a greeting which turns into a hand shake, is a stout man of average height, an open face with straight teeth, warm brown-black eyes, peppered hair which must have once been all black, and considerable five o'clock shadow. Dr. Larrinaga, wearing a thin cotton dress shirt unbuttoned to the third hole, a pair of dark brown cargo shorts, white crew socks that had seen better days, and a pair of Keen Gypsums, takes Booth's hand in his own and shakes it enthusiastically.

"Please forgive my appearance, Agent Booth – my grad students and I were cleaning out the planetarium archives getting ready for a temporary move to the Margret Fell Fox auditorium. They are assessing what new equipment we'll need for the new Stevens Morris Nguyen Center. We are all thrilled to be the beneficiaries of this amazing donation to the School of Physics and Astronomy at Haverford," he admits humbly. "Everyone has been working around the clock since you called me five months ago." Larrinaga stops to take a breath and notices that Booth hasn't gotten a word in edgewise. "Am I talking too much? My wife is still in shock over learning I scored as an introvert on the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator assessment tool, considering how much I can talk once I get going."

Booth chuckles, liking Larrinaga already. Granted, he's not quite what Booth expected from a name like Enrique Larrinaga. He'd assumed he be meeting a George Lopez or Paul Rodriguez look-alike. Instead, he's walking beside a stout younger-brother-type version of an Antonio Banderas or a Javier Bardem-without the swarthy accent, thankfully. Why do women find men with Spanish accents sexy? To Booth, they all sound like Count von Count, the purple Muppet vampire on Sesame Street with a obsessive-compulsive love of counting who announces the number of the day each episode. How fair is the playing field when a vampire Muppett with a mental disorder can get all the women he can count, yet real live ex-jocks from Pittsburgh go home alone every Saturday night?

"Dr. Larrinaga, to tell you the truth, it is a pleasure to listen to a man of your considerable experience and education speak American. My partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian, and her colleagues, with whom I spend the majority of my time, use complicated long words that I can't even begin to pronounce, let alone understand. You just keep on talkin,' pal, and we'll get a long just fine."

"Agent Booth, you're all right. Quite frankly, I was a little intimidated to be the one to pick you up here today," he says looking sideways at Booth as he pulls Booth's suitcase up to his car. "I may research the universe looking for clues about it's age, shape, and size – but you guys at the FBI in D.C. and the Jeffersonian save people's lives every day. You put your lives on the line and say it's all in a day's work."

"Dr. Larrinaga, we all have our place in this world and we all make it go around," he smiles back at him.

"Hey," Larrinaga exclaims, "you stick to catching criminals and I'll stick to figuring out what makes the world go round!" Larrinaga looks sternly at Booth, then breaks in to a huge grin.

They get into Larrinaga's Subaru Outback and exit the parking ramp, merging onto I-95 heading South. Out in the open air, Booth rolls down his window and fills his lungs with the Philly night air.

"Ahhhh. The sweet smell of home," he croons.

"Agent Booth, are you, by any chance a Flyers fan?"

"Born and bred."

"Seriously?"

"Serious as a myocardial infarction," replies Booth, then slaps himself on the forehead. "I can NOT believe I just used the medical term for heart attack! Those squints are rubbing off on me!"

"Happens to the best of us, my friend," replies Larrinaga, merging from I-95 toward I-476. "Would you believe my wife actually understands me when I comment on the ellipticity of the Pisces-Perseus Supercluster?"

"Is that why you married her, Dr. Larrinaga?"

"Call me Enrique, Agent Booth," said Larrinaga. "And, no, the Pisces-Perseus drew me in, but I fell in love with her because she's the smartest woman I know who would have anything to do with me," he laughs, but Booth senses that he's telling the truth. "Or was it because she's got killer legs? It was so long ago, I don't remember," Larrinaga says, looking questioningly at the windshield.

"Enrique, I don't believe you can't remember which it was for a single minute," Booth says and smiles broadly toward his new acquaintance.

"And you would be right, Agent Booth …" he answers.

"Call me Seeley."

"You'd be right, Seeley. I fell in love with her for her legs."

"Well, you can't beat a smoking hot pair of gams – any rat knows that," quips Booth as they both start laughing in earnest.

Settled into his room later, Booth's mind turns to Hannah. What she did today took more guts than running through Kabul during a firestorm. What could he ever do to repay her? He know just the thing. He'd save her a dance …

Just as he started to wash-up before meeting the Larrinaga's for dinner at their Ardmore home, his phone rang.

"Bones! Did my television arrive in one piece?"

"Well no, not yet. But something else did arrive that's a LOT more fun …"

"Huh?" he asks, thinking what could be more fun than a 65 inch Panasonic TC-PVT30 with 3D glasses and a connective dongle.

"There's not a rotting corpse in my apartment, is there, Bones?"

"What? Why would you think that?"

"Because I'm talking to YOU, and you said something more fun than a 65 inch …"

"Oh, I see what you mean. Well, four years ago I would never have said this – but here I am, a changed woman. Parker is here – and he's what's more fun than both a tv AND a set of unidentified remains. How's that for progress?"

"Nice progress, Bones – but why is Parker there, I'm not supposed to have him until Friday. Is something wrong? Is Rebecca okay?"

"Everything is fine, Booth. Captain Amazing, I mean, Rebecca's boyfriend fell off a roof on a job and Rebecca has taken him to the ER. It sounds like everything is fine, but they want to keep him overnight for observation."

"Wow."

"Yeah, so I got Parker!" she says, sounding pleased with herself.

"You sound pleased with yourself, Bones."

"Well, you know how I enjoy Parker's company and I am happy to help Rebecca in her time of need. I find that I am quite enthused at the prospect of spending this time alone together. He's such a great kid, Booth. Don't worry about us."

"Are you sure you are okay with this, Bones?"

"Of course, don't be absurd. This kid is crazy about me and it is quite mutual. What could possibly go wrong that I can't handle?"

Booth rolls his eyes. "Well, okay. But let me give you the bedtime routine rundown and a list of things he likes to eat …. "

"Booth, stop. He and I can work all this out together. He is in good hands. You just enjoy your time in your old stomping grounds, did I say that right?" she asks and pauses.

"He-e-ey, Bones! That was exactly right – stomping grounds."

"So you just enjoy yourself there and get home safely for your fishing trip with Little Booth here. He can't stop talking about going away with you for the weekend – I've never seen him this excited."

"Thanks, Bones. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this. Call me, anytime, day or night, if you need anything, or can't find the tooth paste, or anything else."

"In other words," she states matter-of-factly, "same rules apply as at any other time?"

"Exactly," he replies. "Hey, can I talk to Parker for a minute?"

"Sure - - Parker! Your dad wants to say Hi to you."

"Hi Dad!" Parker is on the line.

"How's your mom's boyfriend?"

"Pretty banged up, Dad. But they say he will be fine. They just want to make sure he doesn't start puking green slime or oozing blood out his ears!"

"Now you be good to Bones, she's doing us a big favor."

"I will, Dad. Mom wanted to send me to stay with the neighbors, but I talked her into letting me stay here with Bones. Isn't that great?"

"Parker, you're just like your old man – and I'm not sure that's a good thing. Have fun and don't stay up all night!"

"I won't, Dad. I love you."

"I love you too, pal. Make sure to say your prayers and thank Bones for being there for us."

Back on the phone with Brennan he asks, "Are you sure this is okay? I can call Rebecca's neighbors …"

"Booth! Stop! I want to do this. We've already made lots of plans about how to spend our time. Now, go -!"

"Thanks, Bones," he says finally, "call me!"

"I'm hanging up now …. "

Turning to Parker, Brennan says, "You're dad, he's got worry warts."

"Tell me about it, Bones. He's covered in them." They both fall onto the couch and dissolve into laughter.


	17. Damsel in Distress

**Chapter 17. Damsel in Distress**

As Brennan had been looking through Booth's fridge earlier, scrounging for food, she had heard the phone ring three times, then the answering machine click on. She knew it wouldn't be Booth calling because he would have called her cell. As she opened a container of cottage cheese, grabbed a bowl and a clean spoon, and headed for the living room where she'd set up her files, she recognized the voice being recorded on the answering machine. It was Rebecca, and she was in a panic.

Rebecca was Booth's ex girlfriend, and the mother of their son, Parker. Over the years, Booth and Rebecca had worked diligently to ensure that Parker spent at least forty per cent of his available time with Booth.

Rebecca had been calling from the ER for some reason Brennan couldn't decipher from the hysterical message she was leaving on the machine. She ran to the phone and picked it up, catching Rebecca before she hung up.

"Rebecca, this is Temperance Brennan. Are you okay?"

"Oh, Dr. Brennan! Where's Seeley?" Brennan could tell Rebecca was on the verge of tears, most likely from an excessive amount of adrenaline coursing through her system as a result of needing to be in the ER.

"Is he there? This is an emergency … Drew fell off a roof at work and nearly broke his neck and Parker is at a play date but he needs to be picked up and I have nothing ready for dinner and my car is still at Drew's job site and he might have to stay here over night for observation and I don't want to leave him alone so I need Seeley to take Parker and everything is such a mess …" Rebecca's increasingly incoherent voice was swallowed by a gut-wrenching sob.

Brennan had deduced that Rebecca was in shock and could probably use some pharmaceutical assistance herself.

"Rebecca, Booth is out of town and he's not returning until tomorrow night."

Brennan could hear a wail on the other end of the line, followed by a high-pitched squeaky noise as Rebecca's voice got higher and higher the more freaked-out she became. "Rebecca, listen to me. Listen to me, Rebecca! Are you calling from your cell?"

"Ummmm - yes." Another sob and the sound of a juicy nose being blown.

"Okay. I want you to sit down. Is there anywhere you can sit down? But not on the floor."

"I'm already on the floor, Dr. Brennan!"

"Get up off the floor and find a chair. I want you to elevate your posterior and place your head between your knees, which will force your lungs to fill to capacitation thereby significantly increasing oxygenation, and finally diluting the concentrated volume of adrenaline in your blood system."

"What? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Bend over, head between your knees. Don't fall over."

"Got it."

"Now breathe deeply. Think Yoga. Cleansing breath in, toxic breath out. Cleansing breath in, toxic breath out. Are you doing it?"

Brennan could hear a huge sigh on the other end of the line followed by a healthy intake of breath.

"Hmmmmm. Yes. I am…," huge sigh, huge breath inward "… doing it. Ohhhhhhh, Sweet Baby Jesus."

"Now listen carefully to what I am saying, Rebecca. Booth is gone for a couple of days, but I am available and competent with Children, I have a foster parent license and am trained in First Aid. I … once had to revive a Reeses monkey after his heart had stopped during a laboratory stress test in a pharmaceutical trial. He did die later, but that was because of the pharmaceutical, not my resuscitative efforts …"

"Dr. Brennan, I am sure you are competent and I appreciate it your offer, but … but ..."

"I know what you're concerned about, Rebecca, and when are you going to start calling me Tempe? "

"Fine, Tempe. Fine. I just don't want to get involved in Seeley's work relationships. Wait – what do you think I am concerned about?" She sniffed.

"Rebecca, I promise I will not touch Parker in any way that could be considered inappropriate in the District of Columbia. I am a very trustworthy person. I can give you the phone number of my case worker at Social Services …"

"Oh, Dr…. Tempe, I'm not worried about that …" began Rebecca.

"You SHOULD be concerned about it, Rebecca. Twenty-five per cent of children in the care of a non-family member fall victim to some kind of inappropriate touching or …"

Rebecca cuts Brennan off before she can continue with a litany of potential abuses. "Temperance! I am not worried about that with YOU. With YOU, Tempe. I know Seeley trusts you and that's good enough for me," she says, sounding distracted all of the sudden. "Can you wait for a minute, Tempe, I see Drew's doctor."

"Go ahead, I'll be here," says Brennan.

After a moment, Rebecca returns to the line. "Tempe, if you are really serious, I would be so grateful!"

"Of course I am serious. I wouldn't lie about anything concerning Parker – or anything else, I can assure you."

"Okay – do you think you could pick him up after his play date?"

"Absolutely. Where's the play date?

Rebecca had then given Brennan care instructions for Parker and provided the address, phone number, and the name of Parker's friend's parents. Then she had called the parents to let them know Brennan would be picking him up. "Thank you so much, Tempe. If you need anything and can't reach me, call Seeley."

"It is my pleasure, Rebecca. I find that I am jazzed about having Parker all to myself for the evening – though, again, I promise not to behave in any way inappropriate for a nine year old human child."

"You are a very good friend to him, Tempe. Parker talks about you quite a lot."

"That is very nice to know, Rebecca. I appreciate you telling me …"

Hey - Parker is such a fun character! Wonder how things will go with he and Brennan having some time alone together. Enjoy!

~ MoxieGirl, MoxieGirl44 on Twitter


	18. LaughterA Medicine Best Shared By Two

**Chapter 18. Laughter: A Medicine Best When Shared**

Back at Booth's apartment an hour later, Parker and Brennan discuss their evening plans.

"Bones, I am so glad Drew's in the hospital so I can be here with you."

"Parker! That's really not a very nice thing to wish on anybody!" admonishes Brennan. "But I think I understand what you mean," says Bones giving him a big smile and tousling his blond curls.

She and Parker had made up a game a couple months ago about where they would go and what they would do if they get to have their own time together - without either of his parents. The place and the activity they fantasize about together have to start with the same letter, like boating in Borneo, skiing in the Sahara, Planting Peppers in Poughkeepsie. Brennan always said that one day they really would take one of these trips and fulfill their mutual dream. Parker made her pinkie swear, which was a new concept for her, but she readily adopted it when he explained that a pinkie swear cannot be broken without severe consequences.

"Hey," Brennan continued, "I thought you and California were becoming good friends." They had started calling Rebecca's boyfriend "California" because Brennan could never remember his name. At first they had called him "CA," which really stood for "Capitan America." Later when Parker was going through a geography phase he noticed that CA is the abbreviation for California – and the nickname was born. It was also a bonus that Booth didn't object to this nickname as he did to "Captain America," even though he was the one who had originally come up with it.

"We are friends, Bones." Parker conceded now. "Drew's a nice guy. And he makes Mom happy. He's got a kid who comes over with him sometimes. But he's a little younger – and totally into Bakugan," explained Parker. "It's just that I just love being with you, Bones. I don't think we've ever gotten to have it just you and me before. Not for a whole night."

"This is a first, Parker. Hopefully the first of many. We should celebrate with a fancy dessert. What is your favorite?" She asks, with a devious look on her face. "Something you usually don't get to have. Or maybe something you've never had but have always wanted to."

"Hmmmm. Can I think on that? Aren't we going to eat dinner first though? My tummy is grumbling and I should eat some real food first – or I promise you I will puke up even the bestest most richest dessert you could make me!"

"How about we get some take out from the diner?" suggests Brennan.

"Or we could just eat at the diner – "says Parker.

"Or …" Brennan whispers, once again assuming a sly look, "We could get take out and have a picnic on the living room floor at home – your dad's home, I mean!"

"OR …" Parker loudly whispers back, his eyes getting bigger and bigger, "We could put up the tent …"

"This is sounding good …" says Brennan, nodding in encouragement.

" … on my dad's bed … "

"Uh …"

"And when we're done eating, we can clean out all the dishes, move the tv into the bedroom …"

"Wait a minute …" says Brennan, putting the breaks on.

"And then we could sleep in the tent too!"

"I like your style, LittleBigMan." Says Brennan in sincere admiration. "However, what do you think your dad would think about us messing with his television, his speakers, and all those other things he's got hooked up to them?"

"Bones …." Parker begins, nodding slowly and looks sideways at her, his eyes slender slits of white and pupil. "It's true what Dad says about you."

"What?" blurts Brennan. "What does he say about me? Give me the full 4-1-1 before I have to tickle it out of you!"

"Hey, you said it right this time, Bones!" says Parker, complimenting her on not saying the 9-1-1 when referring to information or gossip as she had in the past . "Okay. Dad says many things of course, because he's always talking about you, but this is what I was just thinkin' 'bout … though I'm not sure if he'd like me telling you this … maybe we should call him and check it out first. He always says – when in doubt, check it out."

"Park Booth! Quit stalling – what does he say about me?"

Parker climbs up on the couch, stands with his legs a shoulder-width apart, puts his hands on his hips, scrunches up his brow, and says in as deep a voice as his little 9 year old vocal chords can muster: "Parker, that woman is the voice of reason in a world full of chaos!"

Brennan can't help laughing out loud, astounded at this odd quote that has made an impression on Parker so he's remembered it enough to repeat. "When was that, Parker? Do you remember what he was referring to?" She's curious to understand what the context for such a statement could have been.

"I do not remember – but he's said it more than once, though it has been a while …"

"And what are you doing up there on the couch?" she looks at him askance, suggesting perhaps that standing on the furniture is bad behavior for a nine year old.

"I'm being Dad! Don't you see it?" he insists.

"Oh," she replies blankly. "Oh … Ohhhhhhhhhh yeah! Now I see it." Brennan cracks up, covering her mouth and pointing at him. "Parker, you are really good at acting like your father. Has he ever seen you do this?"

"Are you kidding?" he blurts. "I may have been born at night, but not last night," he says dissolving into giggles.

"We are bad. So bad, Park. There better not be any hidden cameras in here," she says swinging around and making a show of looking for camera lenses peaking out from the bookcase and inside lampshades. "Your dad would not be amused," she says conspiratorially, still laughing loudly.

"I wonder if I could do him. Your dad," she says once she calms down.

"Try it, Bones. Try it!" She hesitates, conflicted, feeling like she's being challenged to shoplift."

She swings around again looking for hidden cameras. "Okay – but if this gets back to your dad, I will strenuously deny it. And on that you have my solemn pinky swear, Parker Matthew Booth!" She thinks for a moment, hand to mouth, eyes to the floor. "Okay, I got it. I need some props." She runs into the bedroom and returns with a suit coat and a Boothy tie. Putting them both on, she stands with her legs a shoulder's length apart, both arms extended forward at shoulder height, hands grasped as if pointing a gun at a criminal. "Nine times out of ten, murder is about love or money, when both of those go south, all bets are off."

"Is that all you can come up with, Bones? After all this time?"

"Stop or I will shoot you, and I never miss, I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth, emphasis on Special, and this here's my partner Dr...," Brennan loses control in a fit of giggles, "Dr. Temperance …. Ah … Brennan … ahh hah … of the Jeffersonian." She finally drops to her knees holding her sides as if in torturous pain.

"Nailed it," sings Parker as he explodes in a spasm of giggling and coughing that alarm Brennan, but she's too hysterical to do anything about it.

"My intercostals, my intercostals, all three pairs," moans Brennan, still grabbing at her sides and wiping tears from her eyes. "I can't take it anymore!"

Brennan and Parker, he lying on the couch and she lying on the floor, finally settle down after several minutes of uproarious laughter. After a moment of silence, invariably, one of them starts laughing again and the other can't help but join in. This goes on for ten minutes or more.

"Oh, Park," says Brennan, a bit remorsefully and feigning panic, "You must NEVER tell your dad we impersonated him. I'm not sure he would find it as humorous as we do."

They break into giggles again. "Double pinky swear, Park," she says, sitting up and thrusting both of her little fingers toward him.

"Double pinky swear," he answers her solemnly, wrapping his pinkies around hers. "I'm starving! I might eat this couch if we don't get some food quick."

"The diner?"

"Yep. But I don't think I can wait till we get home to eat it."

"Me neither," agrees Brennan. "But I have an idea for dessert that will knock your socks off. Ever heard of Bananas Foster?"

If you have a moment ... let me know you're reading The When and the How: A Bone to Pick! I'd love to hear from you in a review!


	19. Crab Cakes

**Crab Cakes and College Tuition**

"Where's the tent? Where do you keep the tent?"

"The what?" screams Booth into his phone as the Flyers score another goal and the crowd jumps out of their seats screaming. "I can barely hear you, Bones."

* * *

><p>Larrinaga and his wife, Carmen, had treated Booth to some of the best pub food on the Philadelphia Main Line. The Grog, a few miles outside Philly in a barrio called Bryn Mawr, is less than 2 miles West on Lancaster Avenue from the college where Dr. Larrinaga teaches Astronomy and Physics. According to the Larrinaga's, The Grog served up the best butternut squash soup and crab cakes on the Main Line.<p>

After dinner, Carmen kissed Larrinaga on the lips and forehead, refused Booth's handshake and hugged him instead, then headed home to relieve their babysitter. A fellow Flyers aficionado, Larrinaga had surprised Booth with an invitation to the Flyers that evening. "Work, work, work," Larrinaga had said. "It's one of my more onerous duties, entertaining the visiting dignitary." He and Both exchanged faux pained expressions over the tragedy of it all.

"Hardly a dignitary," dismissed Booth, with a grin.

"Not according to my expense report," replied Larrinaga.

"Well played, Enrique," said Booth, pretending to tip his hat to his new friend. "God, I love this town!"

Booth and Larrinaga were silent a moment, waiting for their tab. "Enrique, I have to be honest with you. I wasn't looking forward to coming on this trip. But I am really enjoying myself. Thanks for sharing your experiences with me."

"Well, I got that from my Midwest roots. Carmen and I are transplants here from Minnesota. Though I have to admit, I got all my entertaining skills from my wife. As a rule, I'd rather spend my time in an office working on research or somewhere else entirely collecting data from a radio telescope."

"Where does a person do that kind of thing?"

"Oh, there are places. But enough about me, Seeley. What's going on on the home front that's got you all up in your head all the time? A person needs some breathing space, man."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I don't believe it half the time."

"Is the crime solving business even harder than they make it look on CSI?"

"The crime-solving business?" repeats Booth, crossing his arms in front of his Flyers jacket. "Well, that does keep us all on our toes. Just when we're wrapping up one case, new ones fly at us from all angles. Then an old unsolved one rears its ugly head and we're off to the races," explains Booth. "Nope, murder I can handle. It's the after five business that can be daunting."

"The prostitution? Is that what you're talking about?" asks Larrinaga.

"No – I have nothing to do with that – I'm talking about the real stuff life is about – my son, my ex girlfriend and her new boyfriend, Captain Fantastic. A recent breakup from someone I thought was, you know, the one," explains Booth, though he knows that's not the whole truth. "A recent 'vistit' from an ex …"

"Oh, the life of a single man."

"A thirty-something single man. Who I don't mind telling you, Enrique, would rather be settled in a life of domestic bliss like you are."

"Bliss? I'm not sure I know what you're talking about, friend," said Larrinaga taking a more serious tone. "The grass is always greener on the other side of the goal line – that's not an axiom for no reason." He said leaning on the table and looking Booth straight in the eyes. "I do have a sweet life - I guess – a job I love at a great institution, a supportive and resourceful wife, two healthy kids I'm crazy about, but it's a struggle keeping it all together." As Larrinaga spoke, it was clear to Booth that, whatever makes this guy's life a struggle, he was pretty sure he wanted in.

"I'm constantly being pulled in every direction," Larrinaga explained "I got my work, which I never seem to have enough time for. I got my kids who are fun and full of energy and the best people I've ever met – seriously – but demanding as all get out. I got my wife who wants more of my time at home and just with her. Then there's gymnastic classes and swimming lessons for the kids – plus braces and college coming up before long. That may not sound like much to you …"

"Wait, how old are your kids? I thought you said you only have two."

"Anna is five and Jack is nine. We have just the two," he answered. I know, I know, college is a ways off. But it's always hanging over my head. Carmen, on the other hand, likes to live for today – let God take care of tomorrow. I tell her that I hope God plants a money tree in our back yard – because I don't where its gonna come from otherwise!"

"I know what you mean. I have a nine year old and I cannot believe what just hockey gear costs these days," says Booth, starting to think for the first time about college expenses. That had just always seemed so far off. "I feel like we're doing well just keeping Parker in shoes without holes."

"Wait till you have the second one, Seeley," cautioned Larrinaga. "That's when it all starts to feel real. That's when you're wife's got her hands full and all of a sudden you have the first child who is now looking to you instead of his mom for entertainment and attention. And all your expenses are doubled."

"I can imagine. At this point I don't know if there ever will be more than just Parker. His mom and I never married."

"Oh, that's right," Larrinaga said recalling earlier in the conversation when Booth had mentioned an ex or some other complication. "Its never too late to tie the knot – a strapping young FBI agent like yourself."

"We're no longer together. But it's all good, right? His mom is great, and she has her own life. I get Parker just about whenever I want him – which is never enough. But it will do for now."

"For now? What's next? Is there a special someone – other than this ex or whoever?"

Booth pauses, looking at his hands which are at this point clasped and resting on the table in from of him. The tab arrives and Booth grabs it before Larrinaga can. "This is on Uncle Sam," he says. "Remember, I'm here to honor you, Sr. Enrique Larrinaga of Anthrax-busting fame."

"Well okay – but if you are here tomorrow, you're coming over to the house for dinner," he said smiling at Booth. "Hey, I apologize for prying a moment ago. You are just so easy to talk to – and it sounds like you could use an ear attached to someone that you're not. I apologize, Seeley."

"Don't sweat it – its just that its gonna take a couple beers to tell that story. And we're gonna be late for the pregame cheerleading warm-up!"

* * *

><p>"Give me a minute, Bones," screams Booth shoving a finger as far into his other ear as is humanely possible. "I'm going to get outside where I can hear you."<p>

"Thank you, Booth," says Brennan shushing Parker who is bouncing off the walls after all the sugar from two helpings of Bananas Foster.

"Is everything okay? Has the tv arrived yet," he asks.

"Everything is fine. We've eaten, then made a mess of your kitchen making Bananas Foster – which is Parker's new favorite food. I've won awards for my secret recipe, did I ever tell you that?"

Booth rolls his eyes, is there anything she does with mediocrity? "No, Bones, but if its as good as that macaroni and cheese …"

"I'd say they are equally superb – but I'll let you be the judge sometime. I'm calling because Parker and I need to know where you've stored the tent."

"The tent?"

"Yeah, the tent. He wants to sleep in the tent on your bed."

"Tent is in the hall closet on the top shelf behind the suit cases and Christmas decorations. But it is NOT going on my bed. Move the furniture out of the way in the living room and put it there."

"Got it," says Brennan.

"Is there anything else? I'm about to miss half time," says Booth looking back through the glass doors to the score board."

"No, thank you," she answers, smiling. "Wait – how do you get Parker to calm down enough for bed?"

"Read him a book or tell him one of your stories."

"I don't think a story is going to unwind this spinning top, Booth."

"Well, what'd you feel him?"

"I told you, Bananas Foster. He had two helpings – mine's the best recipe in the world, remember? Oh excrement – its full of sugar."

"Ding, ding, ding, the light goes on," says Booth, mocking her. "Better get some coffee, Bones, you're in for a long night. He's gotta get some sleep though. Tomorrow is a school day."

"I am so screwd," Brennan says, deflated, as Parker launches himself from the couch into a mound of pillows with a primal yelp.

Booth just laughs. Finally, something she has something to be humble about.


	20. Life Isn

**Chapter 20. Life Isn't Enough**

The game over, Larrinaga drops Booth off at his hotel after discussing tomorrow morning's schedule.

How is it, Booth wonders finally back in the solitude of his hotel room, that you can know some people for just a couple hours and feel like you've known them your whole life?

Tonight he felt like he was on vacation from himself. He had basked in the comfort of the Larrinaga's hospitality. He had thoroughly relaxed for the first time in … he couldn't remember how long. With Enrique and Carmen it had been so easy to let his guard down, to share stories, to eat a good meal and share a beer, to laugh at himself and to reveal some of his personal dreams and concerns.

While Carmen was in the ladies room and Larrinaga was chatting with a colleague from the college who just happened to be at The Grog that evening, Booth had realized he didn't have any married couples as friends in D.C. Or anywhere, for that matter. And that it felt good to spend time with a happily married couple. It painted a picture for him. Gave him something to strive for. Sure, Angela and Hodgens are married, but that is different. They are colleagues and friends, but colleagues nonetheless. He wondered how the dynamic at the Jeffersonian would be affected once Baby Hodgens joined the party. How would that be for Bones to watch her best friend flourish in the light of domestic tranquility?

As relaxed as he was here with these new friends, he realizes that something has been missing for a long time in his life. He has work. He has friends. He has Parker. But he doesn't have family – a whole family – under one roof – having breakfast and dinner together every morning and night. Going to mass together on Sunday mornings. Taking vacations together. Arguing about the banal stuff a committed couple argues about, then making-up and falling asleep in the same bed. Then to be awakened in the middle of the night to find a cold pair of tiny feet warming themselves on your backside – accompanied by a small human wedged between you and your partner.

Partner. He thinks about his own choice of words. The word partner had come to mean something much more than a colleague in a team of two. Partner, for Booth, could mean only one thing: Temperance Brennan. Bones. When he pictured that little body wedged between himself and his partner, by partner he meant Bones. He'd been picturing her in that role since the day he met her in the lecture hall where she was giving a seminar on something or other anthropologic. That was the day their partnership began. In his heart anyway. Despite their ups and downs, their other love interests, both his and hers, their differences of opinion and approach. It had always been she who had taken permanent residence in his heart … his life … his soul.

He knew he had a full life as Special Agent Seeley Booth and Parker's father, but this evening brought home for him once again, though somehow more forcefully, poignantly, that he wanted more. And thanks to Hannah, he was ready to go after it.


	21. Never Lonely with You Around

Chapter 21. Never Lonely With You Around

Booth takes a shower to wash off all the airplane, restaurant, and hockey stadium residue. He puts on the tee shirt and the boxers he brought as sleepwear, and can't help looking at his phone. I wonder how things are going at home with Bones and Parker, he thinks to himself. Looking at the clock, he makes the decision to call, even at this late hour. Bones will be up trying to sedate Parker most likely, maybe she'd appreciate a little company, even if just over the phone line.

He dials her number and listens to it ring, then has second thoughts and hangs up. What if Parker has finally fallen asleep and the call wakes him up? He knows how torturous that can be on an exhausted adult. While he's standing there, one hand on his hip, the other holding the closed phone against his chin, he's startled by Brennan's singing voice.

"The phone rings in the middle of the night, my father yells what you gonna do with you life? Oh daddy dear you know you're still number one, but girls they wanna have fu-un. Yeah, girls just wanna have fun …"

Angela had helped Brennan record this as a ring tone for Booth's phone under the guise of being a thank you for the "Hot Blooded" ring tone he'd made for her. Angela was tickled to help the two of them surprise each other with this sweet gesture. Brennan pretended she was doing it because of her competitive nature – she didn't want to be outdone by Booth. Angela knew otherwise. She thought it was one of the most romantic gestures she'd ever witnessed, especially for a couple who weren't officially dating.

"Bones! What are you doing calling me so late at night?" he says after depressing the TALK button on his cell.

"You called me, Booth," she says sounding groggy. She plops down on his bed, grabs one of his pillows and buries her face in it, breathing in the Boothy scent still lingering there.

"What?" Booth feigns confusion.

"Booth … what time is it?" asks Brennan, yawning.

"Its quarter past midnight and all's well on the Eastern front. Did I wake you?"

"So you admit you called me?" She asks skipping over the question she didn't want to answer.

"You caught me. I thought I'd see how you were faring with the human jumping bean. How's it going? He still awake"

"Oh no, he fell asleep half an hour after I called you. It must have been the crash after the sugar high. He's asleep now in his bedroom," she says, yawning again and sitting back against the headboard, an arm hugging the pillow in her lap.

"What happened to the tent idea?" asks Booth.

"We did assemble it and play around in it for a while, but the floor out there is not as soft as a mattress. I don't know how you guys sleep there as much as you seem to."

"We have inflatable sleeping mats – makes you sleep like a baby. Don't be surprised if he crawls in with you during the night, by the way."

"Hunh?" says Brennan.

"Where are you sleeping, by the way?" he asks, closing his eyes and laying back diagonally on his hotel room mattress, feet up by the pillows, head at the foot of the bed. He scratches his chest with his free hand, then runs his hand through his hair, eventually slipping his free hand behind his neck and crossing his legs. Not really a phone person, he actually doesn't mind chatting for a while after such a relaxing evening.

"Well …," Brennan begins. Where did he think I was going to sleep? She thinks. "Yours is the only other bed in the apartment, Booth … I'll sleep in your bed. Unless …"

Booth closes his eyes and, taking his free hand from behind his neck, lays that arm over his forehead, and across his eyes. He lets out a lengthy sigh.

I'll be over in five minutes, thinks Booth, loud enough that he's not sure if it WAS just in his head or if he said it out loud.

"What?" Brennan sounds confused.

"What?" replies Booth, thinking, "Crap!"

"Did you say something?"

"What, when?" he says playing dumb.

"Just then. You said something I couldn't understand or maybe you just … were making a noise. Or was that your digestive system - maybe you need to eat, Booth. Surely they have pie in Philadelphia?" She chuckles, goading him.

Relieved, Booth says, "Very funny, little miss double serving of Bananas Foster right before bed," he teases her back. "So how'd the night go in general? Does my place look like a tornado hit?"

"Your place is fine – or it will be, by the time you get back," she says. "The tv guy called …"

"Called? He was supposed to show up. They didn't deliver it?" He asks, exasperated.

"Booth – no need to get cranky – I negotiated a second pair of 3D glasses for you."

"But it's the principle of the thing …" argues Booth.

"Simmer down, Booth, you can't watch it while you're in Philadelphia anyway. It will be here by the time you get back," she says. "Pinky swear."

"Pinky swear, huh? You're being trained in the vernacular of a third grade boy. By next week you won't even recognize yourself."

"Booth, VERNACULAR? Was that the word of the day on your cell phone dictionary app?"

"I take it where I can get it … I'm a busy guy. Got things to do. Places to go."

"Speaking of the vernacular of nine-year-olds, did you know that every preadolescent grade level has its own unique culture? The rituals, rules, and customs of these miniature societies are dictated by a leader who has proven his stamina, skill, and creativity in the arena of denigrating the mothers of the other members."

"Yes, Bones, I was aware of that though I've never heard it put so succinctly. "Yesterday's word, succinctly?"

"Last Thursday's. I'm on a self-improvement kick. So, have you corrupted my son?"

"No Booth," she begins. "Oh, you're joking. That was a joke, right?"

"Yes, that was a joke."

"Hey, I did learn something that might interest you."

"And what might that be, Bones? Did Parker teach you the fine art of hocking a loogie?"

"No – although that does sound interesting. Is that a competitive skill?"

"It has to do with spitting a snot projectile at increasing distances, preferably toward an enemy or someone who has better toys than you do."

"What a useful skill," she comments, "Did you see how I said exactly the opposite of what I meant? It was an ironic statement. I really do not see how HOCKING A LOOGIE could be a useful skill unless you are a member of the Tse-Tsemili military tribe of Caliguay, Macedonia." She pauses briefly, then adopts a more serious tone. "Booth, Parker is lonely."

"I thought you said he was asleep."

"He is. I don't mean he's lonely this minute, Booth. He's lonely in general. I know that is not an easy thing to hear, but I really thought you should know."

"What do you mean, lonely? Is he having trouble making friends at school? Is he getting into fights? Because his school is usually very good at keeping us informed if there are …"

"No Booth. He's doing fine at school. Has a couple of friends he identifies with. He says he misses him mom. And he misses you."

"What does that mean?" Booth sits up, concerned.

"He says you and Rebecca are the best parents a kid could have. You both deserve happiness, he says. He wants you to have that – and he thinks he gets in the way sometimes."

"Gets in the way – what is that supposed to mean? He's never in the way. Everything else is in the way," he says confused. "He is exactly where he should be."

"Okay Booth, I'm not going to interpret this, we both know that is not my strength. This is exactly what he said, I actually made a bunch of notes after he passed out – so I could get it right." Booth can hear the rustling of a piece of paper and lies back on the bed, shoving a pillow under his head.

"He misses his mom," begins Brennan.

"But he's with her all the time," counters Booth.

"Booth I am just telling you what he said without alterations so you can figure this out. Personally, I'm at a loss."

"Sorry, go on."

"Okay – He misses crawling into bed with her. He misses having her all to himself. He knows she loves him – that is not the problem. He says when California is there, California gets a lot of her attention. When Hannah was with you, she got a lot of the attention. Its not, he said, that he feels left out, its just that he's not the center of attention. And he misses that."

"That's part of growing up, Bones. He's never going to be a baby again."

"I know that, Booth, but children, preadolescents especially, are miniature people whose job it is to figure out how to become adults. Part of that is creating distance between themselves and their parents through any number of paradoxical proclamations and behaviors which place them in opposition to anyone or thing that represents authority. In any culture, it is a confusing and stressful time for both parents and children."

"Did he say anything about when he's with you and me?"

"Yes, he did, though it isn't consistent so I have no theories as to the implications. He said when the three of us are together – Parker, you, and me – that you don't have to work at paying attention to me, and so he gets to be the center of attention," she explains as if reading straight from her notes, which she is. "He says that it doesn't look to him like you are ignoring me – or like I ignore you – its just that its not work, whatever that means. I told you, its inconsistent."

"Maybe what he's saying is that we are comfortable enough with each other that we don't feel the need to … I don't know … make things happen. We just let things happen naturally. That's gotta be good, right?"

"I would think so – but I am not a parent, or a child psychologist. Maybe you should have Sweets have a talk with him."

"You really think so?"

"Look, he doesn't seem depressed. I think he's going through a normal growth period and its confusing for him. But again, I'm not a psychologist or pediatrician."

"Hmmmm."

Brennan pauses to let all this sink in. "Should I not have told you? I just thought you would want to know."

"No, Bones," he says thoughtfully. "I am glad you did. I am impressed that you two had a conversation like this. Sometimes it's a challenge to get him to tell me when something is bothering him."

"That has been the case in all cultures, in all countries, in all generations, since the beginning of time. It is an anthropological certainty. "

"For someone who's not sure it's a good idea to bring kids into this world, you seem to be enjoying your time with one," comments Booth.

"Yes, I am," she agrees. "I find that I'm experiencing and identification with Parker. I experienced many of the same feelings he's going through. When it was just Russ and me, he was constantly distracted with finding ways to earn money and provide for my physical needs at the same time – and in foster care, you are never the center of anyone's attention."

"I'm sorry you had to experience that, Bones."

"But it has given me access to being able to identify with Parker."

"Bones, that's all being a loving parent is – being able to identify with your child. Seeing yourself in this tiny human being and aching to give them all you didn't have. Its almost like trying to love the child version of yourself – a better version of yourself – because this time you get to be the parent."

"Hmmmm. I never looked at it that way …."

"Many times we end up screwing it up in other ways. But all we can do is try. And love them. And hope they have good medical insurance and can afford lots of therapy when they finally become adults!"

Quite a while and several conversation topics later, as the conversation begins to wind down, Brennan remembers she had taken a photograph, with her cell, of Parker slurping up the Bananas Foster syrup.

"One more thing before we hang up," she says, not for the first time during this conversation. "I am sending you a picture of Parker. I took it on my cell. You should get it in a moment." She pushes a bunch of buttons on her phone. "After we hang up, you should be able to download it. Keep in mind that he has been thoroughly wiped clean since that photo was taken. He will not wake up with a twin-sized sheet attached to his face – I promise."

"I can barely see at this point. Or keep my eyes open. But I will look at that photo before passing out. what time is it anyway?"

"You're not going to believe this – it's 2:30 in the morning!"

"What?" exclaims Booth.

"Its 2:30 in the morning. No wonder I feel hung over –and I haven't had anything to drink. Must be dehydrated from all the talking – and laughing."

"This was fun, Bones. When was the last time we talked for more than ten minutes on the phone?"

"Never, in all likelihood."

"Right. I should go out of town more often."

"Don't you dare. I need my sleep!"

"And I have to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 7:30 tomorrow morning to be picked up by Dr. Larrinaga for the ground-breaking ceremony at the college."

"Good luck with that. I'll see you at the airport?"

"Yep. I'll be the one who looks like he's had a great vacation – but no sleep the night before."

"You really enjoyed yourself this evening with the Larrinaga's, didn't you?"

"Yes, and you enjoyed yourself with Parker."

"Indubitably. And on the phone with you."

"Good word, indubitably."

"Know what it means?"

"Nope," admits Booth.

"Look it up," replies Brennan. They both chuckle and yawn at the same time.

After hanging up, Booth downloads the photo of Parker. He's pleasantly surprised by how happy Parker looks. And why wouldn't he be, he says to himself. He spent the evening with my partner.


	22. Overwhelming Sensations

Chapter 22. Overwhelming Sensations

Flashback - three hours before Booth calls Brennan from his hotel room and they talk for over two hours ...

Once Parker passes out in the tent, Brennan moves him into his bedroom for a more comfortable night's sleep. She surveys the damage in the living room and kitchen and begins to straighten up, piling dishes in the sink and collecting the little boy clothing that had been flung everywhere but into the dirty clothes hamper. She picks up the pillows from the floor and returns most of them to their rightful home on the couch.

The two remaining pillows she carries into Booth's bedroom. She tosses the pillows toward the headboard and returns to the living room to continue straightening up. As she does so, she finds herself walking through his home with an anthropologist's eye, noticing the items Booth has on display, noticing how his personality is reflected in his furnishings and other decorative belongings. She runs her fingers along his shelves, and comes across the scrapbook she'd given him about the two of them - back when he suffered some temporary memory loss after his brain surgery.

Taking the scrapbook to the bedroom, she tosses it on the bed and goes into the bathroom to get clean up. Face washed and teeth brushed, she realizes she's neglected to bring over any kind of pajamas! She roots through Booth's drawers for something suitable to wear. Finding nothing that appeals to her - and feeling odd going through his drawers, she looks in the closet and spies the dirty clothes hamper. On the top of the heap is the tee shirt he must have worn yesterday, Sunday, when he played all day with Parker at the zoo. On an uncharacteristic whim, Brennan grabs the tee shirt and thrusts her face into it. Just as she thought, it was saturated with the intoxicating scent of Booth.

Feeling dizzy, she backs up to the bed and sits down, her face still smothered in his tee shirt. She sits there for a while, just breathing him in. How can one human being smell so good ... and have such an effect on my respiratory - - - all of my - - - its got to be those chemicals ... hormones ... what were they called?

Before she realizes it, five minutes have passed as memories of the night Vincent was killed swim around in front of her closed eyes. She hadn't been exactly honest with Angela about the events of that night for a reason she has yet to identify. _"Yes, I went into his bedroom,_ she thinks._ "Yes, he comforted me. Yes, he agreed to let me sleep here, in his bed. No, we didn't engage in Coitus. Why didn't I share the rest with Angela – my best friend? The one person she confided most everything to._

At this point, she stops cold. Angela isn't the person she confides in the most – at least not since Angela and Hodgens had gotten serious again and eventually married. Angela just doesn't seem to have as much free time anymore.

_That isn't quite accurate,_ Brennan thinks, mentally going through a typical day at the Jeffersonian. She and Angela see each other at least seventeen times throughout the day, including phone conversations and telecommunicating. They have many opportunities to speak privately if they need to. With the self-induced celibacy, Roxy, Wendell, pregnancy scare, and kava-induced Grayson Barasa marriage/divorce fiascos overcome, you'd think they would have become closer still. Yet that didn't seem quite right either. What has changed?

As a break from her usual method of organizing her thoughts, Brennan choses to allow the thought in the deepest recesses of her subconscious float to the surface and be spoken out loud, in her head anyway. _Angela hasn't moved away from me,_ she realizes. _We have not become distanced,_ she begins letting the complete thought form as it emerges from her subconscious.

_"For quite some time now, Booth has been the first one I talk to in the morning and the last one I talk to at night."_ By any definition, she has to admit, Booth has become her best, and closest friend.

He had once described her as like a guy friend – a buddy. In that scenario, she had insisted, Booth was like a woman – her girlfriend. And, besides the obvious physical impossibility of that analogy, this was truer now than it had ever been. _"How did that happen?"_ she asks herself. _"Especially since he has been so distant lately. He hasn't been as humorous. He is downright snarky at times, perhaps even rude._

_"He doesn't look into my eyes like he used to."_ She finally admits what she's been suspecting for months_. "He barely touches me any more. Perhaps he has moved on."_ This thought is followed by a painful sensation in her chest. But she can't deny the proof was mounting … and that night, in his bed, was the lynch pin. If he had the opportunity, and he still loved her, he would have done something. She discounts Angela's dismissal of the inactivity that night in his bed, because Angela doesn't have all the Facts. Angela doesn't know how close they'd come.


	23. Intermission

**Chapter 23. Intermission**

That night she realized she didn't want any regrets, it hadn't been as devastating as it could have been that he turned her down, because she **did** know that he loved her. He didn't deny that he still did –he basically just said that he was unavailable. Knowing that Booth was not going anywhere softened the blow.

The most painful moment of that night was when he asked her if there was someone he could call to be with her so she didn't have to be alone. The answer that hung in the air, but was never spoken, was that **he** was the person she always called to be there for her. Not as a lover or partner, but as one friend comforting another. That was the part that had broken her heart.

She really had to admit that, although she liked Hannah, she didn't see her as a permanent partner for Booth. Eventually, Hannah would leave the picture, right? The possibility for Brennan and Booth could still be out there somewhere ... sometime ... at least that's the hope that got her through that night after he dropped her at her apartment.

Booth's proposal to Hannah had shocked and panicked Brennan, even though he had been turned down. Brennan didn't regret choosing to remain partners and friends and nothing more. Having Booth in her life was better than the alternative, of that she was crystal clear. But learning that Booth felt he had loved Hannah enough to spend the rest of his life with her broke something inside Brennan.

For weeks after that, she had barely spoken to anyone. Miraculously, they had just completed a case and didn't have another one until two weeks later. It was as if the universe was cutting Brennan and Booth some slack, giving them a break. She told her colleagues she was in the final stage of writing her most recent novel, but everyone knew she was devastated and needed time to herself. She put on a good face around Booth, however. His friendship was what she missed the most during that dark period, but she knew he was in his own hell, and angry most of the time, and couldn't be pushed. That had been the beginning of his changed behavior.

She feared that Booth's feelings for her had changed permanently. Over time, they returned to something akin to the Booth and Brennan they had always been – minus the sexual tension. Eventually, and with Sweet's prodding, she and Booth had begun to talk about the possibility of advancing their relationship romantically, but his heart didn't seem to be in it – or maybe he was just not ready to risk being vulnerable so soon after Hannah's rejection. Booth refused to talk about Hannah with Sweets, so no one knew what was really going on inside his head. Sweets assured Brennan that Booth was processing and healing and would recover. She just had to be patient.

Over the months Brennan had been learning to loosen her stranglehold, her own compartmentalization, of her feelings, in hopes that a future with Booth was a possibility. She wanted to be ready this time. Booth must have been doing the opposite, she thought, successfully enough to put his dreams of her and him together in a closed box shoved behind the consciousness he floated in during his waking hours.


	24. In the Jungle

**Chapter 24. In the Jungle the Mighty Jungle ...**

Brennan leaves the scrapbook, the tee shirt, and her memories of the night of Vincent's death lying on the bed she would be sleeping in for the second time. She goes to Parker's bedroom to check on him. Parker, lying on his side facing the wall, has one leg under the covers and the other outside the covers. One arm is wrapped around a pillow he's crushed to his chest. The other arm is hiding somewhere under the pillow his head is lying on. She looks at his miniature silhouette against the Green Lantern pillowcase. She sits on the side of his bed and watches closely to see if he stirs. Encouraged, she studies his face which, in the moonlight and the moon shadows, looks so much like Booth no one could ever doubt his paternity.

Gently, Brennan leans forward and places an index finger on Parker's forehead. She traces each eyebrow from the center outward, noticing the intricate growth pattern of the delicate hairs. She then places her index finger between his eyebrows and draws an invisible line down the bridge of his nose and over the tip. The pad of her finger fits perfectly in the space between his nose and his lips, like a little fingerprint imprint. His skin is soft and flawless. She is transfixed.

Pausing, she wonders if touching his face like this is inappropriate. She decides it's not, but stops anyway. She marvels at the thinness of the skin covering his eyelids. Usually when she has the opportunity to get this close to a child's face, it is in the morgue. In the morgue, life has stopped coursing through those eyelids and they appear solid, opaque, waxen, grey. Parker's tiny blue veins peek through his translucent lids like a tiny map of an imaginary village.

Brennan is in awe of how strongly she feels for this child, this wonderful child, who is half Booth and half Rebecca. She pauses, looking at him as he sleeps peacefully. She reflects on how different Parker's life is than her own was, and sends what can only be described as a prayer, into the heavens, that he always have the love and attention he needs and desires.

Closing his bedroom door behind her, Brennan turns on the bathroom light and leaves the door slightly ajar in case Parker awakens needing to go potty before the morning light. When she was in foster care, sometimes she'd awaken in the middle of the night having forgotten where she was, and unable to find the bathroom in the dark. She never turned on a light for fear of waking a grumpy foster parent or sibling. On more than one occasion, she hadn't made it to the bathroom in time and had needed to change and hide her pajamas so the foster parents wouldn't find out. Sometimes she just threw her soiled clothing in the garbage rather than risk discovery. Brennan shutters at the memory, thankful that Parker will never know that level of humiliation at the hands of those who care for him.

Going through the kitchen and living room, she turns off all the lights and heads back into Booth's bedroom.

Once again she's faced with the pajama conundrum. What to do? It didn't feel right to sleep in his bed nude – or just in her bra and panties. While thinking about that, she begins clearing the bed so she can sleep in it. She takes the scrapbook and places it on the bedside table, unopened. She hesitates, aware of what remains on the bed: Booth's tee shirt, and, clinging to it, memories of that night. She knows she has to pick up the tee shirt – or sleep on it. And with the tee shirt, come the memories.

Resigned, she kneels on the bed and grabs the tee shirt. Eerily, the tee shirt feels alive - though she knows that is an absurd idea. Without even thinking about it, she lifts it to her face once again. Breathing in the scent left behind on Booth's tee shirt, the emotions of that night come flooding back. Before she even knows what she's doing, she tears off her clothes, all but her panties, and pulls his tee shirt over her head, thrusting her arms through the armholes. Is it her imagination, or does the shirt already feel warm against her skin? She deduces that the warmth is a result of her pressing her face into it. That is the logical explanation.

Nervously, she realizes her stronghold on logic is weakening with every intake of breath reminding her of that night. She runs her hands over the tee shirt, noticing how wonderful it feels against her skin. She hugs herself and buries her face in the tee shirt shoulder, filling her lungs with a concentrated Boothy aroma._ "This is too much,"_ she thinks. _"I am torturing myself."_

Overwhelmed by a flood of emotions, she decides she doesn't care if it is torture, she can't resist reliving the last time she was in this bed, between these sheets, and surrounded by these smells …


	25. The First Night in Booth

**Chapter 25. The First Night in Booth's Bed**

She had come into Booth's bedroom in the very early hours of the morning, seeking comfort for the death of her favorite squintern, Vincent Nigel-Murray. Though they had yet to share a bed, and were still officially only partners with a mutual and powerful romantic interest and a lot of history, she didn't let that stop her from asking to sleep with him that night.

Once Brennan was in his arms, and lying against his warm chest, she could feel his heart beating and hear his every breath. The only thing separating their bodies was Booth's tee shirt and the sweatshirt he had lent Brennan to sleep in. Finally in a safe harbor and encircled by his strong arms, Brennan released the pain she'd been keeping at bay since Vincent Nigel-Murray's final breath. Booth held her as a torrent of tears and sobs shook her body. Pained by the death himself, Booth allowed several tears to run down his face and into his ears. More torturous, however, were the gut-wrenching noises being made by the woman clutching at his tee shirt. In the six years they'd been together, only once before had he seen her in the grip of such intense anguish. The first time, Booth had been the cause of her tears, something he promised he would never, ever do again.

He had wanted to protect her from the pain, from the loss of a friend's life, but he knew there was no way he could. She had to feel it, to release it physically from her body through tears and cries, in order to begin to heal from the loss. He held her to himself and was surrounded by the scent of her hair, her skin, her sweat, and her tears, mixed with the faint perfume of fabric softener reawakened by her body warming the clean sweatshirt he had lent her to sleep in.

"Sh, sh, sh," he whispered into her hair as he rocked her side to side. He attempted to pull her tear and sweat-drenched hair out of her face with his right hand, and with his left he rubbed her arm and held her even closer to his body. "Shhh, shhhhh, shhhhh." There were simply no words for a moment like this. What was there to do? Just to be there.

For a moment Booth was lost in thought, images of the many times they had saved each other's lives, proven their commitment to each other, defended each other, argued with each other, supported each other's professional and emotional growth, watched themselves become more together than either of them had been individually … all of these images played silently on the screen of his memory while the sound of her crying in his arms drifted from his awareness.

Being with her like this, holding her in his arms, felt good and right. Their relationship had been slowly moving in this direction for a very long time, despite the occasional distractions.

More than he'd ever wanted anything in his life, at this moment he desperately wanted to wipe away her pain. He felt compelled, by their relationship, his love for her, and nature itself, to run the palm of his hand over the bare skin of her belly, moving on to caress the tender skin of her bare back before burying his face in her neck and leaving a trail of wet kisses from her collar bone to behind her ear, to her sensual lips. He was hungry to be one with her, to give himself to her and to experience the joy of her returned passion.

If he were any other man, Booth would have taken this opportunity as a sign from God that the timing was right. But he wasn't any other man. And Bones wasn't any other woman. This was too big of a move to make just because the opportunity presented itself. He could see in her eyes that she was hungry too, but her hunger was mixed with situational pain and loss. And though he knew she never did anything she didn't want to do, and though she might not understand his reasoning, he was clear about this one thing – when he made love to Temperance Brennan for the first time, it would be a private and deliberate celebration, not as a result of a tragedy. And not without both of them knowing that this was for good, this was for real, this was for keeps.

Becoming aware that Brennan was no longer crying, Booth softly said her name. "Bones," he whispered.

"Yes," she whispered and moved her head up onto his shoulder so she could look in his eyes. Her face was red and puffy from crying, and her lashes were wet with her salty tears. Her eyes … her eyes were clear and beautiful and he could see his future reflected in them.

"We'll get through this," is all he said, holding her close and putting his lips to her forehead for a long moment before releasing her, sitting up, and pulling her gently out of the bed. He could tell she was confused. Then he pulled back the sheets and motioned her to climb under them. Relieved, she crawled in and over to the other side of the bed where she lay on her side facing away from him. He climbed into bed behind her. She felt him lean away from her toward the bedside table to turn off the light. In the darkness, he lay on his side of the bed facing the back of her, scooted closer, and put his arm loosely around her, and whispered once again into her hair, "We'll get through this, Bones." She pulled his hand up the her chest where she wrapped her fingers around his. Spent from the highly emotional and tragic day, yet somewhat relaxed after an intense outpouring of tears and emotion, they both fell into a deep, restorative sleep.


	26. A Flag At Half Mast

**A Flag at Half Mast**

At the Jeffersonian Institute the morning after the assassination of Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray, the halls were empty. All the department heads had followed the example set by Dr. Camille Saroyan and declared a bereavement break. The doors would remain locked until noon. The only personnel present this somber morning were the two security guards and Dr. Saroyan herself.

Assembled on the plaza at daybreak, Dr. Saroyan oversaw the raising of the American Flag at half mast. As the security guards solemnly and silently raised the flag, Dr. Saroyan said a silent prayer - for the peaceful repose of the soul of Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray, for the capture and conviction of his killer, and for the healing from this blow for her colleagues at the Jeffersonian, most especially, her squints … and those at the FBI who had come to know this fallen soul.

After a ten minute pause during which all three of them remained motionless and silent, facing the flag at half mast, Dr. Saroyan let the one hundredth tear slide unimpeded down her smooth caramel cheek. "He was dearly loved," she said. "And he will be missed." Her voice cracked on the last word.

With a deep breath that filled her lungs, followed by a lengthy breath out, emptying them again, Dr. Saroyan turned on her heal to return to her car. As she turned, she noticed movement from behind her. Stopping in her tracks, she watched as Dr. Jack Hodgins, Angela Montenegro, Dr. Lance Sweets, Mr. Wendell Bray, Dr. Clark Edison, Daisy Wick, Arastoo Vaziri, Colin Fisher, Professor Bunsen Jude, Dr. Daniel Goodman, Special Agent Payton Perotta, Andrew, and members of several departments at the Jeffersonian who had become good friends with Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray Micah, and Max Keenan slowly advanced toward her and laid flowers at the foot of the flag pole. Not a word was said.

Slowly, after each friend, associate, or colleague of Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray paid their respects and slowly departed, all that were left were Dr. Saroyan, Dr. Sweets, the forensics lab team, and Micah the night security guard.

"Dr Saroyan, if I may?" interrupted Micah humbly approaching the others. "I once had a conversation with Mr. Nigel-Murray in which he told me that the death that we humans fear is not a death at all, but a repurposing of the 123 unique categories of particles which make up our physical bodies. Each individual particle, made better by having participated in a human life, continues on to effect positive change in the world." He paused. "Ipso Facto Colombo Oreo, I like to believe that we are surrounded by the living essence of all that was good in those we love."

Dr. Saroyan smiled her beautiful smile of appreciation and nodded her head once toward Micah, "That was beautiful. Thank you, Micah."

"Also," continued Micah, "Dr. Brennan was here at the Jeffersonian until well past midnight last night sitting with Mr. Nigel-Murray. Special Agent Booth waited with her. She said she knew that he was dead and no longer there, and that it was … irrational, but she wanted to be near his remains as long as she could." Micah paused for a moment, looking down at his shoes, then continued, "Dr. Brennan said she was memorizing the shape of his cranium. She said he had an exceptionally symmetrical cranium – and some other stuff that went right over my head."

"Before she and Agent Booth left, she asked me to tell you that she would not be here this morning as she didn't expect she would sleep very well and she had to be rested to assist Agent Booth in the capture of Mr. Broadsky today. That, she said was how she choose to honor Mr. Nigel-Murray today rather than standing around in the cold looing at a piece of fabric flapping in the wind."

"Thank you, Micah," said Angela warmly, hugging Micah. With that they all turned and headed to the diner for an early breakfast.


	27. Another Flag At Half Mast

**Chapter 27. Another Flag at Half Mast**

Across town from the group gathered on the mall of the Jeffersonian, Brennan was becoming aware of her surroundings as the morning light filtered through the shades hanging in the East window of Booth's bedroom.

She had slept solidly, noticing this morning that her limbs felt heavy and relaxed. How long had it been since she slept so deeply? Sighing, and drawing in her first deep breath, she was overcome by a feeling of intense wellbeing. It was as if her real life had been a dream, and this life, the one that started each day in bed with Special Agent Seeley Joseph Booth, was the real one, the right one. She lay there, eyes open, staring at the glowing window shades.

For a brief moment, she was happy, content. Like sand through an hour glass, images of the previous day crept slowly into her peaceful morning, pushing aside her calm. The near capture of Broadsky, the squintern death and his final words which haunted her still, the blood covering Booth's hands and suit coat. With some temporal distance, she was able to begin compartmentalizing the events and her own reactions. The scientist in her was ready to go back to work to nail this Son of a bitch, that bastard Broadsky.

Despite her brain having been jump-started with the unsettling recollection of the previous day, and the gravity of what lay before them today, Brennan was acutely aware that she was in Booth's bed and so was Booth, just inches away. She listened to him breathe for a moment and prayed he wouldn't awaken, wouldn't return to today's harsh reality, until the last possible moment.

In their sleep they had moved apart, but were still lying in the same orientation. He was behind her, seemingly dead to the world. As quietly as she could, she rolled over to face him, leaving very little space between them. She notice he was shirtless. She could feel the heat of his warm body and feel his breath on the hairs of her forehead.

For several moments she just stared up at his beautiful face. Masculine, yet boyish in repose, she couldn't help but admire his bone structure. His prominent cheekbones, his jaw line, the strong brow dropping off toward his eye sockets and nasal ridge. The lids concealing the eyes that she could live lifetimes gazing into and it would still never be long enough.

"I'm losing my edge," she thought to herself. "Getting mushy in my old age." She knew that what she and Sweets had been so diligently working toward for the last several months had made this softening inside her possible. Surprising herself, she conceded she approved of this change – it brought with it a pleasing sense of … what? … what would you call this? … Contentment? Having spent many years living in the opposite, she was ready for this change.

Gently and quietly, she pulled her left arm from under the sheets and placed her middle finger along his hairline, tracing it from his left temple to his right, noticing the horizontal crevices that age and life had etched across his forehead. Over the last six years, the nearly invisible lines had become deeper. She knew she was responsible for the deepening and the addition of some of those lines.

Booth's facial structure exhibited many of the markings of a good warrior, provider, and breeder. It also missed the mark in several small ways that gave him character, made him "Boothy," and endeared him to her.

As she smoothed his right eyebrow, fascinated by the growth pattern and the softness, Booth's eyes fluttered and slowly opened. Brennan paused in her tracks, but didn't pull away. He exhaled, saying nothing, a hint of a smile on his lips. He didn't move, so she continued exploring.

"These," she began almost inaudibly, retracing his eyebrow, "are the Superciliary Arches." She returned to the space between his eyebrows and paused as she said "Glabella."

Traveling down the bridge of his nose, "the Nasal Ridge," she watched as he slowly closed his eyes. She stopped just short of his lips. That was dangerous territory. "Maxilla," she said in a throaty whisper.

To the left of his nose, she gently outlined his right eye socket and traversed his cheekbone all the way to his ear, identifying as she went along, "The Zygomatic Process, the Sphenoid, and the Temporal bones."

Noticing Booth had reopened his eyes, she continued, outlining his jaw. "The Mandible, or the mental tuberosity," she whispered as she traced an invisible path across his chin and up the right side of his face. "The Zygomatic Arch, the Temporal bone once again, and the Occipital," she said, continuing behind his ear and into his hair at the back of his head, this time using two more of her fingers as well as the middle one. "The cervical vertebra," she said.

As her fingers trailed down, pushing gently on each of the four top vertebrae, Booth shuddered involuntarily and smiled a dreamy smile. Moving slowly along his trapezius muscle, she reached his shoulder bone. "The clavicle," she said, following it toward the center of his chest. When her finger came to rest in the dip of his collarbone, and before she could say, "Manubrium," Booth reached up and grabbed her hand like a snake springing upon its prey. He held her hand pressed against his chest, rising and falling with each of his breaths. His eyes traveled from her neck, to her lips, and eventually to her eyes where they rested. She glanced up at him, moving only her eyes.

Being so close to his bare chest, touching his hot smooth skin, inhaling and exhaling the same warm air he was, had an intoxicating affect on her. She felt dizzy and on the verge of passing out. Her breathing slowed and her eyelids felt heavy. The thrum and rush of her heartbeat filled her ears. At the same time, every cell of her body was alert and standing at attention for whatever might happen next.

"Is this what it's like for you, Bones?" He whispered. How could he sound so calm, she wondered, and what happened to his shirt? "When you look at a live person, do you see only bones?" he whispered.

"When I look at these bones," she said, barely above a whisper, "I see a miracle." They lay there and time stopped. A million memories of the two of them flashed by for each of them … each instrumental in bringing them to this moment – and suddenly it was clear that they were all worth it.

Any moment, she was going to close the gap between their lips, throw her leg over his, and everything would become a blur of arms and thighs and lips and sighs. Perhaps even some screaming.

Before she could move a single cell toward that end, she became aware of a siren blaring. Or was it a fire alarm? Or an ambulance wail? "Oh my God, that's the phone!" she choked out, snapped back to reality.

They reached this realization at the same time and both lunged for their cell phones on the bedside table behind booth. He leaned back to reach over his head as she landed on his chest. They lay in that position having their rushed and separate conversations, then hung up at the same time.

Still laying on Booth's chest, Brennan looked at him. They were both thinking the same thing. She broke the silence. "I need to take a shower," she said.

"I'll get the coffee brewing," he said, as they both sprang into action. Regarding the shower he said, "There's a trick about the hot water …"

"Oh, I don't plan on using any hot water – quite the opposite!" she said with a combination laugh and snort.

"Well, save some of that cold water for me," he replied with equal snarkiness, though confident there wasn't enough cold water in D.C. to put out the fire burning beneath his calm exterior. He kept that thought to himself, however, at least for now.


	28. Recap of the Last Five Days

**Chapter 28. Recap of the Last Five Days**

Okay folks - I have no idea what day of the week it was when Vincent Nigel-Murray was killed, nor consequently, the date Brennan and Booth's night spent together in his bed after that fateful Hole in the Heart.

As **A Bone to Pick** is about to get complicated, I feel the need to provide some temporal structure. So – regardless of what may have been alluded to in the last two episodes of Bones' Season 6 episodes, I propose the following for the purposes of this fiction, and I will henceforth indicate when a new day has begun.

THURSDAY:

Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray dies of a fatal gunshot wound to the heart.

FRIDAY:

B&B wake-up in Booth's bed, while the team attends a flag raising in his honor. The Jeffersonian is closed half a day for bereavement.

SATURDAY:

Broadsky is apprehended and taken into custody

The Jeffersonian team send VN-M off to England with a resounding, if not off-key rendition of "Lime and de Coconut,"

SUNDAY:

Everyone goes their separate ways –

*** Booth and Parker attend mass, then spend the day at a Pinewood Derby Boy Scout event, Rebecca and Brennan join them for the spaghetti dinner and awards ceremony later. Parker does not take first place in the race, but wins an award for the coolest design – which Angela had helped him come up with.

*** Brennan spends the morning in her home office attempting to edit the final chapter of her latest book. After seven attempts, she gives up and takes a very cold shower. Then she heads to the Jeffersonian to get a head start on some Broadsky paperwork she was trying to put off till Monday. Later, she picks up Rebecca and they meet Booth and Parker at the Boy Scout Awards Dinner.

*** Angela and Hodgins practice Lamaze breathing techniques and relieve a supermarket of its entire Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby and New Your Super Fudge Chunk inventories. Hodgins contemplates creating a green glow-in-the-dark ice cream flavor and gets busy ordering shrimp on the Internet. Angela has a three hour long conversation on the phone with Roxy – just to catch up.

***Sweets spends the morning at the comic book store, then judges Karaoke try outs for a fundraiser at his church to be held that evening. He is flattered yet depressed when a 65-year-old woman insists on performing Rod Stewart's "If You Want My Body …" while sitting on his lap. Incidentally, Grandma didn't make the cut for the karaoke competition, but Sweets did agree to take her granddaughter out to lunch the following week.

***Dr. Soroyan spends the day in a red convertible with the top down traveling to a small town south of Ocean City with her favorite gynecologist.

MONDAY INTO THE EARLY HOURS OF TUESDAY MORNING:

***Booth gets a call from Hannah and meets her at the Diner for a "talk," learning she is returning to Afghanistan and has some intriguing information she wants to share about Brennan. Later, Brennan drives him to the airport, agrees to be at his apartment when his tv arrives that evening, and gives him the baby blue footies. Included with the footies is a private note from Bones to Booth that makes him smile. He puts it in his wallet for safe keeping.

Once in Philadelphia, Booth meets his host, Dr. Enrique Larrinaga, and has dinner with him and his wife, Carmen. After dinner Booth and Larrinaga attend a Flyers game - which gets interrupted by a call from Brennan, who is babysitting Parker overnight, looking for the tent. Back in his hotel room, he calls Brennan, but hangs up before she answers. She calls him back, they talk for two hours, then he goes to sleep.

*** Brennan sees Booth and Hannah deep in intimate conversation at the diner and is shaken. She confides in Angela that nothing happened when she and Booth spent the night in his bed on Thursday, that she thinks Both is reconciling with Hannah, and that she may be entering menopause prematurely. Angela gives her a run down on what passion really is that makes Brennan weak in the knees (etc) and assures her there's nothing going on between Booth and Hannah. And that she's too young for the baby factory to be closing up shop.

Brennan, while at Booth's apartment to sign for the tv, learns that Parker needs a sitter for the night and offers to do the job. The two impersonate Booth, eat at the diner, make Bananas Foster for dessert, and attempt to sleep on the uncomfortable living room floor in the tent. Once Parker passes out, Brennan transfers him to his own bed. Brennan, finding she has forgotten to bring pajamas, takes Booth's tee shirt from his laundry basket and loses herself in memories of the night and morning she spent in bed with Booth. As her memories bring her to the moment the two jumped out of bed to begin their day, the phone rings and it's Booth, but he hangs up before she gets to it. She calls him back and they talk for two hours. She tells him Parker is lonely for how it used to be when he was the center of his parent's attention – but doesn't feel lonely when he's with Brennan and Booth at the same time because they always make him the center of attention.

We join Brennan now right before she receives that hang-up call from Booth (though we've already read about it from Booth's side of the story) and we continue to learn what she was doing immediately before the phone rings – other than reliving Thursday night and Friday morning …


	29. When In Doubt, Verschränkung

**Chapter 29. When in Doubt, Verschränkung It Out**

Reliving the seductive memories of her first night and morning in Booth's bed has had a sedative affect on Brennan. As she has done several times since Friday morning, she clings to those moments before their phones interrupted them. Once again she plays that game of "What if … " with herself. Lying in his bed, drunk on his scent, his tee shirt touching her skin, she closes her eyes and it is as if he is there with her once again.

Creating her own ending to the memory, she picks up right before the phones ring and sees herself sliding her leg over his hip bone in one fluid movement while he reaches around her waist and pulls him to her, their bellies and chests now right up against each other.

As she reaches for him, he brushes her hair out of her face, and she can feel his weight shifting onto her … and then she hears, "I'm hot blooded, check it and see. I've got a fever of a hundred and three …"

She is startled and disoriented by the intrusion. Is this an uninvited fantasy-induced audio illusion – or is the phone really ringing? Coming to the conclusion that the phone is, indeed really ringing, she sits up and runs around the room, looking for her pants. Last she remembers, her cell was in the back pocket.

Having located the pants, she yanks them off the floor and chases the cell as it falls out of the pocket and bounces toward the bathroom. Scooping the phone off the carpet, she continues her trajectory and stumbles onto the tile floor of the bathroom, only now becoming aware of how relaxed her limbs had been and how sleepy she now was. Lying on an Alpha males' bed, in a shirt laced with his pheromones, fantasizing about removing said shirt in a moment of passion and in the presence of the actual Alpha male, she noticed, has the tendency to render useless the limbs and/or brain of any sexually mature human female of the species, right?

Sitting on the toilet, her panties around her ankles, she stares at the phone. Has she imagined him singing, or did the phone really ring? She touched a couple of buttons and found the call history. There it was – "Booth (xxx) xxx-xxxx 12:11 AM."

Walking out of the bathroom a moment later, she depresses the callback option on her cell and listens to it ring. Almost immediately, she hears Booth's pick-up, "Bones! What are you doing calling me so late at night?"

At the sound of his voice a searing and ineffable sensation shoots through her chest. Is this another symptom of perimenopause, she wonders, making a mental note to mention this to her physician tomorrow morning.

Over two hours later, Brennan hangs up the phone, a satisfied smile on her face, and stretches languorously across the bed. Noticing that though her body is completely relaxed, her cheeks are on fire, warm to the touch. Dang that Mother Nature, she curses, then: What am I going to do with myself if he gets back together with Hannah? Once again she changes her mind about which would be more painful for her – no longer having him in her life, or watching him share his life with someone else. For tonight, she decides, he is mine.

After her parents abandoned her at sixteen, she used to walk her old neighborhood after school. She would convince herself that at any moment she could walk up her old front steps and into the house to find her mother in the kitchen, the television on, paperwork spread all over the kitchen table, and her mom munching on a cookie while staring off into space trying to find the perfect words to further whatever cause she was writing about.

As she would near the house, she would ignore the different name on the mailbox, the dog leash hanging over the porch railing, the new sand box and swing set in the yard, the Big Wheel on the sidewalk. She always experienced a magical, yet frightening sensation that her mother really was inside that house, just as she always had been.

As long as Brennan did not step onto the porch or knock on the front door, the possibility existed, for her, that her mother – really – could be there. Throughout her life since that time, Brennan was able to use this exercise to get her through situations whose outcomes or realities were too difficult for her to process.

She acknowledged that this mind game was classic Verschränkung – and that she used it gratuitously – but as long as she was consciously aware she was doing it, she was not concerned with losing her grip on reality.

In a high school physics course, she learned that she wasn't the first person to play this game. An Austrian physicist called Erwin Schrödinger created a paradoxical thought experiment that was then coined "Schrödinger's cat." The thought experiment presents a cat, sealed within a cardboard box, that might be alive or dead, and is, in fact, BOTH, as long as the box remains unopened. Schrödinger called this paradox, "Verschränkung."

As she slides beneath the cool sheets and begins to drift off to sleep in the afterglow of a highly satisfying conversation with the man she loves, she decides that until Booth tells her he is getting back together with Hannah, nothing has changed between them. This renders the previous concern, no Booth versus Booth with Hannah, moot, or immaterial. Since it is moot, she need not delve into the inevitable emotional … bla bla bla … she tells herself, as she sends up a heart-felt thank you to Erwin Schrödinger.


	30. Save Send Delete

**Chapter 30. Save. Send. Delete.**

Parker wakes up to find himself back in his own bed. On automatic pilot, he heads across the living room, through Booth's room and into his private bathroom. Without turning the light on, he stands in front of the toilet bowl, lifts the cover and the seat, and attempts this task - which is difficult at best when he's awake, and nearly impossible when he's mostly asleep. He doesn't care. He's tired. He scrunches his closed eyes together, trying to concentrate. As his body relaxes, he hears the tinkling sound of liquid hitting liquid. "He shoots, he scores!" he mumbles. As he raises his fist in victory he notices a soundless split second mid stream. He knows what this means – apparently he scored both inside and outside the goal. Eyes still closed, he drops his arm, creating a Morse code of tinkling and non-tinkling sounds. Rubbing his eyes in the dark, he puffs out four cry-like sighs. Dad is gonna kill me, he tells himself. Better clean it up.

Flipping on the light and reaching for the toilet paper, he's discouraged to find that he's gotten stuff everywhere. He couldn't have spread it around more if he'd gotten straight out of the tub without drying of and sat down on a closed lid. They should really make these things bigger, he thinks, and tells himself to remember this in the morning so he can start designing his own toilet. It should probably be about half the size of the tub, he surmises. Hmmmm.

Filling the bowl with soggy toilet paper, he sets about the task of washing his hands with soap and water. Sometimes he skips this part, but under the circumstances …

So intent is he on the task at hand that he doesn't realize, until his hand is about to hit the light switch, that the soft bathroom light perfectly illuminates Bone's face and upper torso as she lay on her side sleeping soundly in his father's bed. Wow, he thinks. She looks like a princess. A real live princess. He wonders if he could kiss her without her waking up. He stands in the bathroom doorway trying to figure this out.

Her skin looks so soft, and he wishes she and his dad would get in love and marry so he could come live with them all the time. Mom could move in too. They'd get a bigger house. With a pool. And some horses. Close to Dad's work and to school, so they could have lunch together every day. And he could bring Bones, if she's not working with some guts and stuff. Well, even if she was working with guts and stuff.

As he's looking at her, he moves a little closer, careful not to cast his own shadow on her face. He notices she's not moving. What if she's not breathing? What if she's dead? Her skin is very white. What if she had too much sugar from those banana thingys last night and she's totally gagged in her sleep?

Parker panics and doesn't know what to do. He doesn't want to touch her. That would be gross. He's never seen a dead body before – except for that finger he once found – but that finger didn't have a face – and wasn't from someone he knew. This may scar me for life, he screams inside his head – using the phrase his mom used when he walked in on her and her boyfriend having a tickle fight on the living room floor one night. But he hadn't developed any scars from that. This was a whole different matter though. This could cause some serious skin damage – if she really is dead.

As he's looking around frantically, trying to figure out what to do – he spies her cell phone on the bedside table. He picks it up and can't see what the buttons mean. He pushes one and a flash goes off, blinding him. He drops it on the floor and scrambles to pick it back up. When he grabs it, Booth's face appears on the screen with the options: Call, Text, Send Photo, Cancel. God! That flash had been a photo! He'd taken a photo! He was in trouble now – Dad strictly forbade him from playing around with adult things that didn't belong to him, and now he'd TAKEN A PHOTO. OF BONES. ON HER OWN CAMERA. If ever he were in deep doo doo, it was now!

More nervous about Bones being dead – or worse yet, finding out he's taken her picture - than about Booth punishing him, he depresses the "Call" button and prays to high heaven that the phone doesn't make any noise when it rings. Booth answers groggily on the sixth ring, "Bones – miss me already?" he asks playfully, expecting a completely different response than he gets.

"Daddy," Parker chokes out in a stage whisper. "It's me."

Disoriented because the voice he hears is not at all what he expects, Booth stares into the night with a perplexed expression on his face. This voice is a harsh whisper of a …

"Parker, where's Bones? Is she okay?" he shouts as he jumps straight out of bed, his heart thundering like Secretariat's hooves sprinting toward the finish line, winning the 1973 Kentucky Derby. "PARKER, TALK TO ME? WHERE IS BONES?"

"Dad, she's here in bed. She's fine, well maybe not fine. I don't know! He tries to remain calm, but is overwhelmed by all the adrenaline coursing through his small body and now the panic he has caused his father. He begins to choke up, trying not to cry. As a result, he can't get any sounds to come out of his mouth. Frustrated and distraught, he runs from Booth's bedroom and throws himself on his bed. He lets himself cry into his pillow, then tries to dry his face, smearing tears and saliva all over Brennan's phone – which he just now realizes is still connected to Booth on the other end. "Dad – "

"Park, I'm here. What's going on? Why are you on Bones' phone?" Booth says gently. It is obvious to him that Parker is quite upset and unable to communicate until he calms down. "It's okay, pal. You can tell me," he says, trying to sound soothing.

"Dad, I did something bad. And I think …" All of a sudden he's not sure which thing is worse – taking a photo of Bones without her permission, on her phone – or suspecting that she might actually be dead.

He puts the phone to his ear, not even caring that he's now smearing slime on his own cheek. He's just relieved that Booth is still on the other side.

"Parker, breathe. Breathe, Parker," Booth says, coaching him to lower his heart rate enough to be able to talk. "Good. Good. Breathe. Now tell me what is going on. Can you do that, Park?"

"Dad," says Parker between deep breaths. "Dad – I didn't mean to do it. I just thought Bones might be dead and I panicked."

"WHAT?

"I don't really think she's dead. Well, I did. But that really doesn't make sense, right? Because you told me people die for a reason – and there's no reason Bones should be dead. I mean, it's not like anything happened tonight …"

"Parker, where is this coming from?" Booth is thoroughly confused.

"Dad, I used your bathroom and had to turn the light on to clean up the floor around the toilet and before I knew it the light was shining on Bones' face. She looks all white and she's not moving. I thought maybe she was dead."

"Parker – she's just sleeping! I guarantee you, she's just asleep."

"How do you know?"

"I just know, pal," Booth assures him. "Bones is fine."

"She just wasn't moving … and her skin is so white … and I couldn't see her heart beating or anything."

"Park, if it will make you feel better …"

"I am NOT going to touch her, Dad, just in case …"

"Parker. Go get one square of toilet paper and hold it up in front of her nose – but don't touch her nose."

"What? Dad, that's silly."

"If you want to know if she's alive, hold the toilet paper square in front of her nose and her breath will make it move away from her nose."

"Will you stay right here?"

"I'll be right here when you get back, but I'm telling you, she's fine."

"Okay – I can do that." Parker lays the phone on his pillow and leaves to try this breath test on Brennan.

"Dad. She's alive!"

"Told you."

"I am so relieved! Whew!"

"Okay – it's – what time is it?"

"I don't know."

"Whatever it is, it's still early … get back in bed and get some sleep."

"Dad …"

"Yeah Parker?"

"There's something else …"

"What?" Booth says suspiciously. "What else?"

"Well, when I thought she might be dead, I picked up her cell phone to call you – cuz I was freaked out."

"Yeah - ?"

"And when I picked up the phone – which I had to do in order to call you, Dad, even though it's not my phone – but we don't have another one here …"

"Parker, what did you do?"

"When I picked up the phone, a flash went off – I guess I took a picture of Bones. And now she'll know because it's on her own phone. What am I going to do? I don't want her thinking I played with her phone. And taking apicture of her sleeping – that's creepy. Right?"

"Ohhhhhhh, Parker," started Booth rubbing his eyes. "It's okay – there should be a delete button on the photo file. She'll never know the photo was even there."

Booth walked him through some steps to find the photo. Before he had him delete the photo, he said, "Parker, is there an option to SEND the photo?"

"Yes … SAVE, SEND, DELETE."

"Parker, send that photo to me – I just want to see for myself that she's not dead."

"Okay, but would that be creepy? Since she doesn't know? Isn't that wrong?"

"Parker, it's kind of like detective work. If anything were to happen, we now have proof that at – 5:04 AM," he says looking at the red numbers on the hotel clock, "Dr. temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian was still alive."

"Okay. That makes sense to me." Parker pushes the correct button to send the photo.

"Now DELETE the photo," advises Booth.

"Okay."

"Is it gone?"

"I can't see it anywhere, Dad."

"Okay – now get back into bed!" Booth says, yawning.

"Okay. Good night. I love you."

"I love you, pal – see you in a couple days."

Parker decides he should probably return Brennan's phone to her bedside table before he goes back to bed. Once he turns off the bathroom light and places the phone where he found it – he's overcome with relief. Instead of going back to his own room, he goes to the other side of Booth's bed and climbs in behind Brennan, snuggling up to her backside. "She did tell me I could sneak in here if I woke up in the middle of the night," he says to himself, reassuring himself that this is okay.

Which, of course, it is.


	31. I Seriously Need More Sleep

**Chapter 31. I Seriously Need More Sleep**

The sun peaks through the East window shades as Brennan's eyes open after only five hours of rest. As she thinks about the timing of getting herself ready and getting Parker off to school, she becomes aware of two very cold feet tucked between her calves and a thin little arm which is conspicuously protruding from her arm pit. She looks at his little boy hand. This is all she can see of him as he is behind her and quite a bit smaller than she is. She brings his dangling hand to her face and smells his little boy smell. Almost as intoxicating as the scent of a larger Booth, but in a completely different way. This Booth smells sweet and playful and funny and innocent and endearing.

Few people are aware of this fact - Brennan likes to keep it well hidden - but Brennan knows herself to be quite proficient at creating fun. She will never win any awards for frivolity, but fun, not that is her forte. Booth had begun discover this side of her – a side which surprised him over and over again - during the last couple of years as her partner. Parker simply brought it out in her.

Suppressing an impish grin and making no sound at all, Brennan separates Parker's index fingers from the rest and puts it between her teeth, giving him a playful chomp.

"Hey!" she hears squealed from behind her. "You bit me!" Parker retracts his feet like the tape from one of those rolled-up metal-encased industrial tape measures.

"I was just testing your bone for something," she answers, rolling over and almost squishing his miniature man body.

"Give me back my hand, Hannibal the Cannibal!" he shouts, giggling but also a little scared.

"What did you call me?" she asks, releasing his hand, her eyes opening wide. "Was that a Silence of the Lambs reference?" she asks, acting shocked.

"I thought you didn't watch movies, Bones. Dad says you are way behind the times in your movie trivia – I didn't think you'd know about Hannibal the Cannibal."

"A man who eats people? Who could resist a movie like that?" she replies. "Well, your dad is right. I am not easily entertained by the banal productions aggrandized by contemporary pop culture. I prefer the classics."

"I heard Dad tell Mom you can be a classic pain in the," interjects Parker, recognizing the word he recently learned the meaning of during a conversation about old cars and old books with Booth. "I thought that just meant you are super old."

"Interesting. I'll just file that little tidbit of information for now. Parker, another time we will have a conversation about MY favorite classics. Right now, we have to get you dressed, fed, and off to school. Where do you keep your school clothes?"

"In the bedroom, of course. Where'd you think, silly?"

"Park Booth, I assure you I have been anointed with the power of pseudo parenthood and I am not beyond a little corporeal punishment for impertinent children."

"What?"

"Go get your clothes and GET DRESSED!" Parker reluctantly comes out from under the warm sheets and heads for the door leading into the living room. "What do you usually eat for breakfast?"

"At Mom's house or here?"

"Here, of course."

"Dad makes me waffles. Or eggs. Or Lucky Charms in milk."

"Hm. How about we get dressed real quick and go back to the diner?"

"If we must," Parker says with a grin as he turns and bounds toward his bedroom.

On the way to the Royal Diner, Brennan's phone rings. She pushes a button on the dashboard and says, "Hello?" It's Rebecca.

"Hello, Tempe. It's Rebecca. How did last night go?"

"Hi Rebecca – everything went well, I thought. What did you think, Parker? Just speak out loud and you mom will be able to hear you."

"Mom, we had fun. I got to help Bones make Fostered Banabas. I mean, bananas. It's a dessert – very yummy."

"Did you behave yourself?"

"Of course, Mom!"

"Are you ready for school? Did you pack a lunch? Tempe I completely forgot about the lunch …" Rebecca apologizes.

"Not a problem, Rebecca," assures Brennan. "We are already on the way to school," she says, winking at Parker. Rebecca doesn't have to know they will have eaten two meals in a row at the diner. "If you aren't out of the hospital by lunchtime, I can stop by the school and bring him a sandwich from the cafeteria at the Jeffersonian."

"Are you sure?"

"Rebecca, it is no trouble at all. I'd keep Parker for another day if I could," she ads, smiling at Parker.

"Actually, my boyfriend is being released this afternoon around five o'clock. Would it be at all possible if Parker could stay with you until I can come pick him up? School gets out at 2:55. He'll have to be picked up from school."

"Sure, I think we can find some things around the Jeffersonian for him to entertain himself with for a couple hours," smiling at Parker again. The Jeffersonian is one of his favorite places to visit, and she knows it.

"Tempe," begins Rebecca, "Can I ask you something in private?"

"Sure," says Brennan as she disconnects the cell from the speaker and holds it up to her ear.

"I really appreciate all you are doing for us. I don't know how I will ever repay you …"

"Rebecca, there really is no need …"

"I just can't thank you enough." She pauses, then "Can you just make sure he doesn't see anything gory at the Jeffersonian? No body parts – real or even just made of plastic or whatever it is you do your testing on. I just don't want him having nightmares or anything. He can be surprisingly squeamish …"

"I fully understand, Rebecca. Though you might be surprised at his tolerance for disembodied biological materials … children are natural scientists and many of them simply find biology fascinating."

"Just the same, I'd prefer Parker not be exposed to all that right now."

"Of course. You are his mother. I will respect your wishes. Coincidentally, we are in between cases and the lab is free of remains anyway. What time will you come by the Jeffersonian to pick him up?"

"Around 5:30, I suspect."

"Shall I feed him dinner?"

"No, that won't be necessary, Tempe. We're going to take him to the diner since he didn't get to go there Sunday like he usually does with Seeley."

"Oh," says Brennan. "That will be a nice surprise. We will see you around 5:30."

Brennan hangs up and tells Parker they are going somewhere else for breakfast. "Have you ever been to the International House of Pancakes?"

"I LOVE pancake places! Except I hate it when there's syrup on the seat and it gets stuck on your pants."

"I agree. We'll have them wipe the seats down before we'll agree to sitting in them."

Brennan feels a cool dampness on the side of her face and puts her hand to her cheek. Noticing it is a little slimey, she picks up her cell and looks at the display. Something shiny glares at her from between the tiny buttons. Did I drop this thing in the sink, she wonders. I seriously need more sleep.

**Ineffability** is concerned with ideas that cannot or should not be expressed in spoken words (or language in general), often being in the form of a taboo or incomprehensible term. This property is commonly associated with philosophy, aspects of existence, and similar concepts that are inherently "too great", complex, or abstract to be adequately communicated. In addition, illogical statements, principles, reasons, and arguments are intrinsically ineffable along with impossibilities, contradictions, and paradoxes. Terminology describing the nature of experience cannot be properly conveyed in dualistic symbolic language; it is believed that this knowledge is only held by the individual from which it originates. Profanity and vulgarisms can easily and clearly be stated, but by those who consider they should not be said, they are considered ineffable. Thus, one method of describing something that is ineffable is by using apophasis, i.e. describing what it is _not_, rather than what it _is_.


	32. All That and a Bag of Fritatta

Chapter 32. All That and a Bag of Fritatta

Booth steps out of the shower, laughing. Parker's antics became more and more humorous each time he thinks about them. Poor kid. As far as he knows, Bones has no idea what had all gone down just feet from her sleeping form. One day, some day, they would tell her about it and the three of them would share in the humor. At least he hoped so.

Dressed and ready for his pick-up, Booth grabs his keys, his phone, his wallet, and yesterday's spare change, plunking each into a fresh suit pocket. Reconsidering, he pulls his cell back out of his pocket. Pushing buttons, he smiles as the image of Bones blinks onto the display.

Like Parker had said, her eyes were closed. Her skin was flawless and bright white in the flash of the camera. She lay on her side, her face on the pillow, her hand tucked under the pillow, her hair a disheveled mess of chestnut. "Wow," he says out loud, shaking his head. He has a pang of guilt. Bones might consider it an invasion of privacy for him to have this photo without her knowledge. "I am going t have to tell her about this. When she's in a good mood," he decides.

"Wow," he shakes his head once more and sighs. At times like this – seeing her face, looking at her in still life, he actually feels a little … he hates to admit it, but … intimidated.

How can she be all this? How can she be brilliant and beautiful and not dating a millionaire or a king of some foreign country? If she weren't hidden away at the Jeffersonian, she'd be more exposed to that type of man – and pursued doggedly, he was certain. "Maybe he and the Jeffersonian were holding Bones back," he thinks out loud as he closes the hotel room door behind him.

He'd expressed this exact sentiment to Dr. Gordon Gordon Wyatt the last time he'd visited the therapist-turned-gourmet chef in his kitchen at Le Gourmand. Gordon Gordon had a way of seeing what was going on in Booth's head and providing insight that made sense.

"You're not of royal lineage, a Nobel Prize winner, a hotel magnate, a movie star. You didn't go to private schools or study law at Harvard. And yet … she chooses to stay with you. How do you explain that?"

"I can't," replied Booth, shrugging his shoulders, exasperated. "That's why I'm stuck. What if we go for a … more personal relationship, and something better comes along for her? I don't have a real good track record for keeping a woman's attention past a certain point," Booth finishes as he flips a coin and catches it. Flips the coin and catches it mid air. Pass-flips it across his fingers, heads, tails, heads, tails, and back again. Bored with the coin, drops it back in his pocket. He then grabs a stainless steel spatula with a hard plastic handle and swipes it around like a sword, battling the invisible person to his left. He then flips imaginary pancakes over onto the metal surface between Gordon and himself.

"What are you making?" Booth asks, watching Gordon Gordon's dexterous handiwork.

""Frittata. I'm making a concoction of my own design. Yes, Dr. Brennan could have her pick of any of those impressive Lotharios. Granted, given the opportunity, each of them would most likely make fools of themselves in pursuit of capturing her heart," stated Gordon mincing scallions, fresh garlic, red and yellow peppers in an orderly and deliberate chop, chop, chop.

"But do you think that is what she wants, Agent Booth? If she's as brilliant as you seem to be convinced she is, don't you think she knows she could have her pick of lovers?" Gordon asks, pausing as he usually does for enlightenment to descend upon Booth. He chooses six more vegetables from a colorful pile of freshly washed produce.

Booth's face betrays a hint of panic, so Gordon continues, choosing another knife from an impressive array hanging on the wall behind him. "She already has everything she wants – I dare say, everything she needs, in her own estimation. She loves her work at the Jeffersonian and that is where she feels she belongs." He adds the newly chopped vegetables to the the scallion mixture.

"You aren't holding her back. She's exactly where she chooses to be. She scoffs at pompous displays of grandiosity, considers them vulgar. She has experienced first hand how puffery falls flat in the face of what really matters. No. For Dr. Brennan, what is at issue, what she seeks in a man, is character, moral fiber, loyalty, reliability, intelligence, and determination. And the dogged pursuit of that which she holds most dear."

"Which is?" Booth had flipped an imaginary pancake up in the air and let it fall to the ground. He caught himself stooping to scrape it off the floor.

"The sanctity of life."

"Right … I knew that."

"Not just for the lives of others. She has shown repeatedly that it is the sanctity of life that she preserves in her work as an anthropologist. She gives names, histories, and a sort of – life - back to those who have had it taken from them. She provides answers, closure, so loved ones, and even history itself, can continue, even flourish." Gordon paused, simultaneously jostling a sauté pan full of color and butter, and watched Booth's face once again.

He sees a light bulb go on. Booth was getting it …

"I am not the one who figured this out, old boy," he continues finally. In fact, you are the one who identified all of this for me. I'm simply confirming what you already know."

"I did?" asks Booth.

"Yes, perhaps not in so many words … but, yes, on every count."

"Go on," urges Booth.

" Another piece of the pie – pardon the pun – she holds dear is reverence for her own life – the continual affirmation that her own life is worthwhile. That, despite her childhood experiences, she is worth being known. And being known, she can be loved, cherished – despite any number of unsavory details in her past. Being loved, she can risk trusting. Trusting requires risk. You and I take it for granted that those we love will always be there – within reason. This has not been her experience." Gordon, a compassionate expression on his face, saw the effect this had on Booth. Booth stood, hands in his pockets, staring at the floor, deep in thought.

"And so, being the brilliant woman she is," Gordon continues, "she has spent a lifetime constructing a story of herself as impervious, constant, unchanging, self-sufficient."

"But Bones believes that everything changes, evolves. She's said it may times," argues Booth.

"That may be so, but what if she suspects that she is incapable of evolution?" He lets that sink in. "It wouldn't be hard for her to prove that she is. We all cling to beliefs which we can then find "proof" of – or at least that is how we interpret the signs the universe sends us. As proof. Humans are meaning-making machines. We twist information to support out theses, our hypothesis. We are quite convincing – especially without a moderator inside our heads helping us sort it all out."

"Isn't that what you shrinks are for?"  
>"Precisely, my dear boy. We question the logic of madmen and kings. The constant in humanity is that our brains are all made the same way – and fire the same way. Rarely does a unique thought appear on the horizon. Every once in a great while, a unique person comes along who possess an extraordinary perspective. Those are your game-changers. Aristotle, Newton, Shakespeare, Bell, Pasteur, and your very own Michael Jackson and Bill Gates, Henry Ford. You get the idea."<p>

"And how did we get from Bones' story to Aristotle Shakespeare?"

"I do have a point, Agent Booth if you'll just hand in there. There are very few original thinkers in this world. When their ideas become known, they become old ideas by the very nature of being shared."

"Ipso Facto Colombo Oreo, Bones may have a complicated story, but it IS possible to figure her out and help her to feel known. And not abandoned. Because others before her have been through this."

"You are brilliant."

"Okay. So …."

"So, what prince or millionaire has proven to Bones that she can be known.?"

"I don't get it," says Booth.

"Any that you know of?"

"No, who would have the patience?" he asks, making a sarcastic sound that at a different time might have been a chuckle.

"Precisely. And how long have you been partners?"

"Six l-o-n-g years."

"And you have been there, patiently, allowing her to suspect that her story just might be rubbish. That the story is just that, Agent Booth – a story. You put that story - oh, how do you Americans put it – oh yes … on its ear. You challenge her assumptions about herself. And you do it – not by pointing it out to her, but through who you are with her. Through doing whatever it is that you do that makes her able to safely question that story. She's learned to lean on you. And when she falls, she knows that in you she has a safe place to fall."

"Hmmmm," Booth made a sound, but said nothing, a bit embarrassed by this talk of something he holds very private.

Gordon continues, "Naturally, given her past, she's also afraid of losing that. That is why she comes close, backs away, comes close, backs away. She hopes by being in close proximity to you, she can figure out what is true, what is real. By watching you. The rub, if you will, is that she could figure it out – but miss the key ingredient – interdependence, rather than independence – she could end up right where she started."

"But you can't do it alone," Booth argues.

Gordon Gordon stands behind his sauté pan and continues looking at Booth, not responding to Booth's last comment.

"Now, how about some sweet pepper frittata? This is going to knock your multicolored, individuality-asserting, rebel socks off."


	33. Carmen Feeds Booth, Larrinag

**Chapter 33. Carmen Feeds Booth, Larrinaga gets award, Booth Back to Airport**

Larrinaga pulls up to the hotel entrance, hops out and greets Booth as he comes through the door. "Good morning, fellow Flyers fan. Wasn't that an awesome game? Thanks for giving me the excuse to go see it! Here, let me get that door for you."

Both had forgotten how much this guy could say in one breath. Laughing, he says, "And a good morning to you, my friend. Where we going for breakfast?"

"My house."

"What? Won't the kids still be in bed? Do we have enough time to eat and get to the ground-breaking?"

"Carmen and the kids have been up since 6:30. She's been making waffles, scrambled eggs with cheese, and bacon for twenty minutes already. She'll kill me if I don't bring you over to help get rid of them."

"Well, okay – with Special Agent Seeley Booth on board, no waffle is safe – no leftovers, guaranteed!"

"Excellent!" Then Larrinaga takes out his cell, pushes one button, and jubilantly announces, "We have lift-off. The eagle has landed and the package is in transit."

Booth smiles at the way Carmen and Larrinaga communicate. Their euphemisms the result of years of communication and the exercising of a shared sense of humor. He and Brennan have the same thing in small ways. Her making mistakes when she tries to use pop vernacular. He repeating those same mistakes back to her later in acknowledgement that they are sharing a private joke.

"Un-huh. Un-huh." Larrinaga pauses, listening to the voice on the other end of the phone. "I'll see. Love you, too. Be there in five." Larrinaga snaps the cell shut and asks, "So, how do you feel about grilled salmon covered in a delicate lemon pepper marinade?"

"For breakfast?" chuckles Booth.

"For dinner, Seeley. Carmen is going to attempt to get you to stay one more day. She says I don't have enough friends and she enjoys watching the man chat we apparently use, whatever that means. I'll warn you Seal," he continues, shortening Booth's first name. "Carmen is very hard to say no to."

"Enrique, you know I would love to – but I have to get back home tonight. I promise I'll come back out soon though. I'd love for you to meet my partner – You'd get a kick out of her."

"A kick, huh?

"Yep, she's a real kick in the pants."

"A kick in the pants …"

"Yeah, just wait, you'll see what I mean."

"And she's just a partner?"

"Yeah, here," starts Booth as he reaches into his pocket and brings out his cell. "I have a picture of her." When Booth sees the photo of Bones sleeping, he reconsiders. "On second thought, this might not be appropriate."

"WHAT? You have an **_IN_**APPROPRIATE picture of your female partner on your cell phone? You didn't say she was your girlfriend, Seeley."

"Well, she's not exactly," Booth says a bit sheepishly.

"What kind of partners do you FBI Agents get out in D.C.?"

"Enri," Booth says, making it sound like HENRY without the H, "It's kind of a funny story. You're a dad, I think you'll appreciate this …"

Booth recounts the events of the early morning, finishing up as Larrinaga pulls into the driveway of his house.

"My god," says Larrinaga, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I haven't heard a good story like that in quite a while!" After a moment of silence on their way into the house, they both crack up again. Larrinaga laughing and coughing, Booth sporting a very wide grin.

"Bones still doesn't know about it – but she will. I may end up with a black eye because of it."

"Oh, she's a bit of a force to be reckoned with, huh?"

"She's a force alright. You don't know the half of it!"

Gorged on breakfast food and thinking a nap sounds really good, Booth accompanies Larrinaga to a large grassy field on the North end of campus, right behind the Science and Engineering building. Chairs are already set up for the event, and a brand new shovel with a red, white, and blue ribbon tied in a bow and affixed below the handle sits on a small table behind the podium. These things usually bore Booth, but this one he thought he'd enjoy.

Larrinaga had been called upon by the FBI to help identify the digital source of the Anthrax-laden letters. In 2001, the killer had used the US Postal system to mail spore-laden letters killing five people, sickening 17 others and leading to billions of dollars in government and private spending aimed at defending the country against biological attacks. It was Larrinaga's pursuit of every detail and his ability to recognize a far-flung pattern by looking at the results from a distance that no one else thought could possibly amount to anything, that cracked the case wide open. A modest man, he had refused commendation. He was just doing his patriotic duty, he had said. The FBI had called upon him twice after that initial case and he was again key to the capture of unlawful people.

As the Anthrax case came to a close after almost a decade of investigation, three victims' relatives created the Stevens Morris Nguyen Foundation, with the first recipient already chosen – Dr. Enrique Larrinaga. The award stipulated that the funds be used to further scientific research in the discipline pertinent to the apprehension of instigators of chemical warfare.

This morning, Booth was present to deliver a plaque, a check, and a heart-felt handshake to Larrinaga on behalf of the United States Government. Larrinaga would then have the honor of being the first one to put the shovel to the ground on the site of the future Stevens Morris Nguyen Center which would more than double the space and technological equipment for the School of Astronomy and Physics.

The ceremony over and the cake eaten, Booth and Larrinaga headed back to their car. The juicy aroma of wet grass and fresh dirt lingering in the air around his face, Booth took a moment to thank Larrinaga for his fine work and for his friendship.

"Please give my apologies to Carmen. I do promise to come back soon for a social visit," explained Booth.

"That's right, leave me alone to disappoint Carmen. She'll be crushed."

"I'm sure she'll survive, my friend. To help you soften the blow, I ordered flowers to be sent to your house this afternoon. It's really as a thank you for her, both of your, warm hospitality."

"Seal, how did you know she loves flowers?"

"It's one of my FBI super powers."

"Can you share with a brother?"

"Okay, Enri. I saw her flower garden out the back window. Deduction: she loves flowers. I noticed you have four rose bushes, and they are all red. She appreciates richness, hence the deep color of the flowers. It is likely that if she loves vibrant colors, she also enjoys vibrant aromas. The bouquet I ordered will be full of yellow roses, the most fragrant of the roses."

"Well, I can already tell you, you couldn't have made a more perfect gesture. And she does love flowers."

"Bingo, Baby. Now, can you drop me at the airport? I have a flight to catch."

Settled into his airplane seat - first class, of course, thanks to Sharon, his favorite check-in attendant who had booked every one of his flights as first class yesterday, Booth reaches in his brief case for the blue footies.

"Sir, are you Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI?" he hears coming from a very tall fine featured- African American man who could have played linebacker for the Dolphins.

"Who wants to know?" The conservative black suit and crisp white shirt gave nothing away. "Looks like you're from the Men in Black squad, pal. Do they make you wear that or is that by choice, because, I gotta tell you - color is what the ladies go for ..." Booth is irritated by the intrusion ... and by the fact that he almost got caught slipping baby blue girl foots on his hands and feet.

Not cracking a smile, the man leans forward. "Sir, were you on the campus of Haverford College early this morning for a ground-breaking?"

"Sounds to me like you already know the answer to that question. What's this about?"

"Agent Booth, while at the college and in the presence of 152 civilians, did you wear your piece, and do you have it with you now?"

"You know I did," Booth said, getting really irritated at this unexplained interruption of his first class trip back to the home and people he loves. "Now you better give me a satisfactory answer or you will be wearing your testicles in a bag strapped to your thigh ..."

"Agent Booth, unidentified remains have been found on the grounds of Haverford College. We just have a few questions we'd like to ask you. Please come with is, Special Agent Booth."

Booth looks at the man, purses his lips, and sighs an exasperated sigh. "This better god damned well be important, SIR, because you are interrupting a very important FBI case that we are on the verge of cracking wide open."

"I understand your frustration, sir. I am just following orders."

"Well follow this order: Make sure my belongings get off this plane and find their way to me within the hour!" says Both slipping his baggage claim ticket inside the man's shirt, between the buttons, then pressing down on it, hard.


	34. The Tables Are Turned

**Chapter 34. The Tables Are Turned**

"At some point one of you are going to have to tell me where we're going and what this truly is about," threatens Booth. "How about you, Milk Shake? Doing this job to feed your Ben & Jerry's habit?" His escorts remain impervious to Booth's jibes.

One large man on either side of him and two more large men following immediately behind, Booth is escorted into the security area at Philadelphia International Airport. Without ceremony, he is brought to what he would call an interrogation room.

"Sit, sir," says the mountain who had made initial contact back on the plane. "This might take just a little while. We have beverages, appetizers, a radio, a couch, a chair. We call this our hospitality suite. Please make yourself comfortable."

"Am I being accused of something? If you have a suspicion, or proof of something, arrest me – otherwise – let me go."

"We work for the same people you do, Agent Booth. I assure you all will become clear in a matter of time. Please make yourself comfortable."

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," he says with an ironic tone. "I'd like to make a phone call. They relieved me of all my possessions except my Tighty Whities before sticking me in this interrogation room."

"It's a hospitality suite, Agent Booth."

"Look, Pal," says Booth, surveying the room. "I've been in a lot of these rooms and I know what it is. You've got the double-sided observation window," Booth waves a greeting toward the window assuming someone higher up the food chain is observing from there. "You've got the video cameras inconspicuously placed around the room," as he says this he points out the five most visible ones, "and a lapel pin doubling as a small camera for recording up close anything I say or do," He steps forward and speaks directly into Mr. Tall and Dark's lapel. He takes the pen out of this guys shirt pocket and gives it a clear view of the inside of his mouth.

"You provide water GLASSES instead of paper or plastic cups," he continues, "so you can easily capture my finger prints. The temperature is high so I will eventually NEED that drink of water and will be compelled to touch one of those glasses. And then you will think you've got me."

"I assure you, sir, that I can provide something for you to arrest me for if the details of this detainment are not made clear to me within 15 minutes. And I'd like my gun back."

"You know that is not going to happen, Agent Booth. And hang tight. This will not take long."

Someone knocked on the door softly and entered carrying Booth's gun. She spoke directly to Tall and Dark. "No GSR on the barrel, sir, or the trigger, the hammer, the holster, or the coat. Plenty of fingerprints, however. This is indeed Special Agent Seeley Booth of the Washington D.C. FBI division. Here on official FBI business. Flew in yesterday, scheduled to fly back out … ten minutes ago. Would you like the details on his flights?" She hands the gun, holster, and coat to Tall and Dark.

What the hell is going on here, thinks Booth, only slightly concerned. It doesn't look like anyone was planning to plant something on him or involve him in something he would want nothing to do with. He just wants to get home to Parker – and to Bones, though she has her own house, of course.

Tall and Dark leaves the room with his female sidekick and Booth is alone. He notices that they left his coat and its contents on the interrogation table. They are watching me to see what I do. Who I call. He picks up the cell and dials Andrew at the FBI in D.C. "Andrew, listen carefully," he begins.


	35. Friends to the Rescue

**Chapter 35. Friends to the Rescue from Police and Toenail Polish**

"What do you mean they have him in custody back at the airport," Squeeks Larrinaga. "Seal takes people into custody – not the other way around! Besides I was with him the entire time he was here in Philly. The only time he was alone was in the middle of the night. And there is absolutely no reason to believe this death occurred last night – or last year, for Christ's sake! This is Bull Puckies!"

"Enrique, calm down. Sit down! Stop rubbing what you have left of your hair or you'll end up bald and I'll have to leave you." Carmen attempted to lighten the mood but it wasn't working.

"Carmen, I'm heading down there. They can arrest me too if they want to, but I'm not letting Seal deal with this alone." Larrinaga grabs his coat, his keys, slides on his Keens, and darts out the door almost knocking over his **friend and local law enforcement officer, Angelus Scarpeti.**

"Ang, what brings you here?" He says without slowing down on his path to his car.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth. I think we can get to the airport quicker if we use my siren and lights," he says jovially and opens the passenger door for Larrinaga to get in.

Larrinaga's eyes shoot open wide and he turns on his heal toward Angelus' Crown Victoria with the blue stripe down the sides and the cherries on top. And they are on their way.

"Thanks for coming to get me, buddy!" Booth says as he puts his suit coat back on and slaps Larrinaga on the back.

"So, I don't get it. Now we are working WITH them? They are the good guys?"

"Yep. That's how it goes when you're not inside your own jurisdiction. While here, I serve at the pleasure of the mayor of Philadelphia. Unless we can find some way this case crosses state lines, it remains here in Philly. But if there is any suspicion otherwise, it gets turned over to us – and we're off to the races!" Booth gets into the back seat of Angelus' Crown Victoria. "The good news is … that I get to see Carmen and eat her delightful food again. And you can bet I WILL be here for dinner as well."

Larrinaga and Angelus get into the front seats and slam the doors shut at the same time. For a moment, all three men are lost in thought. Then Larrinaga. From the front passenger's set, turns to face Booth. "The college is going to be under scrutiny, isn't it?"

"Well, most certainly. The body was found on school property. The likelihood that the answer to this mystery lies between the walls of Haverford College."

"And I will be a suspect?" Larrinaga was worried.

"Everyone will be suspect, Enri. The gardener, the janitor, all the teachers and students who had anything to do with that area of campus," explains Booth. "As far as a window of time for the murder, that can't be determined until the coroner does her work. Any news about that, Seargent Scarpeti?"

"It's Officer Scarpeti, sir. And no news from the coroner. He came to view the remains and left after five minutes. I haven't been told why."

"Hey, what was that deal all about back at the air port, Seal?"

"Oh, they were a bunch of suits just doing their job. Checking me out. Making sure I wasn't trouble. And holding onto me until they could exclude me as a suspect in this murder before I took off for places unknown," explains Booth. "They are probably pretty nice guys. No harm done."

"Angelus, instead of taking us over to Enri's, could you bring us to the campus crime scene?"

"You got it, boss," replied Angelus energetically as he put on the brakes, made an illegal U-turn right in the middle of the street, and flipped the button to turn on the cherries."

"Don't get much action around here, Angelus?" asks Booth sarcastically.

"Why would you say that, Agent Booth?"

"Oh, never mind, Angelus. Just making conversation here. Carry on. Don't let me disturb you." Booth sits back in the back seat of the Crown Victoria and relaxes for a moment.

Booth pulls his wallet out of his back pocket without even thinking about it. Before he realizes what he's doing, he notices he has Bones' footie note in his hand. Looking at the note, he lays it on the seat beside him. He reaches into his opposite pocket and pulls out his cell. Flipping it open, he scrolls down to PHOTOS and pulls up the last one taken. There she is. Asleep. In his bed. Beautiful. And here beside him, he has her note. He feels like a high school kid with a crush on a cheerleader two years his senior. Today her note seems more precious, more serious. In conjunction with this photo, the note feels ethereal.

"Hey guys, have you ever heard the word "ethereal?" Booth shouts toward his companions in the front seat.

"Sure!"

"Yeah"

"Know what it means?" Booth challenges them.

"I used to."

"Can't say as I remember exactly, why?"

"This week I've been trying to increase my vocabulary. Ethereal was Saturday's word. It means, extremely delicate and light in a way that seems too perfect for this world." He pauses, staring out the window, note in one hand, cell photo in the other. "What do you think about that?"

"I think it is sweet, Seal. Sounds like you've got a certain partner on the mind."

"Geez," Angelus begins. "There's gotta be some tail involved somewhere. No real man improves his vocabulary for himself! I think you both need to grow a pair or you may wake up one morning with your toenails painted and a tampon jammed up your nose. Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"

"Got a couple issues, there, Angelus?" asks Booth, teasing him good naturedly.

"Married at seventeen," Angelus submits. "Five baby girls by the time I'm twenty-five. I live in a vat of female hormones. I gotta do all I can to maintain, know what I mean? And I do NOT want to improve my vocabulary! Or get in touch with my inner child or my feminine side or what ever the $&%*#&%."

"Angelus," begins Booth. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. And don't let no one tell you no different, my man. BE STRONG IN WHO YOU ARE!"

All three men in the car break out laughing till they cough.

"This conversation never took place," is the last comment Angelus makes.

Readers, if you are enjoying what you've been reading, please drop me a note or write a review! Thanks!


	36. Newbies

**Chapter 36. Newbies**

"Agent Booth, so glad you are here." Coming through the wet mid-morning grass toward Booth is a lanky young man in a suit that he must have taken out of it's package this morning. It's so blue and so crisp.

"Who are you," asks Booth, extending his hand.

"Oh sorry, sir. I'm Officer Ronald Benton, I've been put in charge of this case. They've told me about your credentials and the work you do with an anthropologist up in D.C. I think we may need your help with this case. There's been a strange development." Officer Benton leads Booth through the grass and over to the site where he had presented Larrinaga with his award only an hour ago.

"Can you be a little more specific?"

"Well, we're almost there – I'll let you see for yourself."

Booth notices that in one short hour a lot has changed for this stretch of land. The Bulldozers wasted no time in digging a trench around the perimeter where the foundation for the new Stevens Morris Nguyen Center would be laid. Booth notices the yellow crime scene tape in the lower East corner encircling a spot where the bull dozer had come to a halt in its tracks.

"What seems to be the problem?" Booth shouts toward a brown haired head inside the hole cordoned off by the crime scene tape.

"Well, the bones are completely clean. No guts or skin," answers the person. Now able to see his face, Booth realizes this must be a student.

"Who are you?" Booth demands. "Get out of there! Do not TOUCH anything. Do not STEP anywhere. Do not BREATHE other than toward to sky. WE'll get someone to lift you out of that spot."

"Who authorized students to go near the remains?" asks Booth.

"Sir, I. Sir, I don't know. This is certainly not protocol. I will see that it never happens again, sir."

"If you're on the force long enough to see a second time, Benson," Booth spits out.

"It's Benton, sir."

"What?"

"Never mind, sir"

"So what should you be doing right now, Officer Nebton?" Booth puts him on the spot.

Other than pissing my drawers? Thinks Benton. "I should have officers covering the perimeter." He states humbly as if reading it straight out of the Officer's handbook.

"And?" prompts Booth.

" I should detain anyone who was here when the remains were discovered."

"And ….?"

"Maybe I should cover the remains with a tarp in case those clouds open up and rain down on us. And then …"

"Yeah, Officer Benton, what's next?" Booth is enjoying this intimidation act. It toughens them up for the real world, he thinks.

"And then I should be at the ready to carry out any orders you hand down to me. And I should wait for those instructions but not get in your way."

"Gold star, Officer Benton. Now get that KID out of there!"

"Bones, pick up. Pick up, Bones," says Booth into his cell as he high steps through the still wet grass toward the sidewalk and the building where Larrinaga has his office in the Science and Engineering building.

"Booth, I'm in the middle of something, but I have a minute. I assure you I will be at the airport to pick you up at … at …"

"Bones, simmer down. You WILL be at the airport, but not to pick me up. I'll pick you up. I've had the Jeffersonian book you on a 12:24 direct flight on United 3369 from Logan to PHL. You should be here by 1:20 PM. Pack a bag, we may be here for a couple days."

"We have a case?" she asks, a little too energetically. She hops off the examination table, tosses aside her little paper dress, and reaches for the clothing laid out on the chair just outside the changing curtain. "Is it my birthday? Haaaa ha, haaa. That was a joke, Booth. Because it really isn't my birthday, but … you know that a new set of remains is like a wonderful gift to me – because I love my work … but why do I have to fly somewhere?"

"Bones. Again, simmer down – we do have a case, but it's here in Philly. You're coming to Philly, Bones, pack a bag!"

"Oh excellent – you know I love their cream cheese …"

"Well, there's plenty of that here. Listen, Bones, they've got a couple of moron's protecting the site – if you can call it protecting. So the sooner we can get you here the better," Booth says into the phone, one hand on his hip, as he turns around to face the grassy area, now spotted with bright yellow bull dozers and encircled in a deep brown trench. He notices Benton or Benson, or whatever his name is – has instructed his minions to encircle the entire operation in yellow police tape. "It looks like the bones have been cleaned."

"Cleaned. Boiled?"

"I don't know – that's for you and the squints to figure out. There just isn't any viscera, clothing, jewelry, or anything else for that matter. For all I know, this could be a plastic skeleton stolen from a fifth grade biology class by some pissed-off kid. SO I need you down here, Bones."

"Booth – what about Parker? I still have Parker," she says, realizing the complication and perplexed about what a person does in a situation like this.

"You still have Parker? Bones, he's supposed to be at school today!" Booth blurts at just below shouting level.

"Alright, Booth. Don't get upset - !" she begins, realizing she wasn't completely accurate. "Parker IS in school. I got him there with six minutes to spare this morning and a stomach full of pancakes …"

"You made him pancakes, Bones …?" this touches Booth as he knows it is one of Parker's favorite foods.

"I brought him to IHOP. THEY made him pancakes. I have to return to school around noon to bring him a sack lunch," she says, going through her mental list of Parker responsibilities for the day. "Then, I'll be picking him up after school at 2:55 and keeping him here at the Jeffersonian with me – though without exposing him to anything that might give him nightmares - until Rebecca and her boyfriend are released from the hospital around 5:30," Bones explains a bit apologetically.

"Well," Booth begins, turning around in a half circle and running his free hand through his hair, then thrusting it into his pocket to jangle the change pooled there. "Well, I got a body here and a bunch of amateur cops swarming around, ready to dive into the trench and muck up the whole crime scene."

"Booth, what do you want me to do? I'm not abandoning Parker. His last two days have been disjointed, his diet compromised, his sleeping pattern disrupted … both of his parents are else where doing other things and he's stuck with someone who is not even a family member …"

"Bones, you're not just someone he's STUCK with. You are the closest thing he has to family outside Rebecca and me. But you're right … "

"Booth, I can take care of Parker until Rebecca gets here, then catch the red-eye out there. Or something that departs after six."

"But what about the crime scene? I don't know how long I can hold the scene without local authorities trampling all over it. And you always say time is crucial …"

"The bones are clean?"

"They appear to be."

"Okay – you be my eyes and nose and we'll get enough information to satisfy the buzzards without compromising the scene."

"It's eyes and ears, Bones, eyes and ears …"

"Not in this case, Booth. Trust me," corrects Bones, imagining the disgusted face Booth is most likely making at the prospect of the unsavory task before him. "And don't make that face, Booth. It makes you look constipated."

"How do you know what face I'm making?" he answers, pulling the phone away from his phone and looking at it – as if there might be a camera hidden there transmitting his expression through the air waves.

"Look Booth, I'm in the doctor's office …. I'll be out of here in about fifteen. Suit up and get ready to do a little squint work. I'll call you within twenty. If it looks like I absolutely have to get there ASAP, we'll deal with it then. Talk to you in twenty."

"But where am I gonna get a suit? I'm not going down into that mud hole in Armani."

"No more excuses, Booth. What are you, a little girl?" asks Bones, enjoying the rare opportunity to feminize her alpha male partner. "Every ambulance is stocked with two protective full body suits – get one from them. See you in twenty – well, not SEE you, HEAR you," she finishes.

"I know what you meant. In twenty," Booth pushes the button, snaps it shut.

"Hey, Berstein, where's the ambulance?"

Benton, standing right outside the crime scene tape, hands on hips, chest puffed up – Man in Charge posture, swings around and runs toward Booth. "Sir?"

"Where's the ambulance parked?"

"Ambulance, sir?"

"Yes, the truck that brings all the medical toys and the two EMTs?"

"Well, sir. We're pretty sure this victim is dead, sir. I didn't think …"

"Obviously, Berstein. Ambulances do more than revive people – they are mobile tool boxes. Get one here within five and meet me down there, " he says pointing to the area inside the police tape where the gaping hole has punctured the green.

"I'm on it!" Benton begins walking back to the sceen.

"Bernton!" shouts Booth. Benton turns around to face him.

"IN FIVE!" Benton nods, turns, and runs to his squad car.

"Dr. Brennan, according to your blood work, your hormone levels are exactly where they should be. You have no markers for cancerous growths, your cervical swab is clear. Your height and weight are within the range we like to see for a healthy female in mid thirties."

"What about these – hot flashes, heart palpitations …?"

"If you feel it's necessary, we can hook you up to an EKG and do a stress test … But, Dr. Brennan, you are far from the onset of menopause. In fact, if you were interested in becoming pregnant, now would be the optimum time."

"NO – I don't have time for a stress test this morning. We just got a case. But there IS something going on here."

"I'm going to write a prescription for Lorazepam, it will help ease your panic attacks .."

"I don't think I'm having panic attacks. I'm a very well-rounded, happy and controlled person … these can't be panic attacks – it must be something else. And I am not taking Lorazepam …"

"Dr. Brennan, I understand your position. But you are a healthier than usual mid-thirties woman with a high-stress job and little emotional support outside your work. It would be quite normal …"

She can tell that Brennan isn't buying any of this, so she stops and just looks at her with a pitiful expression on her face.

"Thanks for the shrink referral, but I already have one of those," she says.

"And what does your shrink say about these … symptoms … you are experiencing?"

"What?" Brennan says. "I haven't told him about them."

"Might not be a bad idea, considering … "

"I am NOT crazy …. Thank you for your time this morning."

"As always, you are welcome. Call me if anything changes or if you change your mind about the Lorazepam."

"Fine – can you get that prescription filled while I'm getting dressed?" she asks, thinking – great – a sedative. Do I need Valium?

"Certainly, Dr. Brennan. And again, thank you for the work you did to help identify my sister's kid."

"It was no problem," Brennan replies, placing her hand on the doctor's forearm and giving her a compassionate smile. "I hope the family is working toward a place of healing?"

"Trying. I'll get that prescription for you." She smiles at Brennan with a look of appreciation and something else ... pity?


	37. The Poop Whisperer

**Chapter 37. The Poop Whisperer**

General medicine is such an inexact science, thinks Brennan as she pulls her clothing back on. I don't know why I even bother. I do know why – because I don't have the time to research it all on my own today! If a man were having these symptoms, there'd be a symposium every other week and billions of dollars raised for trials and research grants – pharmaceutical companies falling all over themselves to find the cure, forget the cause. Cause isn't profitable. Viagra is profitable.

Grabbing her prescription for Lorazepam from the doctor, she tries to recall what she remembers from studying pharmacology as an undergrad. Lorazepam, in the benzodiazepines family, used to relieve anxiety, works by slowing activity in the brain to allow for relaxation.

"I DON'T have anxiety," Brennan says out loud, almost shouting as she passes through the door leading out of the doctor's office and into the tiled hallway of the medical complex. She notices three heads turn to look at her, one belonging to a tiny 60ish woman who says, just loud enough to be heard, "Think again, sister."

"Ma'am," Brennan turns to face the woman straight on. "I am a doctor. I have in Forensic Anthropology, and two other disciplines that I assure you, you cannot pronounce, let alone understand, even if you DO speak the King's English. I hold impressive distinctions in thirteen countries, am considered royalty by at least two of them, and even "I" cannot remember how many languages I speak."

Brennan pauses only to suck in enough air to replace that which hissed out during her tirade. She continues without batting an eyelash, unaware that she has moved four steps closer to the diminutive woman and is waving her finger in the woman's face to emphasize each syllable.

"I solve unsolvable murders every day. I carry a gun. And I do NOT have anxiety. I am not an ANXIOUS person. I am a LOGICAL person. Sensible and reasonable to a fault. Furthermore," she pauses ready to take her next breath, and notices that a crowd is forming around her as she hears her last words echo around the cavernous hallway outside the waiting room.

"Buttercup," says the woman, just above a whisper while maintaining eye contact and not flinching an inch, except to raise a discouraging finger at two approaching security guards who must have overheard the comment about carrying a gun.

"And, oh my god, where did that come from?" Expels Brennan, furrowing her brow.

"Butter cup," the woman begins again. "Lets have a sit down over here on the couch. There is noting to be worried about. Everything is going to be just fine." The woman reaches out her hand and waits for Brennan's hand to descend upon it. Leading her by the hand, the woman moves toward a big comfy couch, not looking away from Brennan once. "There. Now breathe. In …. And out …. And in …. And out …."

"This would be much more effective with my head between my knees," critiques Brennan, and chuckles.

"Let go of the control. Just let go. See? Good job. You're already back with us here on planet earth."

Finally relaxed, Brennan begins, "Please accept my apologies, ma'am. I do not know what came over me. I can only conclude from the available evidence that I am, indeed, a stress basket."

"Honey Child," the woman says, though child comes out rhyming with file rather than wild. "It happens to the best of us. Nothing to be scared of. It's a testament that we are all members of the human race. Waking, talking, breathing, reproducing, dying, crying, feeling, pooping, laughing. The whole lot of us. "

Brennan is still trying to figure this all out – while listening to this woman. "You okay now," the woman states rather than asks. "Lemme ask ya' a couple questions and we'll get to the bottom of this. Okay?"

After a moment, Brennan realizes the woman expects an answer. "Yes. Whatever – go ahead."

"Okay – have you recently had a baby?

"No."

"Left a husband."

"No."

"Bought or sold a house?"

"No."

"Had a visit or call from your mother."

"Uh, no."

"Received some disturbing news?"

"No. Well, yes. But, well. No."

"That would be a yes. Now we're getting somewhere. Lost a loved one to death?"

"Yes."

"Had your heart broken?"

Brennan pauses. "I don't know."

"Interesting. One more. Become attached to a child that is not yours and whom you might lose?"

"Yes. Yes," replies Brennan, her shoulders drooping a bit. "I think I see what you are getting at, Ms. Buttercup …"

"It's Tif. You can call me Tif …"

"Tif, I have had a minimum of four significant events in a short period of time, " Brennan sighs, but remains calm, relaxed. "Some of which have persisted a length of time. Each alone would be considered stressful, causing a flood of adrenaline into my blood stream. However, the combination and duration of these events - and the high level of adrenaline in my bloodstream has – hijacked my normal physiological response, rendering me … rendering … me …"

"A blubbering idiot?" provides Tif.

Brennan looks at Tif. The last time someone called her an idiot she clocked him in the nose. Twice. "You are correct. A blubbering idiot." Brennan starts to laugh. Eventually her smile makes it all the way up to her eyes.

Tif laughs with her, rubbing her shoulder firmly so that Brennan ends up rocking side to side.

"Thank you, Tif. This has been a fortuitous meeting. You and I. I am not usually …"

"Of course, Ms …?"

"Call me Temperance."

"Temperance – I'm not just blowing sunshine up your skirt. You really are going to be fine."

"How do you know that, Tif?"

"I know it because you recognized what was happening without me having to tell you. And you laughed at yourself. This stress you are under, it won't last. You've got some big things at stake right now, right?"

"Yeah," Brennan answers, resigned to the truth.

"When you start to feel panicky, … just stop. And breathe. And have faith that THIS TOO SHALL PASS."

"Ahhh, the Persian Sufi poets. They are an insightful bunch," coos Brennan as if she were reminiscing.

"Here's another one for you, but this one from Max Ehrmann, the Poet Laureate of Terre Haute. You would do well to commit this one to memory:

**"Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."**

"Ah, yes. The Desiderata. I'd completely forgotten about that. My mother used to recite it to me whenever I had a disappointing day." Brennan's eyes grew shiny with the tender memory.

Tif and Brennan recited the next part of the poem together.

**Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul."**

"Tif, may I ask what your area of expertise is, and please let it not be psychology or general medicine."

"Certainly. But it is a strange expertise. I work with aging farmers and constipated youth. They call me the poop whisperer. Don't ask. But I am the top in my field," she said and smiled.

"I believe you, for some reason," replied Brennan, and shook her head, chuckling.

"Now, off you go, Temperance," Tif directed. "And be gentle with yourself."

Brennan stood and turned to leave, then turned again to face Tiff and hugged her. As they drew apart, Brennan turned and swiftly left the building.


	38. Real or Memorex

**Chapter 38. Real or Memorex?**

"The phone rings in the middle of the night, my father yells,

"What you gonna do with your life …"

"Bones, where have you been? I've been sitting here in this monkey suit sweating up a stink for almost an hour. And why are you at the doctor's office – everything okay?"

"Booth, everything's fine. At least it will be. I just had the strangest experience, but I'll tell you about it later. Suffice it to say that I am more human than I thought I was," she says, actually sounding excited. "Resistance is futile," she says in a robotic voice. "Get it, Booth? It's Star Trek. You know, the Borg …"

"Who are you and what have you done with my partner?" laughs Booth, surprised by her knowledge of the cult series featuring Jean-Luc Picard. Flippin' foreign guys again, he smirks to himself. "Just wait until Sweets and Fisher find out about this. They had you pegged as a Dalek."

"What's a Dalek?"

"From Doctor Who."

"Dr. Who? The periodontist-proctologist with the wandering eye at Bethesda General?"

"What?" says Booth, disturbed that there is such a person. "You know, long knitted scarf … curly hair, English accent. Travels around in a flying blue phone booth thingy – or, no, wait – I think it's a police box – or bobby box or whatever. He calls it THE TARDIS?"

Brennan remains silent. He can hear the blank look on her face over the phone line.

"Time travel?" He tries one last time, gives up. "Okay –lets move on."

"Thank you. Were there gum shoes in the ambulance?" She can't believe she let the time travel comment go without comment."

"Yes, thank God. It's a crap hole down there. Can't I just take a picture and send it to you?" he asks, shifting from one foot to the other, testing the ground for squishiness and knowing full well that it's going to get worse the closer her gets to the mud.

"Booth. Have you ever heard me complain about getting dirty?"

"Oh, there are so many comments I could make, but no one is hear to enjoy them with me …"

"Booth. Focus. Please. Didn't you ever have a sand box as a kid? Or were you one of those fussy boys …" Brennan chides her partner.

"Well, grown men have a whole different idea about what getting dirty means than little boys in a sandbox …"

"Okay Casanova, lets get to work."

Booth asks for and receives a pair of large gum shoes from the EMT. He puts them on and heads over to the area cordoned-off by bright yellow crime scene tape.

"Tell me when you get to the hole," says Bones. She's sitting in her car, parked outside the medical complex.

"At the hole," he reports.

"**How deep is the hole?"**

"**Bout five feet."**

"**Dimensions?"**

"**About three and a half wide and spans the length of the property."**

"**Hmm. Interesting. Look at the walls inside the hole. There should be visible layering, like the rings in a tree trunk, but in the dirt."**

"**Layers of sediment," he says.**

"**Precisely," she replies.**

"**Okay – do the lines of sediment appear consistent around the perimeter where the remains were located?"**

"**Yes. What does that mean?"**

"**I don't know for sure, but Hodgens will. I'm going to have him come out there with us."**

"No way, Bones," objects Booth.

"Excuse me?"

"Angela is due to squeeze out a puppy any moment now. He'll quit before he leaves her side until that baby is born."

"Oh. Good point. I'll have Hodgens locate a coring device so we can gather samples to send back to the lab."

"What about the remains? The locals want a name, time of death, anything," Booth kicks a little dirt into the hole and peers over the ledge at the skeleton.

"Okay – whatever you do, the goal is to disturb the surrounding soil as little as possible," Brennan closes her eyes and envisions herself there. "Sit on the edge of the hole, as if like you are about to ease into an in-ground swimming pool for the first time."

"Okay .."

"Not yet!" she says quickly.

"What? Don't sit down yet, or don't slide into the hole yet?"

"**Before sliding into the hole, determine where you want your feet to land. You need to have enough space between yourself and the skeleton so that you can bend over it and look at it closely without touching it."**

"**Got it. Can I get in now?"**

"**One other thing …"**

"**Now what?"**

"**If indeed these bones have been somehow cleaned, the particulates are even more difficult to find than if we had soft tissue, clothing, etc. to examine. So – disturb as LITTLE of the surrounding soil as possible. If you can manage to make only two foot prints, that would be optimal."**

Booth makes a dubious face. "You're asking a lot, lady."

"To whom much is given, much shall be required," quotes Brennan.

"Oh," starts Booth, disbelieving what he just heard. "Did you just quote the bible to me? The Catholic Bible?"

"Are you in the hole yet?"

"I think you just quoted from the gospel according to Luke. I'm in the hole. FIRE IN THE HOLE! Sorry, I just had to say that."

"All Christian religions abide by the allegedly historical writings in the gospels. Not just the Catholics."

"**Yeah, but we were first," counters Booth. "The dirt down here is not as wet as it looked. The bones … aren't exactly clean."**

"**What do you mean?"**

"**Well," he says, down on his haunches, using one arm to brace himself against the opposite wall of the hole. "They've been in a hole full of dirt for some time. They look dirty – but cleared of anything that might have been human before."**

"**You are referring to viscera, tissue, etc.?"**

"**Correct," says Booth standing for a moment and stretching his back.**

"**Okay – that, combined with any disturbances in the sediment layers will give us an approximate time – for now. It would take too long for me to bring you through the process of identifying age of remains – or how long this person has been dead."**

"**We've gotta give law enforcement here something, Bones. Anything."**

"**Okay – ask for a measuring tape and someone to write some notes down."**

"**Benton! Where's Benton?" shouts Booth over the edge of the hole he's standing in.**

"**While he's locating writing materials, find out who has a SLR camera. Probably a newspaper photographer. Tell him he can be the first one to use whatever you shoot. They usually go for that."**

"**Got it." Booth sends another minion to summon a photographer from the on-lookers.**

"**Take down the length measurements of the humerus, radius, femur, and tibia. Without disturbing the bones, see if you can estimate the circumference of those four bones. This will help us determine if the victim is male or female. Take five or six close-up photos of the cranium. Send those all to me and copy Angela at the Jeffersonian right away."**

"**Got it," answers Booth, confidently.**

"**Oh, and take photos from as many angles as possible of the sacrum. This will help us determine the sex, the age, and whether or not this person has given birth."**

"**One more thing. In each photo, place something next to the bone as a reference of scale."**

"**Like what? I have nothing here."**

"**Ask the EMT for scissors, unroll the tape measure, cut of the final three to five inches, and use that to place next to the bones you photograph."**

**Booth starts to do this and the EMT begins to object. "We'll buy you a new one, buddy," he says to the most agitated of the two EMTs.**

"**Done?" Asks Brennan.**

"**What? I haven't even started."**

"**It never takes me this long …" says Brennan.**

"**Would you just … back off, lady. I'm out of my element here!"**

"**Booth."**

"**What?" he snaps at her.**

"**Take the scissors and tap on the skull, then one of the larger bones."**

"**What's that gonna do?"**

"**The sound will tell us if the skeleton is a polymer replica, or real bones," she explains.**

**Booth takes the scissors and taps several different bones. Brennan quizzes him about the quality and tone of the resulting sounds and determines that this is indeed a real skeleton.**


	39. Meanwhile, Back at the Jeffersonian

**Chapter 39. Meanwhile, Back at the Jeffersonian ...**

Back at the Jeffersonian a little while later, Brennan swipes her card and ascends the platform where her team awaits.

"What do you have for me, Hodgens?"

"The Science Center in Philadelphia is transporting six core diggers to the site. Estimated completion time for sample retrieval is two hours. From the photos Booth sent me, this looks like your garden variety soil, in general. A closer look will give us temporal and geological profiles."

"Thanks, Hodgens. Wendell?"

"Okay – from the skeletal images of the 5 major bones, the sacrum, and the cranium, I would estimate the age to be 20 to 25 years of age, Caucasian female never having given birth. Approximate height, five foot five. No scoliosis. No bowing. Some remodeling, but nothing within five years of death. Bones appear healthy though suspicious femur growths surrounding and beneath the patella. Osteoarthritis is the possible culprit, but I'll have to see the actual bones to confirm this."

"Well done, Wendell. Pack your bags, you will be flying out to Philadelphia in the morning to assist in the collection of the remains."

"Angela, how's the facial reconstruction going?"

"It is difficult to come up with an accurate portrait from the angle of the photos Agent Booth sent. However, using the data from Hodgens and Wendell, plus an algorithm that determines the angle of image and reformulates it to coincide with the cultural and physiological data we already have, I've come up with a preliminary sketch."

"Very well done, Angela. Let's get this to Booth so he can provide it to the local authorities. Where's Dr. Saroyan?"

"She's on the good will trip to visit with Vincent's parents and family."

No one said a word for a moment.

"Good work, people. Parker will be here this afternoon from 3:30 until a little before six. I have assured Rebecca that he will see nothing that might be disturbing for a nine year old boy. Hodgens, I'd direct you to use your own judgment, but … I don't want you to use your own judgement. If you are unsure about what falls under the category of DISTURBING, please ask Angela."

Brennan turns to leave, then turns back around and returns to the center of the platform. "I will be taking the six PM flight out to Philadelphia this evening, hopefully we'll be back in a day or two. Booth is already there, as you know."

"Dr. Brennan?" asks Hodgens.

"Yes, Dr. Hodgens?"

"Are these remains actually at the site where Agent Booth was honoring Dr. Larrinaga? That just seems like way too much of a coincidence …"

"I don't believe in coincidences, Dr. Hodgens. But, yes, the remains were found after the ceremony when the bull dozers began digging the perimeter of the new building."

"Angela, please prepare my portable communication equipment and download everything we have about pre-cleaned skeletons found on the East coast."

"You got it, Sweetie."

", while we wait to receive the actual remains, do a work up on how those bones could have been cleaned – both before and after interment."

"You know what that means," says Hodgens, a gleam in his eye, as he turns to face Wendell.

"Experiments!" they say in unison.

"Make sure you check with Dr. Saroyan before spending her money or making a mess, boys! I'll be in my office for a while – then out to lunch with Parker. You can reach me on my cell if anything comes up."

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	40. Who Can Resist?

**Chapter 40. Who Can Resist?**

Before Brennan reaches the edge of the platform, Angela calls to her and smiles. "Bren, Sweetie, you are becoming quite the surrogate mommy!" teases Angela.

"Angela, I assure you I have no intention of birthing someone else's child, but I do enjoy the time I have with Parker. He's a sweet little innocent Booth – with the scientist part of his brain not yet replaced with sporting images and details."

"Any kind of Booth is pretty fine in my book, Bren, sports or no sports. Both are equally hot!"

Brennan laughs with Angela and heads down the platform stairs to her office. Time to call Booth with the update. She dials his number and a child answers the phone.

"Booth?" She looks at her cell, confirming she called the right number. There's it is – his number.

"Give me that phone!" Brennan hears Booth's voice but gets the impression he is chasing a very young thief. "Come back here or I'll tickle attack you! Hey, that was supposed to be a threat – why isn't it working?"

Brennan hears a cacophony of high pitched squeals and Booth's voice getting louder and louder. "Gotcha – stinker!"

"Booth?" asks Brennan feigning concern. "Are you being held hostage by a munchkin?"

"Bones! I wish I could say no – but I'd be lying. I'm at Dr. Larrinaga's for lunch getting attacked by a Kewpie doll with a penchant for thievery. But like most women, I think she just wants to be caught and tickled. Whatcha got for me?"

"Caucasian female, twenty to twenty-five years old, never given birth. Angela is sending you a tentative reconstruction."

"Great – I'll start asking around here. When do you get in?"

"I'm on the 6:15. Can you pick me up?"

"Be there with bells on!"

"Booth, it's been a long day – please no bells."

"Only if you ask real nice."

"No bells or I'll make you go back down into that skeleton hole tomorrow!"

"Okay, that works. See you later …"

"Not if I see you first," Brennan quips with a grin.

"You've been hanging with Parker a little too much."

"No such thing as too much Parker," she counters.

"Do I hear a lilt of estrogen in your voice, Bones?" Booth teases.

"If I could be guaranteed an exact replica – in personality and form – of Parker Booth - I may consider pro-creation. Maybe."

"Good to know," says Booth, nodding and smiling to himself. "Good to know."

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	41. An Issue of Articulation

**Chapter 41. An Issue of Articulation**

Brennan stands on the mezzanine over looking the lab. Arms outstretched to either side, her hands rest on the cool, metal railing.

"I'm going to have to talk to Sweets," she says resignedly, and sighs. These last couple of months it has seemed like he was her very own FBI-issued private therapist. They had been meeting at inconspicuous locations twice a week since the month after Booth and Hannah split up.

Shortly after joining Booth at the bar the night he proposed to Hannah, she was given an ultimatum. She chose to remain Booth's partner and nothing more rather than lose him completely. "He's angry now," she told herself, "but he won't always be. And then what?" Brennan found herself experiencing tightness in her chest when she pondered the inevitable change in their relationship ...

* * *

><p>"You are having conflicting emotions, Dr. Brennan," Dr. Sweets had said when she first went to see him. "This is where the pedal hits the metal. it's completely normal to feel nervous, maybe even frightened."<p>

"I … don't understand what that means," she looks at him questioningly.

"There are no longer any obstacles keeping the two of you apart, romantically, that is."

"Oh, yes, I am aware of that," she says, waiting for him to say more. When he doesn't, she prompts, "But the pedal and the metal … that would cause a spark."

"That's an interesting choice of words," Sweets said, looking closely at her.

"I'm still confused, Dr. Sweets. Please, just say what you mean."

"This situation you find yourself in, it's a little intimidating. And for someone who isn't intimidated by anything, it can be a daunting experience." Sweets looked to her to assure she was following his logic. "You may feel short of breath at times, distracted, nervous, perhaps even just a little … je ne sais quoi," he finishes, shrugging his shoulders to indicate an indescribable uneasiness.

"That's unlikely. All of it," she said, but continued listening because, in truth, she concurred.

"Dr. Brennan, may I remind you that **you** came to **me**, I didn't ask for this meeting," he paused, his comment hanging in the air like a hollow polymer bone floating atop a vat of pudding.

"You are correct."

"And who knows that you are here in my office to discuss the nature of your relationship with your partner?

"No one."

"Isn't it true, Dr. Brennan, that you came to me because this concern of yours is wicked significant regarding your relationship with Agent Booth?" Sweets moves to his chair, but doesn't yet sit down. He motions her to the couch opposite him, which she moves to, but she doesn't sit either. "And that you know me to be a," he pauses to find a word that will appeal to her sense of logic, "proven diagnostician in the science of the human psyche?"

"I still don't know how it can be called science," she replies, "But I concede that your … skills … have been instrumental in identifying that which cannot be observed in the realm of human behavior."

"Dr. Brennan, after all this time, you have to admit … actually," he pauses, thinking, then smiles a wide red-lipped smile, deciding to take advantage of this opportunity for affirmation from Brennan. "I insist that you acknowledge my legitimacy as a scientist who has proven, within an acceptable margin of error, a very … small … margin," he says, raising his eyebrows, turning his head slightly to the side, but still holding eye contact, "the legitimacy of my discipline."

"In matters of unobservable human intent," Brennan adds.

"Oh I assure you, Dr. Brennan, intent is almost always empirically observable if you are a trained expert in deciphering the meanings of the behavior."

Dr. Brennan stares at him, sighs.

"If we are going to work together toward a satisfying result, I need to know that I have your full acknowledgement of my … expertise," Sweets finishes.

"I accept your conditions," replies Brennan after looking at him from head to toe for effect. Then she sat down.

"And?"

"And you have my acknowledgement of your expertise."

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Sweets grabs a white, blue lined paper pad and a black ball point pen. He sits.

"Don't patronize me, Dr. Sweets," warns Brennan.

"Duly noted," Dr. Brennan. Adopting a professional posture, Sweets looks out the window for a moment, then back at Brennan, cocking his head to the side once again.

"Dr. Brennan, can you synopsize for me what you feel the issue is that we are here to confront?"

Brennan stares at him as if he's just asked her to spell c-a-t. "Dr. Sweets, Maybe you have time to waste," she begins, "But I do not. Since you are the "expert" here and more than well aware of the … issue … how about YOU tell ME what you FEEL the issue is. If I could articulate it, I'd have resolved it by now."


	42. Anybody Need a Lift?

**Chapter 42. Anybody Need a Lift?**

It had been a long afternoon. Lunch at Parker's school had been interesting. Why is it that all older elementary schools smell the same, Brennan had wondered when she passed through the heavy wooden front doors. Floor wax, books, pencil shavings, cafeteria food, industrial strength bathroom cleaner, and gymnasium dust. She enjoyed sitting in the little grey folding chairs across from him at lunch, drinking milk from a single serving size milk carton.

Parker was impressed when she demonstrated how to puncture the topside of the carton with a pen, creating the perfect-sized hole in which she inserted the thin translucent drinking straw Parker collected from the milk line. Parker's classmates lost more milk by accidentally (or was it?) squirting it across the table when they attempted to copy Brennan's handiwork.

"This is so much cooler than opening the carton the regular way," some kid squealed across a fountain of spewing milk. Parker was the most popular kid at the table today. Brennan found it satisfying to see him enjoying the attention. She could tell by his interactions with the other third-graders that Parker enjoyed a fair amount of peer respect, but wasn't accustomed to being the center of attention. Though gregarious and hilarious in Brennan's and Booth's presence, Parker was more reserved in his natural environment with his peers.

After an afternoon of no further results, Brennan looked forward to picking him up at 2:55 at school. Parker attended the same school Booth had attended when he was in elementary. Waiting by the school playground fence as Parker had instructed her, Brennan wonders what Booth looked like as a nine-year- old schoolboy. Short pants, a buzz cut with cowlicks, knobby knees sporting a two-day old Band-Aid, pointy little pink elbows, soft little brown eyes and long lashes. Why is it that little boys always have the prettiest thick eyelashes?

Leaning against the chain link fence that looked like it had seen better days, Brennan imagined Booth sitting on the swings, kicking at the loose dirt at his feet. More likely, he'd be over in the bald spot at the bottom of the slide in a fistfight with a kid much bigger than Booth wearing brand new sneakers and clothes stamped with a designer insignia over the breast pocket. Brennan can't help but smile at the image.

As she turns to glance back at the front doors, she sees Parker with a group of boys and girls running toward her screaming something she can't make out. She moves away form the fence and watches to see what all the fuss is about. "Dr. Bones, Dr. Bones!" she eventually makes out. "Show us something else cool!" A couple of the kids are carrying little milk cartons and chewed-up straws. They must have snuck them out of the lunch room earlier.

Chuckling to herself, and more than willing to further Parker's and his friends' fascination with simple science, Brennan pursed her lips and tried to think of something simple, interesting, and within reach. She put her hands on her hips and looked at the group, trying to buy time as she mentally inventoried the contents of the trunk of her car. Inspired, she narrowed her eyes, made a "come here" motion with her index finger, and said to the group as if sharing a secret, "Follow me."

She leads the children to her parked car and popped open the trunk. Searching through several toolbox-shaped supply containers, she brought out a clear plastic drinking cup, a half-gallon jug of water, a box of baking soda, a vial of vinegar, and some kernels of loose popping corn.

Standing in front of the open trunk, her materials displayed on top of one of the closed toolboxes, she instructs, "Make a semi-circle around me so everyone can see. Make two rows, shorter kids in the front."

As the twelve excited kids jostle about, each trying to get the best spot, Brennan poured a cup of water into the clear plastic drinking cup and turned to face them.

"What I have here are some ordinary items that you can probably find in your own kitchen at home. Regular drinking water, vinegar, Arm and Hammer baking soda, and unpopped pop corn."

Turning to face her supplies, she explains, "I've poured some water into this plastic cup. Now I'm adding two teaspoons of baking sods and stirring it until the baking soda dissolves." Brennan does as she has described and holds the cup up so all can see it.

Replacing the cup on the toolbox, she continues, "Into the soda water, I am now adding about three tablespoons of vinegar." As she does this, the water bubbles up and almost spills over the top of the plastic cup. The kids are amazed. The mixture calms down, but bubbles have now collected on the bottom and sides of the cup.

"See how it looks like it has turned into soda pop? Like Ginger Ale or 7 Up or Sprite?" Oohs and ahhs all over.

"That's not even the exciting part," she explains as she reaches for the popcorn. Choosing six kernels, she drops each into the cup and steps back so everyone can see. The kernels drop down to the bottom of the cup. Nothing happens. Did it fail, the kids begin to whisper to each other?

"Nothing's happening!" a couple of them complain.

"Science is about being patient and observing," she says. "Look carefully."

Still nothing but some corn on the bottom of the cup. "Maybe they're old maids," one kid offers. Brennan isn't concerned. As they all begin to get restless, one of the shorter dark-haired girls in a skirt and long pants squeals. "One started floating! It's floating!"

They all gather in closer as eventually each of the pop corn kernels floats to the surface of the water.

"Wow!"

"Cool!"

"How'd you do that?"

"You saw exactly what I did. There's no magic here – except the magic of chemical reactions and good old simple science," explains Brennan. "But wait, there's more."

The kids stare at the cup and its contents as if a rabbit were going to appear out of thin air before their eyes.

"That pop corn piece just dropped back to the bottom," someone screams, astonished.

Once again, the kids break loose in exclamations of wonder. "Is this Voo Doo," one kid asks.

"Nope – science," Brennan counters.

Eventually they all fall to the bottom of the cup. As the last one hits ground level, one of the first ones slowly rises to the top once more. The kids are aghast.

"That's freaky," says a tall blond boy in the back.

"No it's not – it's cool," says Parker.

"It IS cool … and it's science!" announces Brennan.

"YOU'RE COOL!" a kid yells, starting a chant.

"DR. BONES IS COOL! DR. BONES IS COOL! DR. BONES IS COOL!"

"I wish you were my doctor," says the short dark-haired girl.

"She's nobody's doctor," says Parker. "Except she's my dad's doctor."

"I'm not a people doctor," explains Brennan, "I'm a science doctor, a bones doctor. I work at the Jeffersonian Institution."

"She's a foreign apologist," says Parker confidently.


	43. I Sing the Body Electric

**Chapter 43. I Sing the Body Electric**

Returned to the Jeffersonian with Parker in tow, Brennan finds that she's finally feeling energized after such a strange and slow-moving day. She prefers to be up to her elbows in remains or action, neither of which is currently happening in D.C. She is anxious to get to Philadelphia, conference with Booth, examine the remains herself, and start putting together a profile more robust than what they have now. Having Parker for the next two and a half hours will make the gap between now and her flight fly by, she thinks, chuckling at her own pun.

"Up on the platform," she says to Parker who is trotting behind her as she swiftly mounts the few steps, swiping her card through the security mechanism as she goes.

"Angela, have the supplies arrived from the Young Scientists Initiative Division?"

This morning she and Angela collaborated to create a unique experience for Parker. While Brennan was out of the office, Angela made calls to several other divisions of the Jeffersonian collecting materials and equipment.

"Right over here," Angela replies, pushing a kitchen table-sized metal cart to the center of the platform. Parker can barely contain his excitement as he surveys the array of goods before him: pencils, waxy pastels, several tape measures, erasers, a life size three-dimensional plastic replica of the human body with removable parts, and three 11 X 14 black and white diagrams identifying the major parts of the body in layers: as we see it from the outside, the muscles and all soft materials, and the skeleton.

"This is better than Christmas," he says, breathlessly. "Don't tell Dad I said that," he added nervously.

"Your secret is safe with us," says Hodgens, coming up the steps to deliver two massive spindles – one containing a roll of paper, the other a roll of clear Mylar.

"And you ain't seen nothin' yet, baby Booth," chuckles Angela.

"Parker, you can breathe now, buddy," says Hodgens, clapping him on the back. "Don't pass out now – you don't want to miss the good stuff – and we've only got about two hours, right Dr. Brennan?"

"About two hours, but not to worry, Parker. We are professionals and we work FAST!"

Parker jumps up and down and claps his hands together. "Let's get this boat on the road then!"

That's "this show on the road," champ," begins Hodgens. "First, we gotta get you weighed and find out how tall you are. Come with me to the funnest part of this whole place …"

"That kid is lucky it's a slow day at squint central," chuffs Angela, sorting out the supplies and unrolling the paper onto a lab table.

"He's not the only one, Ange, I have a feeling the poop is about to hit the air conditioner with this case Booth's got for us."

"You mean the poop is about to hit the fan."

"Yes. That does make more sense. And it's much worse visually than poop splattered on an air conditioning unit," concedes Brennan.

Ten minutes later, Hodgens and Parker return to the platform.

"He's 48 inches tall and 56 pounds. Wendell is bringing in the body mass index."

"They put me in a huge tub of water, Bones. And I didn't even get wet. It was so cool!" reports Parker

"Parker, step over here onto this foot stool and we'll measure your other body parts." Angela points to the automan she brought up from her office and selects a flexible vinyl tape measure, a pencil, and a clip-boarded chart from her cart.

"Angela, in addition to the measurements we discussed earlier, I'm going to need the following …"

"If you could give me your list in English this will go more quickly," interrupts Angela.

"That's highly unusual for me, but I will do my best. Okay – let me see," she says, pointing to several areas of Parker as he stands on the stool, a willing specimen. "Shoulder to elbow, elbow to wrist, wrist to tip of middle finger, shoulder to waist, waist to ankle, hip to knee cap, knee cap to ankle, ball of the foot to the tip of the big toe, top of the base of one ear to the same of the other, chin up over the head to the base of the skull above the cervical vertebra."

"Got it." Angela starts working, moving Parker around like she's testing the flexibility of a marionette as she goes.

"This is fun," he says. "Mush less painful than my nine year old check-up. I had to get two shots. But I didn't complain. Even though it really hurt. That is the worst thing about getting older," he finishes with a nod and a sage expression on his face.

"Tell me about it," Hodgens answers sympathetically, stifling a chuckle. "Wait till you're my age, buddy. Things get even more ... uncomfortable. I mean, interesting," he finishes as Angela gives him a warning glance. When Parker looks away, Hodgens mouths "What?" at Angela, feigning innocence.

Measurements taken and recorded, Parker awaits his next instruction. Brennan had briefed him on the way from school, so he had a vague idea of what was to come. As Angela and Brennan chat about the order in which to handle the next few tasks, Parker inspects the wax pastels, picking up four and comparing them to himself. Placing them on the examination table, he waits for the women to finish.

"Bones," he says, "I think these are the right colors for my skin, my hair, my lips and my eyes," he says.

"Very good job, LittleBigMan," she replies, holding each up to its respective body part, impressed. "Are you ready for the next step? This is my favorite part, by the way!"

"Ready as I'll ever be," he replies, trying to contain his excitement.

Hodgens covers the examination table with paper from the roll. The paper covers the entire top of the table and hangs off the two shorter sides.

"Okay, big guy, up you go," says Hodgens, lifting Parker from the footstool as if he were a baby. He lies him down gently on the paper-covered table, careful not to tear it. "Spread your arms out like this, and your legs out like that," he instructs while manipulating Parker's limbs so each lies flat on the table.

"Parker, this may tickle a little, but you know what I'm doing, so please contain yourself," says Brennan.

"Are you kidding me, when I was nine, my whole body was a tickling erogenous zone – this should be interesting," says Hodgens, crossing his arms and stepping back for a better view of the operation.

"I have a couple tricks up my sleeve, Dr. Hodgens, Oh ye of little faith."

"Parker, before I trace your form onto this paper, I am going to slide this piece of flannel against your skin all around the edges where I will be tracing. This will acclimate your nerves to the touch and significantly decrease the gargalesis sensation."

"The gargoyle what?"

"The gargalesis – it means laughter-inducing tickle sensation. I'll bet your dad has never heard that word."

"Then I will definitely have to use it this weekend. He won't know WHAT I'm talking about. And that will give a gargalesis to my funny bone!"

"You'll have to let me know how that goes," says Brennan with a smile. "Okay – here we go. Flannel," she says, tracing a seam around his body with the soft fabric. "Now the tracing. Please spread your phalanges – I mean fingers!"

Parker lies very still and makes it all the way through the process until Brennan gets to his armpit, which is just too sensitive. Each time she attempts to trace the arc from rib cage to elbow, Parker gets an attack of the giggles. "It's not really that it tickles," he says, trying to cover up that fact that it really is, "It's just that the word "gargalesis" sounds so funny!"

Brennan narrows her eyes and gives him an I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE UP TO stare. He calms himself down almost instantly, biting his lip when he gets the urge to crack-up at the other armpit.

Fifteen minutes later, they are finished and Angela has copied his outline onto two identically-sized pieces of Mylar.

"Now, shall we give you some bones?" says Brennan.

"Of course, unless you expect me to slither around like a snake for the rest of my life," Parker points out.

Forty minutes after that, Brennan has sketched all 206 bones onto the paper outline. She steps back to admire her work, nodding satisfactorily. She hasn't done this since grad school and had forgotten how relaxing it can be.

"That's better than therapy," she says to herself.

"My skeleton looks like a big maze!" says Parker.

"Now it is your turn to do some work. Take this diagram," Angela hands her the sheet containing the skeleton drawing with each of the major bones labeled. Brennan lays it on the covered table, careful not to cover any of the Parker skeleton drawing. "Label each bone that I have put an arrow and a blank line next to. When you are finished with that, we'll color them all in."

"After we've got the skeleton completed, we can attach the first Mylar sheet and begin coloring in your muscles. After that, we can color your outside appearance onto the other piece of Mylar – which we'll use for the top page. The sinews will go in the middle, and the bones will be the bottom page."

"I can't wait to show this to Dad!"

By 5:45 when Rebecca arrives, everything is completed except the coloring for the top page. Parker is not happy about leaving this wonderful creation at the Jeffersonian, but he's able to negotiate another visit soon out of the deal.

"In the meantime, if you guys miss me, you can jus talk to Flat Parker!" he says with a giggle.

"It was great having you with me these last couple of days, Parker. Thanks for keeping me company at your dad's place."

"Anytime, Bones. Just call if you ever get lonely – even at your own place," he says seriously, hugging Brennan.

"You do the same," replies Brennan, kissing the top of his head.

"It's always a pleasure with you, Baby Booth," Angela tells Parker warmly. "When you come back, you can help me finish coloring some clothes on this guy, and then you can take him home."

"Or I can let Bones keep him," he whispers into Angela's ear as he hugs her.

"Well, that is another option," she laughs, thinking how like his father Parker is.


	44. What the ?

**Chapter 44. What the ...?**

Brennan eases herself into her first class seat on American Airlines Flight 4534 from Washington Dulles to Philadelphia, checking her arrival time and dialing Booth on her cell.

"Yo," he says in greeting.

"Booth?"

"The one and only."

"And there are hearts breaking all over America based on that one fact alone," She says. "How do you like that for sarcasm?"

"Heh," is all he says.

"Okay, whatever. Are you ... on vacation?"

"It's Philly, baby! Land of the Home, free of the Braves – or whatever ..."

"Are you drunk?"

"No – just chillin' … and bored out of my skull. When do you get in?"

"You know that is not possible … well, it IS possible … screw it, I don't have the energy. I get in at 7:45."

"Good thing you are on your way here, Bones. Sounds like YOU need a vacation. Did you bring your bikini?"

"I can't even think of a response for that that won't encourage your already over-salacious nature. Are you sure you're not drunk?"

"Uh, yeah. Are you? You're sound drugged."

"No drugs, just tired. What are you doing?"

"I'm just making a bunch of calls, waiting for yourself to arrive so we can get on the trail of righteous indignation and nail a bad guy together."

"Okay," she says, pausing too long as if she's lost her train of thought. "Listen, I love your kid, but I am exhausted."

"Welcome to the real world, Bones. Sleep on the plane. We got work to do – and dinner plans with a couple of really short people."

"Huh?" Brennan sighs and yawns, already losing interest in whatever he just said. "I don't … know how … you do it."

"Its called caffeine, and adrenaline. Hope you brought your party pants. Did I mention we have plans for dinner?" He listens for a response. Any response. "Bones? Bones?"

"ZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."


	45. Booth's Ride

**Chapter 45. Booth's Ride**

Booth hangs up the phone and looks at his list of possible victims. Making these calls is one of the most difficult parts of the job. Sure, people want answers to what happened to their loved one, but they never want the news he often has to deliver. Once the family of a missing person has an answer, hope dies, and the final grieving begins. Some are relieved to know what happened. Some would rather hang on to their dream that whatever happened, their missing person is in a better place - either on earth or on a higher plain. It makes it easier to deny that they may have had an unimaginably horrible final experience on terra firma.

Booth's ability to quickly ascertain how the news will be received, and then to interpret the actual response, are part of what make him FBI Agent Numero Uno in his division. His uncanny ability to lead a suspect into doing or saying something to reveal motive is one of many skills that baffles and eludes Brennan. Dr. Gordon Gordon Wyatt uncovered once that Brennan wanted to get into Booth's head. "Once inside his head, then what?" he'd asked her. It had been an interesting conversation. For Dr. Gordon Gordon, at least. Uncomfortable for Brennan.

Looking at his watch, Booth decides to pack it in for the day. He closes a file that is way too thin for his satisfaction at this point, and returns it to his brief case. He takes his second shower of the day and puts on a tee shirt and jeans to go pick up Brennan. He finds that he's really looking forward to seeing her, more excited than he's been in a long time ...

Exiting his hotel room, he saunters to the elevator, gets in, and punches the lobby button, already swaying to the muzak version of "The Girl From Ipanema." At the front desk he's directed by the attendant to the young man who arrived two minutes earlier to meet him.

A pimple-faced, red-headed boy of twenty-something stands and straightens his suit coat.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth?"

"Yes," confirms Booth, enjoying the deference this kid is already paying to him. Recalling something his grandfather once told him he smiles a satisfied smile at the boy. Pops had said, "Son, it's not the man in the suit that has the most power. Men wear suits to make themselves appear important. Now, sometimes you gotta wear a suit - and that's just fine. But if you want to know the most powerful man in the room, look for the one who doesn't need to be dressed up to gain respect. Notice how the other men in suits defer to him. That, my friend, is real power."

Booth wasn't so much into power, but respect was a necessity.

Arriving in the lobby to pick up a brand new Chevy Suburban SUV 2WD 1500 LTZ, even if it was only a short-term rental, dressed in a tee shirt and jeans felt pretty dang good.

"Sir, I have your car parked right outside in the waiting area. You requested the Steel Green Metal Chevy Suburban SUV 2WD 1500 LTZ, correct?"

"Your supervisor told me that's the closest you've got to black in the 2011?" asks Booth.

"That is correct, sir. However, I think you'll find that the 326 horses under the hood at 5,300 rpms, and the 348 pounds of torque at 4,400 rpms will more than make up for the tint."

"What else is she loaded with?"

"Well, your were very clear about your priorities on your rental application. I think you will find the 1500 LTZ more than exceeds you expectations."

"Can you be a little more specific, sport?"

"Agent Booth, sir, if you'll follow me," he says beginning to move in the direction of the lobby doors. "Here's your key fob. There's an extra set for a second driver." Even though he said, "follow me," Red then motions for Booth to lead the way like Vanna White revealing what's behind door number three.

At the curb right in front of the hotel entrance sits a thoroughbred, as far as Booth's concerned. Attempting to mask his delight, he turns to Red, which he's decided to call him inside his own head, and says, "It certainly isn't black …"

"Allow me to demonstrate the driver's seat controls, Agent Booth." Red clicks the fob still in his hand to start the engine.

"Sweet!" exclaims Booth, unable to contain himself. "Did you just do that from the fob?"

"Yes sir," he says with a grin, relieved that Booth has finally shown approval. He points out each of the unobtrusive knobs, levers and buttons decorating the left side of the driver's seat.

"She's got a heated, ventilated bucket driver seat with six 12-way memorized power height, power lumbar and power tilt. She's fully loaded with a Bose audio system with ten speakers, AM/FM radio, CD player/MP3, and a radio data system satellite radio. She's got Driver and passenger heated power door mirrors, Electric foldable mirrors, a navigation system with full map and voice instruction, Voice-activated radio, phone and navigation system, and a 40" x 108" cargo area that opens remotely with a touch of the fob button. Oh, and alloy wheels with 130 inch wheel base."

"Sold American," says Booth getting into the vehicle. "So you need a ride back to the rental office, son?"

"No sir, I'm covered. Enjoy the ride. Call us when you are ready for the return. I'll pick it up anywhere within 100 miles of our office. Just put the key fobs in the self addressed stamped envelope you'll find in the glove compartment, lock the doors, make the call, and drop the keys in any US mailbox."

"Got it," says Booth, anxious to hit the road. He slams the door shut and rolls down the window. "Am I supposed to tip you, kid?"

"I wouldn't accept one if you offered, sir. It's my pleasure to serve you," said Red with a little nod, as he stepped backward, with his hands clasped and a grateful smile on his face. "It is GOOD to be home," says Booth, pulling away from the curb and turning on the Bose. "Agent Booth is a happy camper. A happy camper driving 326 horses with 348 pounds of torque!" He cranks the Jimi Hendrix.

Alone in the SUV with twenty-five minutes to himself, he tires of jamming after the first three songs, and his mind turns back to Hannah. The bomb she dropped changed the way he thought about Brennan. Strangely enough, Hannah, the woman who had ignited his angry campaign against all woman, was also the one to give him the shove he needed to leave behind the campaign and get back to living life to the fullest. He could't wait to tell Bones. "If she can stay awake long enough to hear about it," he said out loud as Prince sang a ballad about "Darling Nikki."

Unable to resist a little Artist Formerly Known As, Booth cranks it and sings along:

"I looked all over and all I found

was a phone number on the stairs.

It said thank you for a funky time.

Call me up whenever you want to grind …. "


	46. No Matter What

_A note to my readers: I accidentally skipped over this chapter when uploading all my files. This is the real Chapter 46. What you read as Chapter 46 is called "Chapter 47 Put On Your Man Pants, Seeley Booth" and is now in the correct sequence. Sorry about that!_

**Chapter 46. No Matter What**

Tooling down East Lancaster Avenue, toward Ardmore Ave., Seeley Booth turns the volume down on the ten-speaker Bose sound system in his rented Chevy Suburban SUV 2WD 1500 LTZ with 326 horses under the hood. There will always be another opportunity to jam with Steven Tyler to "Janie's Got a Gun," though Booth's version was more interesting: "Brennan's Got a Gun." Take that, Aerosmith!

"God it feels good to have a set of wheels underneath me again," thought Booth as his mind turned to other things. Non-murder related things. Female things. Women. Relationships. Partners. Ex-Almost fiancées. The whole ball of wax.

Knowing he'd see Bones within the hour, he decides to get something straight in his head. What was it Hannah had said about his partner that had had such a profound affect on him?

"Remember when I was in the hospital after having a 38 slug cut out of my leg?"

"Huh, yeah. I remember that vividly," Booth had answered.

"Temperance saved my life. She had the opportunity to, literally, let me die. But she didn't. She was the one who pointed out the hairline evulsion fracture of my femur. If she hadn't contradicted my physician, a tendon could have pulled out the bone shard and punctured my femoral artery. And I would have bleed out before anyone knew what was happening." Hannah had said all this, with an expression of utter disbelief on her face.

When she continued, she added, "And to top it off, she came to visit me while I was recovering from surgery. Did she ever tell you what she said to me the day she gave me her sun glasses?"

Booth had shaken his head slowly, "After what you've been telling me today, Hannah, there is no way I can predict what you are about to tell me. Go on." Booth had leaned forward in his seat, clasping his hands and laying them on the table in front of himself.

"She came to visit me without a gift. I told her it's customary for a hospital visitor to bring a gift for the injured person, right? So she let me take her dark brown sunglasses. Later I felt pretty creepy about having done that - taken her glasses - but part of me knew she had you, and I guess I wanted to take something from her." Hannah had paused, looking down at her hands and continuing to play with the rubber band. By now, the rubber band was stretched almost beyond it's limits. Booth kept expecting it to break and sting Hannah. But it never did.

"Do you still have them," Booth had asked. "Don't tell me you plan to keep them. I'd like to think in an exchange, I'm worth more than a pair of sunglasses."

"Maybe she can give me her first born child, if things go well between the two of you," she suggested.

"Hannah, you're getting way ahead of yourself. We aren't even a couple - Bones and me," Booth said matter-of-factly. "Romantically, at least."

"Booth, life would be much less complicated if you two just had it out, threw caution to the wind, and ran off together."

"I'm not sure I'm done being pissed off at the whole female race," said Booth, defensively.

"For your sake and hers, I hope you take that gamble again - like you did before everything went to Hades for the two of you. Seeley, I know the last time broke your heart - but the odds are stacked in your favor this time. She's already told you she loves you - and wants no regrets. What are you waiting for?"

"Pardon me if I'm a little gun shy, Hannah. Strike three, and I'm out. How do I know she will EVER be ready?" Booth was nowhere near convinced he could go forward romantically with anyone anytime soon. "So what did the anthropologist say to the sunglass thief when she visited her in the hospital?"

"Perhaps you should be a little more careful in the stories you pursue in the future."

"What stories? What are you talking about?" Booth asked.

"No, that is what Temperance said to me that day in the hospital. Booth would be very unhappy if you died, she said."

"Really?" Booth had been unaware this had been going on between Hannah and Temperance.

"Once again, Seeley, she put your happiness above her own. Not may people would do that. Especially in her situation."

"Her situation?"

"Her situation. Whether she KNEW it or not at that time, she was already in love with you. Had been for a very long time. But that girl's got some serious barriers - and a resolve like I have NEVER seen. I'd hate to be across from her in a hostage negotiation situation. She's got ovaries of steel. That is what it takes to almost marry off the person you want for yourself because you think it will make them happy."

"She's got good reason," Booth had replied, "For the barriers, I mean."

"Yes, I know, Seeley," she said looking him straight in the eyes. "Anyone Temperance has ever loved has left her. And she wasn't willing to risk that with you. Wasn't wiling to risk losing you or hurting you. Not because she doesn't love you enough, maybe the opposite. She didn't trust herself not to hurt you or chase you away. The glimmer of hope here is that in turning you away as a lover, she was, in her own way, also preserving your relationship. The way I see it, that was an act of self-love as well as selfless love."

"So," prompted Booth, wanting to be sure he understood her correctly.

"So, Seeley, I think you have a shot of putting some chinks in her armor if you can help her to see that you can take care of yourself - she can stop protecting you from the heartless anthropologist who chases people away. Let YOU worry about you. And make it okay for her to do something for herself. But she also needs to know you aren't going anywhere. No matter what."

"No matter what."

"Yes, no matter what."


	47. Put Your Man Pants On, Seeley Booth

_Dear Readers, If this chapter looks familiar, it's because I accidentally uploaded it as Chapter 46. The real Chapter 46 is entitled "No Matter What," and it is an important chapter. Feel free to go back and read it, then reread this one, and go from there. Thank you for your patience! Maybe I have too many chapters to keep track of? ~ MoxiGirl_

**Chapter 47. Put On Your Man Pants, Seeley Booth**

"I know it was painful for you when we broke up," said Hannah at the Royal Diner just a couple days ago. It was an intense conversation. Sweets would have wet his pants in excitement, it was so intense, thought Booth.

"Especially since it was the third time you'd put your heart on the line. First with Rebecca, then with Temperance, then with me, but Seeley, you have been licking your wounds and acting like you're that kid who wasn't enough. That kid whose dad didn't love him enough to stop hitting him. You have been taking the punches and letting them keep you down."

"Where the heck is this coming from?" Booth was feeing a little uncomfortable at this point. This WAS beginning to feel a bit too much like therapy. Maybe Hannah was channelling Sweets. "Have you been talking to Sweets about me? Because that would be a breach of doctor-patient confidentiality and I could have his job," he had said, combatively.

"Just hear me out, Seeley! There is another way to look at your situation - a better way. A truer way. Look, you have had Rebecca with whom you made a beautiful child, who has since admitted that she made a mistake and that she did love you - but believes your moment together has past. Besides, you've both moved on."

"Regardless, she loves the father you are for Parker; thinks you are a wonderful dad."

"Then there's Temperance. No one with any eyes or ears would say that she doesn't love you. She told you that she had to protect you and her fear was that she couldn't love you as much as you loved her, or that she would hurt you, or , I don't know, that it would mess everything up."

"And then you had me. And I did love you. I do love you, but like I've just told you. This is not our love story, this isn't the love story of Booth and Hannah. Other things are planned for me."

"Despite what the little boy Seeley Booth thinks, this is not the story of a three time looser, this is a story of a very fortunate man who has had three wonderful loves. Yeah, the timing sucked and maybe the women weren't ready, but here's the thing, Seeley Booth. You were made a very strong man. At the right time, and in the right place, that strength and that loyalty, and that persistence … and your compassionate patience are what are going to get you to the remarkable relationship – that's out there for you."

It made sense that he had been angry a moment earlier. Hannah had struck a nerve when she called a spade a spade by mentioning the childhood insecurities that had reared their ugly head after he and Hannah broke up.

"$(#*&%#!," he had said at that point, tears in his eyes. He knew she was right. About all of it.


	48. I Hope You Feel My Love

**Chapter 48. I Hope You Feel My Love**

Booth had taken a break and gone to the bathroom to collect himself. When he returned, Hannah had paid the bill and was preparing to leave. "What a relief this conversation is over," thought Booth. Then Hannah opened her mouth …

"There are two more things I have to tell you, Seeley."

Booth groaned.

"Buck up, big guy. This won't take long - and I know you have to go. I just can't leave for Afghanistan without explaining something. So bear with me for five more minutes."

"Does it get worse?"

"Worse? Has this really been so bad? To recap,

You've always loved Temperance.

She's always loved you.

She gave up the antique phone, saved my life, warned me about breaking your heart, asked me not to die - she put your happiness above her own

I have always been truthful, but I can also be a bit of a conniving female k-9 when I think someone's treading on my territory.

She even gave you up instead of possibly hurting you

"I got hurt anyway," Booth interjected.

Hannah tosses him a smirk. When was he going to let that go?

"And now I'm territory? Property?" says Booth, eyes wide like he can't believe she'd consider him that.

"Welcome to the party, Seeley, women have lived with that distinction since Adam conked Eve on the head and dragged her out of the Garden of Eden," chuffed Hannah.

"Hey, Eve was the one who took a bite of the apple … "

"Because she was charmed by a sexy male snake … come on, everyone thinks that even if they don't admit it."

At the same time, they both realize the irony of what she just said. Eve. Charmed. By a sexy SNAKE. Interesting metaphor. They stared at each other, each expounding privately on the possible meaning, then looked at each other and laughed.

"You know what I meant," Hannah finally said with a patronizing smile. "Get your mind out of the gutter."

"Any way you slice it - it comes out smelling true," Booth replied in defense of his own imagination. "And you were the one who said it, not me."

"Are we up to date?" asked Hannah, continuing without waiting for a response from Booth.

"After that day in the hospital I thought, you know what? Bones has got brains, and she's gorgeous, and really, she's got you. But as willing as you were to have fun and to be with me while you were figuring that out, it was okay with me."

"When you told me that she said she was in love with you and didn't want to have any regrets, I worried that it was going to be the end of us. Because by then I was already in love with you. You could have left me and never looked back. I think I expected you to. But you didn't because that's not who you are. And I think you were still hurt, and angry, at the choices she'd made."

Booth sat silently for a little while, looking at the table. "Liz should really clean this table," he finally said.

"I was impressed that she didn't continue to pursue you after that," Hannah said, picking up where she'd left off. "That is not who she is. She doesn't play games. If I had been her, I wouldn't have cared if she were my BEST friend, I would have pursued you like Wile E. Coyote chasing the Road Runner. She was a good friend to me, Seeley. She was someone that I came to admire and respect."

"When I saw what was happening, that you were not going to leave me - but that you were still in love with her - I knew that I was gonna have to be the one to end our relationship … eventually. It's not that I am not the marrying kind, Seeley. It's that I'm not the kind of person who wants to marry someone who is in love with someone else," she tried to explain.

"I still don't understand how you could see all this - and I didn't," Booth says, shaking his head in confusion. "It can't be women's intuition, Hannah. It's gotta be more than that."

Hannah regard him with soft, understanding eyes. She reached across the table and put her hand on his forearm. He kept his arms crossed, not yet ready to conceded that this was real, not witch craft.

"Baby, I've been around the block a couple times. Let me tell you. I am a product of an unhappy union between a man and the woman he could never love the way he loved a different woman who was married to someone else, by the way. And it destroyed him. It's a long story – as they always are. But take it from me. The more interesting stories I know are the ones I will never write."

"Someday you really should," Booth suggested. It was nice to be talking about something that had nothing to do with him - even just for a moment. "There's your Pulitzer. Write what you least want anyone to read, and you'll be writing for all of humanity."

"Maybe someday," answered Hannah, piling her plates up and sweeping crumbs inter her hand, dumping them on top of her dirty plate. "Don't they ever clear the tables around here?"

"I've been watching Liz. She's looked over here several times - but I think she hasn't wanted to interrupt. She's pretty good at keeping her distance when it looks like she should. I wish people at the office were more like that …"

"Anyway … when you asked me to marry me, I felt like it was coming out of the blue and so that's why I said no. I have to say I do love you, but I am not as in love with you – I don't know that I'm capable to love someone as much as she loves you. And I hope that you will take this and will be able to do something about it. Put an end to the pity party, Seeley. Go get the girl. If you don't, not only are you a fool, but you are going to die a bitter old man. I know you."

"I know there are going to be challenges between the two of you, you are both stubborn, competitive, sacrificial, smart. You don't think you're smart, but you are."

"Have you seen who I hang out with? Booth said, incredulous.

Hannah ignored him and continued. "Here's the thing, Seeley, I don't know if you think anyone in your life has ever considered you smart, …"

"Thanks a lot, Hannah, wanna take a shot at my manhood while you're at it?" Booth tossed out.

"Temperance doesn't just think you're smart, Seeley, she knows you are. Here's this woman who's brilliant. She's a genius. And she recognizes in you an intelligence that she does not have. And I think it probably takes a genius to be able to do that." As hannah paused, she looked at Booth who was looking out the window, letting what she said sit there. She notices his eyes were glossy, about to spill over. She knew that intelligence was a tricky subject with Booth. As a jock, he never was recognized for his academic achievements, but he did very well in school.

His FBI track record was proof that there was something between his ears other than ear wax. That had to count for something, right?

Continuing, Hannah said, "I was so shocked when you proposed. I don't know if you did it to convince yourself that you were doing the right thing - or that our relationship wasn't a rebound relationship. I think you were afraid that I would feel I had been used as a substitute for what you really wanted. I don't know."

The night you asked me to marry you, I knew I had to say no. And I saw how devastated you were. I knew the greatest kindness I could do for you at that moment was to call your best friend, so that is what I did. I knew she would go find you. That is how she came to be at the bar with you that night."

Booth nodded his head. He knew Brennan hadn't just happened to show up at the right time. She'd told him Hannah had called.

"What you don't know, Seeley … " she paused for effect, looking straight into his eyes, pulling his arms out of their place crossed in front of him on the table, and holding his hands. "What you don't know is that Temperance also opened her home to me that night. She knew I needed a place to stay."

"What?" Booth whispered, thinking, "Wow."

"Before we hung up, before she left to be with you, she told me where she'd hide a house key, she put out fresh sheets and towels, and she let me stay the night at her place. I left in the morning before she got up. But I will never forget what a fine person she is for doing that for me."

They sat in silence for at least three minutes, no longer holding hands. The final punch delivered. Booth sat looking out the window, lost in his own thoughts. Hannah now shedding a couple tears. For her, this was her final gift to him. And the final goodbye. There was no turning back. And she now felt she could get on with her life. She had made restitution. She had done the right thing, the brave thing. She had put his happiness before her own. Realizing she learned that from Brennan, she could't help but let out a little laugh. "Thank you, Temperance Brennan," she said to herself.

Having collected himself, Booth was then pulled out of his reverie by her little laugh.

"Thanks for telling me this, Hannah. I …" He sighed, letting the weight of the world fall off his shoulders. "Wow. I don't know what to say. Thank you for loving ME enough to tell me this. You deserve the best. And I know you will find it."

Hannah answers, "I DO deserve the best – the best for me.

And for what it's worth, That's everything I wanted to tell you. There it is." Hannah pauses, then, "Are we good?"

"Are you kidding?" answers Booth sliding his chair back and standing up. He pulls her out of her chair into a warm embrace, rocking her back and forth just a little. The embrace was just as much for himself as it was for her. She had freed him from the negative view he'd had of himself and life since his third strike. Which she had pitched.

"We're more than good."


	49. Dazed and Confused

**Chapter 49. Dazed and Confused and Hyperventilating**

Hannah had made herself clear. In the process, Booth had gained closure. He was feeling free. That chapter, heck, that whole book of his life was over. "I'm BACK," he shouted out loud to Jimmy Page's twang-bow-wow-slither-slide as Robert Plant crooned "Dazed and Confused as only he could:

Been dazed and confused for so long it's not true.

Wanted a woman - never bargained for you.

Lots of people talking - few of them know

The soul of a woman was created below …

As Booth swung into parking garage A East, he could feel his pulse accelerate. He took several deep breaths. Over doing it in his excitement, he got a little light-headed. Then had to calm himself down even more. "Don't just jump on her. Don't just jump on her," he told himself over and over. He wanted to recount his entire conversation with Hannah to Bones. But he kept reminding himself of a conversation he'd had with Dr. Gordon Gordon.

"Yes, yes, she told you that she loves you - wants no regrets. But when she did that, it was not as great of a risk as you might think - because you were with Hannah. See Bones KNOWS you. She knows you've never cheated on any woman. That knowledge provided her with a cushion. I dare say, if you had never been with Hannah, Dr. Brennan may never have come to her own realization."

At the time, Booth hadn't wanted to hear that. He had just wanted something easy for once. "Just once, Sweet Jesus, can something by easy?" he'd actually said out loud to Gordon.

"My dear boy, what would be the fun in that? No, Mr. G Man, you enjoy the hunt."

Booth had groaned and dragged his fingers through his hair, almost pulling some of it out. Gordon had laughed.

"Well now you've done it," he'd said. "You've sprouted horns. How appropriate."

Booth tried fixing his hair - but gave up.

"So what do I do when my "burnt offering date" comes? Provided I'm not pissed at the world anymore." Booth punched out, spitting a bit, then whipping his chin. He and Brennan had written the dates that they each thought they should finally get together - on pieces of paper and burned them - without revealing to each other what they wrote.

"You will do what you always do, Agent Booth," he pronounced "Booth" so it rhymed with "smooth," rather than "tooth." Booth assumed that was part of the whole English Accent thing.

"You will follow her lead. You see, you are so in tune with her - its almost as if your sensitivity, your awareness of her feelings makes up for her lack of awareness of them."

Gordon had flipped a plump juicy burger and prepared to top it off with a slice of Gruère cheese sprinkled with some kind of herbs Booth did not recognize.

"So what you're saying is - even though she's told me about her feelings, there's still some kind of barrier there? And I still have to tread lightly?"

"Precisely, my boy."

"How on God's green earth will I ever know when she can handle her feelings? How will we ever make the next step without her running in the opposite direction again. 'Cuz I gotta tell you - if I put it out there, and I get shot down, Man, I'm done," he'd said, making the same hand gesture a baseball referee makes as he screams, "He's SAFE," after a guy lands on the base while ALMOST simultaneously being hit by the flying ball.

"I do believe, Agent Booth," There it was again, 'Agent Smooth-Booth', "That when she is ready, she will come to you." Gordon tilted his chin toward his chest, pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. It was the kind of look that conveyed that it took years of experience to be able to predict the behavior of a woman as complicated as Dr. Brennan. But that Gordon would be willing to bet a juicy steak on it.

"What?"

"Yes. She will come to you, mark my words."

"Hmmmm. So it may hit me out of no where?"

"Oh no. You will see it coming - if you pay attention."

"What do you mean? I am an EXPERT at paying attention …"

"But do you know what to look for?"

"Well, I …"

"Would you like some suggestions?"

"By all means, hit me."

"You've mentioned Dr. Brennan uses a … detached … clinical … vocabulary."

"She says things that most people wouldn't say, for propriety's sake, yeah."

"Even when she's referring to sexual matters?"

"Especially when she's talking about that! She says things like 'I assume you've had sexual intercourse' or 'coitus' or 'I've always thought we'd be quite compatible because we both have great stamina' or 'love is just a confusing rush of hormones or pheromones, or something - that hypnotize you into thinking you need to be with a person. She says it's all part of the human imperative ...

"Quite right, quite right. Marvelous," Gordon said, observing Booth calmly. "Well, that my dear, dear boy, is an anti-intimacy mechanism." He lets Booth work that out silently.

"You mean, it provides distance - when she's talking about the most intimate experience a man and woman can have," he guesses, the light coming on.

"What is it you say? Bingo, Baby?"

"Yeah. SO all I gotta do is get her to stop talking so clinically about sex …"

"Sincerely, Agent Booth, have you heard nothing I've said this whole evening?"

"What? What'd I miss?"

"You won't have to do anything - you SHOULDN'T do anything," said Gordon, sounding only slightly exasperated - because he really wasn't at all - but he did want to emphasize the point so Booth would get it.

"Huh. Not sure I know how to do that."

"Stop thinking so hard. I predict that when she's ready she'll make some kind of a declaration. And it will be emotional - not logical. Not like 'hey baby lets go ahead and give this relationship a try and by the way can you pass the bangers and mash?'"

"Really, because that's how the majority of our conversations go, you know."

"Really …." says Gordon, dragging out the word and pausing long enough, a twinkle in his eye, for Booth to know he's being teased.

"So will it be like, I love you - or something like that? Is that what you mean?"

"Oh, I dare it will be a little more emphatic, more impassioned - like perhaps, I cannot live without you."

"Oh," Booth had said. His throat suddenly tight, pulse thumping in his ears.

"Every day I work so hard, bringing home my hard earned pay. Try to love you baby, but you push me away. Don;t know where you're going - only know where you've been …Don;t know where you're going, only know just where you've been. Sweet little baby, I want you again."


	50. She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not

**Chapter 50. She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not, or A Rose By Any Other Name**

Booth's cell rang Brennan's rendition of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" as Booth sat in the driver's seat, still in the parking lot. It was 7:30. She shouldn't have arrived yet.

"My luck her flight is the first one in history to arrive fifteen minutes early" he says to the empty car.

"Bones! Are you here already?" Booth jumps out of the SUV, slams the door shut, noticing the solid THWANK it makes as it locks into place. Solid, manly, he thinks. What a sweet vehicle!

He beeps the doors locked and pockets the fob, heading down the row of mostly SUVs toward the glass doors of baggage claim for Concourse A-East.

"Uh, no. We'll be landing in about fifteen minutes," she says looking at her watch and returning her seat to the upright position.

"Yep, flight on time?"

"Is this the same concourse you came in on? A-East?"

"Yeah, or something close to that, why?" Booth negotiates through a tide of arriving travelers pulling their wheeled luggage behind them.

"Is there a lot of walking from the concourse to the parking lot?" Brennan takes her bag from under the seat in front of her and sets it on the adjoining seat to her right. Whenever possible, like tonight, she prefers to have a window seat so she has somewhere to look when she doesn't feel social. Tonight she lucked out even more - the seat next to her was vacant.

"Nope … it's a straight shot. Get off the plane, take a right down the concourse, walk through Ticketing, take the skyway over the SEPTA train tracks. The skyway dumps you into baggage claim. The garage, Garage A East, will be right there. RIght in front of you."

"Good. No shuttle or train rides?"

"No shuttle or train rides."

"Okay," she says, relaxing with a sigh. "I'll meet you in the garage. I'm still so tired. I slept on the plane - but that is never restorative! I think the last time I got a good night's sleep was … when was that? Oh!" She realizes it was the night she cried herself to sleep in his arms - but now that she'd already brought it up - she might as well finish what she was saying. "It was the night Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray was killed. The night I stayed at your place - with you."

"No one does hospitality like Booth does hospitality," he answers, grinning at his own memories of that night and the next morning. He thinks to himself, "Wait - I'm supposed to be slowing my pulse, not accelerating it - these thoughts are not helping."

"Really?" replies Brennan, also struggling to sound casual. "Do you let all your house guests into your bed … uh … room?" She closes her eyes and chastises herself for encouraging this line of discussion.

"We do aim to please, ma'am," he says breathing as quietly as he can into the phone.

Brennan says nothing. Where to go from here? What is there to say now? Nothing, she tells herself. She knows Booth can't stand lulls in a conversation. He'll be compelled to say something eventually.

"Bones, I'm coming in to meet you - I'll get your bags for you," he tells her.

She smiles at her fulfilled prediction.

"That won't be necessary, Booth. Like you said, it's a straight shot. I'm an able bodied adult human female. I can get my own luggage."

"Bones - you've had a long day. A long couple of days. I can't thank you enough for stepping in with Parker. This is the least I can do. I'll meet you at Ticketing, right outside security check."

"Well, if you put it that way, you win …"

"God, I love it when you say that."

"The infrequency of the occurrence is what makes it so enjoyable when it does happen."

"Not true, Bones. Not true. Not true about all things, at least."

"Anthropologically speaking, rarity and difficulty of acquisition have dictated desirability in all cultures since the stone age," she says, matter-of-factly. "That which only few may possess becomes the world."

"Who is that, Shakespeare? Pope John Paul? Better yet, John, Paul, Ringo and George?"

"No," she answers seriously. "Temperance Brennan."

"Oh. Quoting yourself now, Bones. Isn't that a bit … um …."

"Ostentatious? Pretentious? It would be if it wasn't valid. In this case it is."

"Whatever," says Booth, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "I'm at Ticketing."

"Good, see you soon," Brennan pushes the "End" button on her phone and slips the phone into her bag.

"Booth snaps his phone shut and takes a look around. He's got about ten minutes till she deplanes. Spying a kiosk selling roses, he buys one on a whim. Why not?

Thinking better of it - he walks away from the kiosk and tosses the rose in the garbage. "What am I thinking? That is NOT something I would usually do."

His phone rings again. "Booth."

"Booth, it's me again. Did you say we have dinner plans tonight?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I am really exhausted. Is there any way we can get out of it? I want nothing more than to sink into a hot bathtub and then smack the sack," she says yawning.

"Hit the sack, Bones. And, no, we are not canceling dinner. We're going to Dr. Larrinaga's house. His wife Carmen made salmon covered in a delicate lemon pepper marinade," he says, adopting the voice of a Maître 'd.

"That does sounds delicious, but you are personally responsible for keeping me vertical and conscious. Does the Booth hospitality encompass that set of amenities?"

"Like I said, we aim to please."

"Good. You'll earn your tip tonight, garçon," she says, yawning again and stretching her legs out in front of her as the plane begins its descent."See you in a minute."

"Kay," he answers, pacing Ticketing. He returns to the garbage can, peeks inside, looks around to see if anyone is watching, and retrieves the rose. "All women like flowers, right?"

Fifteen minutes later, she's landed, deplaned, and made her way through concourse A-East to Ticketing. Booth spots her as she lumbers through the line of passengers carrying a large bag and dragging her carry-on suitcase. Her clothing is wrinkled, her hair is disheveled, her make-up has mostly melted off, and she's never looked more beautiful as far as he's concerned. He can't help but smile broadly, his eyes twinkling. Now he's glad he picked the rose out of the garbage can ...

Brennan doesn't see Booth at first. She stops walking and cranes her neck to see past all the other passengers flowing around and past her - as if she were a rock in the middle of a shallow creek.

Booth watches her for a moment, not moving, barely able to contain himself. As he watches her, he notices that she looks like a different person. With a satisfied smile, he admits to himself that she is not the one who is different, he is. He wants to see the look on her face when she sees him. He's going to let her come to him. This may not be what Gordon Gordon meant, but it sounds like a good idea to Booth at the moment.

As the throng of passengers begins to thin, Brennan continues looking for Booth. The moment she spots him, her whole body relaxes and feels energized at the same time. He's looking at her intently, smiling as their eyes meet. Her stomach does a little flip and she starts walking in his direction, exhausted, but happy. Her tired shoulders drop, her bag doesn't seem so heavy anymore, and without even thinking, she heads toward him like a speed walker.

Booth is overcome by a feeling he can only describe as excited contentment. "I had forgotten what happy feels like …" he says to himself, realizing it for the first time. Surprised by the … relief … he feels at having her here in Philly, about to have dinner together at his new friend's house, about to work a case together, he begins moving toward her, never losing eye contact.

They meet in the middle and Booth embraces Brennan, her arms still at her sides hanging onto her bag and suit case.

"Booth, your crushing me!" she complains, laughing. "Happy to see you too, partner."

"Oh, it's just so good to see a familiar face," he teases her. "Even though it is a very tired face. It's a beautiful and welcome face nonetheless."

Brennan smiles at him, feeling a little … charmed … by his comment. "It is quite reassuring to see your face as well. I find that I feel like something is missing when we are apart" She says.

I am so in love with you, he thinks, but "I was just about to say the same thing," is what comes out of his mouth. He takes her suit case from her and offers to relieve her of her bag. "Hey, wait till you see the sweet ride I've rented!"

"I can carry my own bag, Booth. I'm tired, not injured," asserts Brennan. "What is that?" She points at the rose.

For a moment he thinks, "Whoops, bad idea?" Buoyed by his renewed faith in humanity though, he holds it out to her, saying, "I thought you'd appreciate something beautiful and sweet-smelling after breathing stale airplane air for over an hour." He grins and winks at her as they walk through the doors into the parking garage.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" she asks suspiciously, narrowing her eyes and hoping it has nothing to do with his tête-à-tête with Hannah yesterday morning. Something has definitely changed. "You are acting strangely, Booth."

"Just happy to be together. Happy to have a case. Happy to not be in D.C." he says, putting his arm around her and squeezing her to him as they walk down the row of parked vehicles like two very old, very dear, very attracted-to-each-other friends.

She smiles openly up at him and says, "Ditto, partner," winking back at him, but not the exaggerated, mock wink she usually gives him. This is a real wink, a charming wink, a warm wink.

"You're getting better at the winking, Bones," he compliments her. "I'm telling you, it takes practice. But that one was pretty good."

"Really?"

"Curled my toes."

"Hmmm … fascinating. "


	51. The Bigger the Boy, The Bigger the Toy

**Chapter 51. The Bigger the Boy, the Bigger the Toy**

"Now, let me introduce you to my little friend," Booth says, a la Al Pacino in Scarface. Stopping behind the Steel Green Metal Chevy Suburban SUV 2WD 1500 LTZ with 326 horses under the hood, he depresses a button on the key fob, remotely starting the engine. "How about this beauty? Huh? Nice, right?"

Brennan's jaw is hanging open. He can't tell if she's impressed or ...

She stands outside the car patiently while Booth backs the SUV out of the parking space and parks it in the middle of the aisles of parked cars. She's so tired her eyes feel like they have sand in them, but when she rubs them and tries to see - it's like her eyes are covered in slimy opaque plastic. She can't remember ever feeling this tired. She yawns and a dog-like, lioness-like sound erupts from somewhere in her chest. Booth had been pointing out something in the back of the car which she had no interest in and they are both surprised by the loud yawn-like whatever that was.

Both stops talking and looks at her, surprised. "That was attractive." he says.

Brennan looks at him quizzically for a moment, says, "I assume that is sarcasm as I you must mean exactly the opposite of what you just said?"

"Um … Yes," he replies, still looking at her. He relieves her of her bag and suit case, placing them gently in to the cargo hold.

"Look at all this space," Booth tells her, and continues.

All she hears is, " bla bla bla volume bla bla bla security straps … bla bla bla auto-locking … look at that, huh?" Brennan stands there, happy to no longer have anything hanging off her shoulders or weighing her hands down. She stares at him, noticing he's expecting some kind of encouraging response. So she makes one up.

"This is amazing, Booth. Quite Impressive."

"Wait until you see what we've got up here," he leads her toward the front of the SUV and opens the passenger-side door. She follows him slowly as he launches into another sales pitch.

"Now, look at this …" he continues. "She's got a heated, ventilated bucket driver seat with six 12-way memorized power height …" he drones on, excited, while she stands there like a zombie.

"… power lumbar and power tilt. She's fully loaded with a Bose audio system with ten speakers, AM/FM radio, CD player/MP3, and a radio data system satellite radio. She's got Driver and passenger heated power door mirrors …"

Brennan, as muddled as her exhausted brain is, tries to think of how she can shut him up and get this show on the road.

" … Electric foldable mirrors, a navigation system with full map and voice instruction, Voice-activated radio, phone and navigation system …" Booth continues, looking from the interior, then back to Brennan, then back to the interior, doing his best Vanna White impression.

The next time he looks this way, decides Brennan ...

" … and a 40" x 108" cargo area that opens remotely," he looks toward her and is almost knocked over as she throws herself toward him and he automatically catches her.

"You can hug me now. My arms are free," she says, more leaning on him than hugging him. " … with a touch of the fob button, woah, you are so soft." He squeezes her to him. It had been so long since he'd really paid attention when he hugged her. And laying in bed beside a person isn't the same as wrapping your arms fully around them as they lean into you.

"Of course I'm soft, Booth. I'm covered in adipose tissue and connective musculature - which right now are flaccid from fatigue," she says matter-of-factly. "Now help me up into this seat."

He releases her and offers her his hand, which she takes and uses as leverage to get herself into the passenger seat. As he starts to mention, once again, the seat controls she grabs the door and slams it shut, not even looking at him.

"… did I mention the alloy wheels with 130 inch wheel base?"

Revived slightly by the breeze from the air conditioner blowing into her face, Brennan looks at Booth as he drives them onto the Interstate. He hasn't said anything since he got into the car.

"Booth, this is an impressive vehicle," she begins.

"I know, right? The guy said it was pretty much right off the assembly line."

"Have you gotten a raise or … has the FBI changed their travel budget?"

"Don't worry about it, Bones. We might be here for a little while and I thought we deserved a little happiness in the form of 326 horses under the hood at 5,300 rpms, and the 348 pounds of torque at 4,400 rpms."

"Hm. If this is happiness for you, I think I need to rethink my Christmas present strategy."

"Lets just enjoy the comfort. Hey, we're the crack crime-solving team of Booth and Bones. Even Obama wants us to enjoy the best. I mean, he would if he knew anything about us."

She gives him a look that conveys, "Aren't you going a little overboard?"

Booth smiles a goofy, proud smile and drives on.

No one says anything during the next five minutes while Brennan formulates some thoughts that she'd like to share, but is attempting not to. She can't resist, and opens her mouth.

"You are aware that the automobile industry feeds on the insecurities of their primary consumer."

"What? What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, it has been postulated, and rightly so I might add, that the contemporary male psyche is rife with concerns of deficiency in performance prowess, social stature, and physiological superiority. Compensation over the centuries has been attempted in varying creative constructs. For the Mayans, it was the largest wife, the greatest number of children. For the Romans it was the biggest sword, the biggest chariot and jousting equipment. In the '60's whole countries competed with the size an strength of their militaristic weapons - who had the biggest missile with the greatest traveling distance to impact."

"Ahhh. See? Why do you have to go and say something like that, Bones?"

"What? I didn't make this up - it's well known. And documented."

"So, what are you trying to say, that I have insecurity issues? That I'm trying to make up for small reproductive organs?"

"I'm just saying," Brennan says quietly as she turns to look out the window.

"Okay - no more talk about small … male … inadequacies … or junk … or whatever! I just wanted to provide a comfortable ride for my partner here - who's had a couple of long days - and deserves some pampering for all the fine work she does for our fine nation. And this time I think Uncle Sam couldn't argue with that. Especially since we got Broadsky."

"Pampering? So this was all for me," she asks,

"Well," he pauses, caught. "I enjoy it as well …. but no more talk about … that other stuff. Can't you just relax and enjoy?"

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Enjoy."

"That's right."

No one says anything for a moment as they each retreat to their opposite corners of the boxing ring.

"Can I say one more thing?"

"What now," Booth says, unable to hide the frustration from his voice. "Nothing about the tiny bits or the anthropological morphism stuff whatever. Or picking on my choice of vehicles."

"Fine."

"So?"

"So?"

"What were you going to tell me?"

"Well, did I mention that my doorman agreed to accept the delivery of your new television?"

"That's great. When's it coming?"

"The manager at Plasma World - or what ever it's called - said the reason the delivery has been delayed several times is that the manufacturer is out of stock."

"WHAT?"

"Just wait."

"Wait - do you know how long I have been researching those things? How many hours I've spent on the internet and talking to friends about their stuff?"

"You have friends?"

"I have a couple. But that's not the point!"

"Keep your eyes on the road, Booth. Maybe I should drive …"

"You? You're basically comatose. Forget it. I can't believe this."

"You do have a point …"

Booth nods and continues looking out the front windshield, hitting his right palm against the top of the steering wheel several times. "Jeez, no Superbowl party at my house this year …. "

"Are you going to let me finish?"

"Christ, there's more?"

"Isn't it a sin to use God's son's name when you're not actually praying, Booth?"

"Oh, but I am praying, Buttercup. Praying this nightmare will be over and I'll get the stupid tv I ordered!"

"You have an interesting way of praying …"

"So - what else?"

"What else what?"

"You said there was more …"

"Oh, yeah. I convinced the manager to upgrade your purchase - free of charge," she says, raising her eyebrows and her voice for emphasis, "to the 103 inch model."

Booth is stunned. "WHAT?

"EYES ON THE ROAD, BOOTH!"

"Are you kidding me? Say you aren't joking. Please, please, please."

"I rarely joke - you know that - and it usually doesn't come out right. No, I am not joking."

"You're serious?" he says looking back and forth between the road and Brennan.

"Serious as a heart attack."

"Wow. Bones. I can't believe you did that." Once again he's stunned. He stares out the front windshield, shaking his head.

"Well, when you're happy, I'm happy," she replies, looking at him with a sheepish little smile.

Booth melts, smacks his right hand against his chest like he's been shot in the heart.

"Bones, you slay me," he says, looking at her in her eyes, holding contact for longer than is probably safe for someone driving 326 horses.

"You're mocking me," she says, looking away and out her door window.

"I'm not," he pleads. "I really mean it. Hey."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Okay." She smiles her little innocent smile at him.

He smiles back.

"Equilibrium is restored," she says. Then remembers something.

"Booth, the best part - the 103" Panasonic flat screen?"

"Yeah," he says, warily.

"It comes with an even bigger DONGLE." She bites her lips to stifle a laugh.

"Oh, you're just loving this, aren't you?" he says with a chuckle.

"How could I not? It is quite humorous …" she says, letting the laugh reverberate throughout the cab of the SUV. Booth relents and joins in the laughter.


	52. Shangri La On The Horizon

**Chapter 52. Shangri-La on the Horizon**

Booth and Brennan arrive at the Larrinaga household, a light blue two story house nestled into a neighborhood resplendent with leafy green mature trees that reach across the residential streets to meet in the middle, forming a leafy canopy. The front yards have gardens and the occasional two person swing glider. These are not big, new, manicured, homes and lawns. The houses are moderate to small in size and not everyone has a two car garage. The front yard gardens are neat and lush, probably planted ten to fifteen years ago by the same people who live there now.

Before they even get out of the car, Booth turns to her, "Now Bones, Larrinaga is a talkative one … and Carmen is busy with the kids most of the time - but she seems very nice. And I like them. So could you … you know … not bring up vertebra, viscera, bone fragments, putrefaction - stuff like that while we're eating? And, whatever you do, do not say anything about sexual intercourse or old tribes - anything that will make them uncomfortable."

"Booth, I can handle myself! But you forget that Dr. Larrinaga is a scientist like me and we might get into a scientific conversation that could possibly require mention of realities you mere mortals find distasteful."

"Well, try to reserve the creepy stuff for AFTER dinner, if at all possible. They have small children."

"Hey! You've seen me get along with Parker very well. I will not say anything to scar the two children. As far as Camille goes, I have no contact or experience with soccer moms as a whole, so I will simply be pleasant and do what comes naturally."

"No! That's exactly what I DON'T want you to do - instead, do the opposite of what comes naturally to you, regarding Carmen, that is."

"Booth, I will not eat steak. Nor will I put recyclables in the trash can. Nor will I stand by and allow someone to present as fact something that is just not true."

"These are nice people, Bones. I'm just saying, if she asks for help with the dishes, don't start talking about the subservient role of women throughout history. If she asks you to help with anything, it really means she wants to get the two of you alone to chat - out of male earshot.

"Ahhhhhh. I see. Thank you for telling me that. Interesting."

"Also, she will be watching to see how you interact with the kids - if you're good with the kids you'll have her respect immediately."

"All good to know. Man, I don't get how you can tell this stuff - but seldom are you wrong."

"What was that?" says Booth, cupping his hand to his ear.

"What? What are you doing? Did you hear something?"

"It was the sweetest sound - like angels on gossamer wings." Now he's going overboard and she knows it has something to do with her.

"Please say what you just said," he asks.

"You mean: What? What are you doing? Did you hear something?"

"No - before that …"

"Was it … I don't get how you can tell this stuff … "

"Go on. A little further," he coaxes.

She can't put it off any longer, so might as well just say it.

"By any chance was it …. lets see, how did that go? … something about you being seldom wrong?"

"Now see, there it is again, those gossamer wings." He looks dreamily up at the sky and gets out of the SUV.

Looking around and breathing in the fresh early evening air, Booth says to no one in particular, "I could really get used to a place like this."

Bones sees his reaction to the environment around him and recognizes in him man's anthropological need for establishing and marking territory. She half imagines him cutting through the yard to urinate around the perimeter, thereby marking his territory. She stifles a snort, not wanting to ruin his moment.

"You know, Booth," she starts, walking around to the front of the car, "I could really see you here. Couple kids in the back yard. SUV getting washed in the driveway. Bikes laying in the grass of the front lawn," she sighs a satisfied sign, dreamy.

"Really?" he looks at her surprised. "You could see me here - all domesticated?"

"Oh there's never been a question of your ability to establish and maintain your own little fiefdom, your own hive - though I still contend hives only have queens and drones but I'll let that slide," She smiles and walks the rest of the way around the car, joining him to take it all in. "Yes, I could definitely see you having your own little Shangri-La in a place like this.

"Could you see yourself living in Shangri-La?" he asks her, knowing that this is an important question, but trying to make light of it.

"Booth, Shangri-La is a fictional place created by James Hilton in Lost Horizon as a mystical, harmonious valley, a permanently happy land, isolated from the outside world. It doesn't really exist."

"Bones, just be with me here. Don't be yourself - just imagine that a place like that did exist. Can you see it?"

"Would there be murders to solve and criminals to grill and intimidate?"

"We'll import them," he says, smiling and putting this arm around her shoulders as they both stare up into what they can see of the sky between the leaves of the trees.

"I could try to imagine it, Booth, but I'd rather live in a neighborhood like this one," she says smiling, knowing this response will make both of them happy.

"That's a start, Bones."

"But I'd only want to be there if you were there," she says, because it is true.

"I'd only want to be there if YOU were there, Bones. Problem solved!"

"You are the epitome of a romantic at heart, Mr. Alpha Male Special Agent Seeley Joseph Booth," she chides him gently, putting her arm around his waist.

"Who says there's anything wrong with that?" he counters.

"Who indeed," she says, still looking at the sky. "No complaints here. I find it … refreshing," she says turning to him and smiling, her eyes crystal clear, the color of the sky. If it were any other man, she thinks, this would be the perfect moment for a long, delicious kiss. Her heart beats a little faster. Unfortunately there's still the Hannah issue to contend with.

Looking down at her, he wonders if she's thinking the same thing he is, which you and I, Dear Reader, know he is … and he's also thinking of Hannah, but for very different reasons than Bones is.

Almost as if on queue, Brennan starts to hyperventilate a little. Her face is all of a sudden red and she's sweating through her shirt, the result of a heat flash.

"Booth," she gasps, "I need to sit down!"

"What is going on?" he says, concerned, his eyes as big as saucers. He catches her by the arm just before she falls. He puts her arm around his neck and helps her walk to the front door.

"Enrique!" he shouts, knocking on the door and ringing the bell at the same time. He is a bit freaked out by this turn of events.

"Booth, get me a paper bag and a glass of … water … and I need to sit down - BUT NOT ON THE FLOOR!"

"Enrique, you heard her …." Enrique runs into the kitchen where Carmen is putting the salmon into a decorative serving plate.

"I'm not sure. Something is wrong with Dr. Brennan," he tosses back to her as he runs back out the door with the paper bag and a glass of water.

Carmen follows behind him with a clean cool washrag for Brennan's forehead.

By the time the Larrinagas get to the living room Brennan is sitting upright once again, having had her head between her knees the whole time Enrique was running for supplies.

"Are you alright, Sweetie Pie?" asks Carmen, elbowing herself to the front of the group of onlookers. "This is for your head. What happened? I'm Carmen, by the way, Enrique's wife. Has this happened before. Are you pregnant? Are you diabetic?"

"CARMEN!" admonishes Enrique.

"WHAT?" she answers back with equal vigor. "It's a legitimate question when a woman her age gets light-headed, has the sweats, goes all flush like that."

Enrique shrugs, and shakes his head in apology to Booth.

"You're looking much better now. When did you last eat? Are you getting good sleep? Can I get you anything? Do you want some iced tea?"

Brennan, finally breathing at a normal pace, finally speaks, "I am most certainly not pregnant. Not diabetic. I last ate at lunch, though I didn't eat much. You can get me another cool glass of water. Ice tea would be even better." She smiles at Carmen who reminds her of someone she cant put a finger on. "Thank you so much, Carmen. Can you take me to the kitchen? I'd like to put my face in the freezer for a moment, if that isn't completely inappropriate …?"

"By all means, by all means … and what a great idea. That will cool you right off. Follow me. You need help? Are you steady on your feet."

"I can walk just fine," Brennan answers. "I apologize for the drama."

"Don't even mention it, Dr. Brennan."

"You can call me Temperance."

"Temperance, there's always some kind of drama going on around here - did Agent Booth mention we have two children?"

"Yes, he did," Brennan said brightening up.

"Yes, Jack is nine and Anna is five. Drama Queens both of them. Wait five minutes and you'll witness it yourself!"

"I think I'm good now," says Brennan closing the freezer door.

"Do you know what happened?"

"I saw my physician yesterday - or was it today? Anyway, I'm healthy as a horse. Maybe it's nothing to worry about. I'm supposed to pay attention to when they occur."

"If you ask me, it's a panic attack of some sort. In my parents' day, they called it swooning," she offers with a knowing glance.

"I guess that would explain it … "


	53. Love, It Wasn't My Fault

Chapter 53 Love, It Wasn't My Fault

Carmen shows Brennan to the bathroom right off the kitchen so she can splash some water on her face and do anything else she need to do.

"Temperance - you just take all the time you need," suggests Carmen through the bathroom door. "There's no schedule here. Just a couple of friends sitting down for a meal. Whenever you are ready, we'll go back to the living room where I am sure the guys are talking about whatever guys talk about. Cars, or sports, or computers … cars."

"Dongles?" Carmen hears Brennan say through the door.

"Yes! Even dongles. And I don't even want to know what that means!"

"You know, you remind me of someone I know - but I just can't put a finger on it."

"Maybe we knew each other in a past life."

"Oh, I don't believe in past lives."

"That's okay, I do. And neither of our belief systems have any effect on the existence or nonexistence of past lives anyway - or anything else for that matter. We are inconsequential. So it's not worth getting all worked up about. Know what I mean?"

"I DO know what you mean. And I agree. In my work I deal with things that can be proven, usually beyond a reasonable doubt. Scientists who research and theorize about that which cannot be proven or disproven baffle me. How can one live without results?"

"I … do not …. know, Temp. Can I call you Temp?"

"Sure. Just don't call me late for dinner, ha!" she laughs at her own joke. "I'm sorry, my dad used to say that all the time when someone asked to shorten his name - Max or Maxi or Maxi million - I never really understood what was so funny about it. But there you have it."

"You have everything you need in there?" asks Carmen.

"Yes, I am fine," says Brennan splashing cold water on her face. "Could you please tell Booth that I am okay. There's nothing to be concerned about."

"Sure. Be right back," Carmen leaves the kitchen and is back in less than three minutes. "Enrique would like to know if you are up for a little wine - or something a little stiffer?"

"Ohhhhhh - a really cold beer would be good right now," Brennan answers, taking a break and sitting on the toilet lid, her elbow leaning on the paper roll and her forehead in her hand. WHAT is going on with me, she thinks to herself. Ruling out food allergies - because she hadn't eaten anything. Ruling out ovulation - because she'd just had her period, peri menopause was ruled out by the doctor. THis doesn't seem to be neurological, but it wouldn't hurt to get checked out.

Carmen delivers the drink order to Enrique and returns to the kitchen just as Brennan is closing the bathroom door behind her. "Oh, don't close that door - the kids will think there's someone in there are refuse to use it until I prove otherwise," she explains.

"How do you do it, Carmen?" Brennan asks.

"Do what?"

"Always have the kids at the forefront of your mind - always be one step ahead of them?"

"Always put the garbage can on top of the kitchen counter?"

"Precisely. How do you know what to do?"

"It takes a lot of planning. I talk to myself all day long. I ask myself, what can I do while the kids are awake or, better yet, when they're asleep, is it more important to shower or nap if I get a free half hour, do I have enough in my bag to entertain the kids if we get stuck in the grocery store check out line or rush hour traffic, they want ice cream - but what has their sugar intake already been today, do I have enough snacks to keep the munchies/whineys/tantrums away?"

"Wow," says Brennan, visibly impressed. "I have enough trouble taking care of just one person - I can't imagine being responsible for two whole other people in addition."

"I find comfort in knowing that women have raised children for centuries. Some successfully, some not so successfully. But the population hasn't turned out too awfully terrible. And if all those women survived it, surely I can too."

"That is a very anthropological approach, Carmen. I can respect that."

"Thanks, but I'm no hero, Temp. I have many friends that I lean on, and my sisters. Enrique does more than most husbands, so I feel fortunate to have his supportive. Oh, and my moms' group is always there for me. I could never do all this on my own."

"And the rest is all trial and error, Sweetie Pie. Trial and error. Emphasis on the error part," Carmen leans back against a counter top and takes a moment just to look at Brennan. "No one is really born a natural mother," she says cocking her head to one side. "That's a bunch of HORSE PUCKIES created by men to manipulate women into being responsible for all things domestic - including birthing, clothing, feeding, educating, loving, disciplining, defending and supporting the offspring. Which, of course comes on top of clothing, feeding, training, loving, obeying, satisfying, and supporting the man of the house."

"When did you figure all that out?" Brennan asks, intrigued. "And was it too late by then?"

"Oh, I knew about it well before I fell in love with Enrique. Did you know that many cultures, tribes, and communities in human history were matriarchal societies? I could get you a list, if you'd like to see it. I did my master's thesis on this topic."

"Oh, no, Carmen. I'm quite well read on this topic myself. Being an anthropologist …" she chuckles.

"Oh I am so sorry! Forgive me for running on like this. Enrique rarely has friends over that I connect with. It's nice to have someone here who understands and is interested."

"So … knowing everything you know - the denigration of women to the status of domestic, nursemaid, housekeeper, geisha, teacher, cheerleader, servant … not to mention the inequitable expectations regarding your financial independence which. in most cases, disappears … You were aware of all that …"

"Yes, fully. Still am."

"Yet you Still chose to get married? That baffles me," Brennan says, a look of confusion on her face.

"Oh, that. Well, I'm not responsible for that - I was drugged."

"What? You mean Enrique used gamma-hydroxybutyric acid or benzodiazepines (Roofies) to get you to marry him?"

"No, silly. Try adrenaline, dopamine, fenylethylamine, endorphin and oxytocin. All drugs my own body used against me to get me to participate in the continuance of the human race."

"No way!" Brennan can't believe she's on the receiving end of these comments. It's like she's talking to herself, a much more emotional and lively self. One that is MARRIED.

"Yes way! I was drugged. It wasn't my fault!" Carmen is flashing a fabulous smile and enjoying every moment of this conversation.

"Temp, all my friends think I'm crazy for looking at life this way, but come on, look at the woman in her right mind would willingly choose marriage and all that other stuff unless she was in a drug-induced stupor that lasted through a courtship, an engagement, and the first five weeks of marriage? Seriously."

"Your point is valid considering the evidence. I concur. Then why have you stayed married, now that the adrenaline, dopamine, fenylethylamine, endorphin and oxytocin have worn off?"

"Oh, they haven't completely worn off. I have surges every now and again. But the thing is I love this man. He is a good and wonderful man. He's a fantastic father to our children. He is a beautiful man … and he loves me. He loves me - all the time. I don't know how he does it, because I can be a major witch. Yet, he always finds me beautiful. And he says the sweetest things that melt me when I least expect it. Not real frequently, mind you. But … I am in love with him - and THAT Is over and above the adrenaline, dopamine, fenylethylamine, endorphin and oxytocin."

Brennan stands there in the kitchen letting everything Carmen has just said swim around in her head.

"I was a very independent woman when I met Enrique, still am, actually. However, being with him long enough - and truly KNOWING him … and then loving him … I had to make a choice. Everyone else was getting married and having babies. I was the outlier. So I chose between guaranteed independence, self-sufficiency, financial freedom, mobility, and many other things - but no Enrique. That was choice number one. Choice number two was living with the potentiality of losing my identity, my figure, my professional position, my financial freedom, my independence, my life as I knew it - but getting to have Enrique be a part of it in a committed, legal marriage. What I have found is that I have lost very little, very little. And gain so much more. More than I ever could have on my own. And I don't just mean babies, Temperance."

"I've talked you rear off enough for two evenings! Let's go see how the guys are doing …" Carmen says.

Brennan doesn't say anything at first, she's deep in thought though still also very tired.

"What is your masters degree in?" Brennan asks.

"MBA: Corporate Law, emphasis on contract negotiations."

"And how does your thesis of matriarchal cultures fit under that umbrella?"

"All politics mirror mankind's first politicking. The battle between the sexes. If you study historically how the women and men negotiated their roles through out the centuries, you understand the base issues at the core of ALL negotiations. It's quite fascinating. At least it was to me," she finishes.

Brennan starts to yawn and puts her fist in front of her mouth. "It is clear that this topic is fascinating to you. I find that I am enjoying this conversation more than I have any others between two women in quite some time."

"And here I thought I was putting you to sleep!" They both laugh. "Let's join the men before they get out the cigars and stink up the place …"

"I love a good cigar …"

"I'm not gonna touch that with a ten foot pole …" smirks Carmen, grinning slyly.

"CARMEN! You're horrible!" replies Brennan, slapping her on the arm.

"No, I'm FUN," Carmen replies with a twinkle in her eyes.


	54. Snuggles Adopts Seal

**Chapter 54 Snuggles Adopts Seal, Carmen Charms Temp**

Carmen and Brennan return to the living room where Booth and Enrique are trying to hold a conversation while two energetic children jump all over them. Jack, the nine year old, is up side down sliding down his father's back. Anna is finally curled up on Booth's lap in the fetal position, licking the back of her hand, while Booth rubs her back and pats her head. The two men continue talking like this is an every day occurrence. Which maybe it is when you're a parent. Brennan reminds herself that Booth is a parent. Even though Brennan only sees the occasional snippet of it, there is a lot of parenting that goes on between Booth and Parker that she just never sees. There has to be. "I wonder what it would be like to see Parker and Booth handle a difficult situation - a matter of discipline, maybe. Or Parker being obnoxious and irritating Booth to the point of him losing his temper," she asks herself. Interesting.

Brennan notices how relaxed Booth is. So naturally paternal. She starts to feel her face go hot again. "Crap, crap, crap! Breathe Temperance, breathe," she tries to convince herself.

When Booth sees Bones he calls to her, "Bones, come meet my new little friend."

Brennan walks over to the two of them on the couch and sits down next to Booth. "Well, who have we got here," she asks in a kid friendly voice.

"Meow!" says the dark-haired, brown-eyed little five year old girl cherub.

"This is Snuggles. Isn't she soft?" Booth pets her back and her long curly hair. "Snuggles is a little white kitten. Apparently I have been adopted by a little, furry, soft, purring kitten," he tells Brennan, giving her a look that conveys both 'isn't this hilarious' and 'isn't this cute?'

Bones looks at Booth and his adopted kitten with utter amusement. She laughs as quietly as she can manage. "Hello, Snuggles," she says reaching out to shake her paw.

Snuggles smiles up at Brennan and gives her a little purr. Brennan pats her on the head and scratches her under her chin. Snuggles purrs even louder.

"For a dog person, Bones, you're doing pretty well with this kitty. I'm impressed!" says Booth.

"Can I hold Snuggles?" Brennan asks.

"Well, that's up to Snuggles, isn't it?" he says looking at Snuggles's face. Snuggles just smiles at him and lays her head down on his lap.

Brennan attempts to remove the girl/kitten from Booth's lap and gets "Hissssssss" from Snuggles. "Grrrr. Pfft, Pfft!" then Snuggles reaches out with her hand/paw and bats/scratches at Brennan's face.

"Oeow!" Brennan says, leaning back a bit. "I think this kitten has found her home and she doesn't intend to leave!"

"Anna," her father calls to her, "It's time for your bath. Crawl down off Agent Booth's lap."

Snuggles pretends to mew/cry and paws at Booth's chest.

"I can't help you there, Snuggles. You're on your own, I'm afraid." Booth sits back, no longer petting or encouraging her.

"Thanks for letting me be your white kitty, Agent Booth," says Anna.

"You are the cutest little white kitten that ever made a ohm eon my lap. I hope we get to se each other again." replies Booth. Anna smiles shyly and turns to Brennan.

"Hello, Dr. Brennan, My name is Anna. I'm five. I go to kindergarten. Where do you go?" asks Anna.

"Well, my school is the school of forensics in Washington D.C. Have you ever heard of Washington D.C.?" asks Brennan.

"Yes!That's where President Obama lives! I voted for him in kindergarten class. I'm so glad he won because he was the cutest guy they let us vote for." Anne gives Brennan a little hug and runs toward the stairs leading to the bedrooms and her bathroom.

Relieved of his petting responsibilities, Booth steps forward tower Brennan and hands her a cold beer. "Just like you ordered," he says with a cheery smile. "How are you feeling? You had me worried!"

"I'm fine - I think the stress at work lately is catching up with me resulting in some unfortunate and untimely physiological reactions," she explains.

"Oh, okay." Booth has no idea what she just said. "I have no idea what that might mean, but I take it you're fine?" He looks at her questioningly, seeking confirmation.

"Yes, Booth. I am just fine. No worries." She smiles brightly at him.

"Well okay then," says Booth twisting his body to face Larrinaga. "Then let me make some formal introductions." Booth holds out his hand toward Larrinaga. "Dr. Temperance Brennan, Anthropologist, this is Dr. Enrique Larrinaga, Astrophysicist." Booth pauses for a moment, faces Bones and says, "Dr. Larrinaga, this here's my partner in anti-crime, Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institution in Washington D.C."

Brennan advances, stopping in front of Larrinaga, kissing him on both cheeks, and says,

**"¡Es un placer conocerlo, Doctor Enrique Larrinaga! He oido mucho de sus exitos ayudando a mi compañero, Agente Especial Seeley Booth."**

(It is a pleasure to know you, Dr. Larrinaga. I have heard much of your successes helping my partner, Special Agent Seeley Booth)

**"Igualmente, Doctora Brennan. Su Agente Especial ha hablado mucho de tí. El placer es absolutamente mío. ¿De dónde eres, querida, y dónde aprendiste mi idioma tan perfectamente?**

(I am equally pleased. Your Special Agent has spoken a lot about you. The pleasure of meeting you is absolutely mine. Where are you from, dear, and where did you learn my language so perfectly?)

**"Viví en Lugo con mi abuela dos veranos cuando era una niña. Fue una época muy especial para mí. Me encanta todo esa parte de España. ¿La has visto?**

(I lived in Lugo with my grandmother for two summers when I was a child. It was a very special time

for me. I love that whole area of Spain. Have you seen it?)

**¡Sí, sí, mi querida. Muchas veces!** (Yes, yes, my dear. Many times!)

While Brennan and Larrinaga exchanged pleasantries, Booth stands there smiling, happy that his partner and newest friend seemed to be hitting it off.

"Well, Seal, I think you've got a keeper here," he says, clapping him on the shoulder.

"I like to think so, Enri," which still sounds like "Henry" without the "H."

"I find it interesting that you both have modified your names for each other in such a short amount of time. Hsve you also exchanged blood and spit in a brotherly handshake?" Brennan asks, amused by the camaraderie she's seeing in Booth that she's never seen before.

"Sometimes you just know the first time you see someone - that this one's for keeps," replies Booth, looking into her eyes a little longer than necessary. Larrinaga doesn't notice, but Brennan does, and her stomach does a little flip-flop.

"Well, if you two will excuse me, I'm going to check on Carmen and the kids. Bath time can be a little hairy around here. I'll be right back, please make yourself at home." Larrinaga heads upstairs where they can already hear splashing and squealing noises coming from.

"Seal? He calls you … Seal?" she whispers to Booth, wrinkling her nose.

"Yeah, I never would have thought of that. But I like it - it has a certain … salty … powerful-water-animal ring to it. Don't you think"

"It makes me want to throw you sardines," she laughs. "But get this, Carmen asked if she can call me "Temp." Anthropologically speaking, members of societies often create special names to show favor for fellow members with whom they share an affinity. I can live with "Temp," she says. nodding her head and trying it on until it should and feels good.

"So, does this mean you are not permanent?"

"Now, even I can tell that that was lame," answers Brennan.

"Come on, I only had five seconds to come up with that joke!"

"I think you need another drink, SEAL!" she laughs and starts making barking seal noises.

"SHHHHHHHH! You don't want them to hear you," says Booth, but he can't help laughing as well. Then he makes the same seal noises right back at her and they break into giggles, trying to stay quiet - but not succeeding.

"Temp," they hear Carmen's voice from somewhere up the stairs. "Temp, can you come give me a hand?" She's in the bathroom with the kids.

"You're needed for battle,' says Booth. "Hey, does that mean this is your first "temp" job," he says, cracking up. Brennan hits him on the arm. He hits her back on the leg as she's leaving. She turns around, makes some seal noises and smacks him on the cheek.

"Oh-hhhoo," she says, her hands fly to her mouth in surprise, her eyes wide. "I am so sorry! Ha ha haaaa haa. I didn't mean to hit you so hard!" She keeps laughing, but runs away before he can get her back. Booth puts his cold beer up to cool down his cheek and flexes his jaw to make sure it still works. Regardless of the discomfort, he can't help smiling a little bit.

"That was actually kinda fun," he says to an empty room, " and **hot** ... In a pseudo sadomasochistic way. Man, that hurt."

The thought that this was kind of like foreplay was not lost on Seeley Booth.

* * *

><p><strong>Note to reader: Julianne (As I don't know what chapter you are currently on, I will attach this note to several chapters to assure you see it.)<br>**

**You're killing me! I would very much enjoy the opportunity to respond to your reviews, but I can't unless you sign in with an account! : ) Think about getting one - it's free! (My favorite price point). I think you will find as we go forward that I have tried to equally spread responsibility for Brennan and Booth's relationship issues between the two of them.I do believe they both play3ed a hand in what happened for them from the time he said, Let's give this a shot - till present day. If you are still engaged in this story by chapter 123, you will see what I mean. I hope you get that opportunity!  
><strong>

**Do I channel my inner David Boreanaz? Yes, I do. However, there is a lot that goes on in the make-believe world of Planet Bones that we don't get to see much of on screen. In their private moments, my Brennan and Booth are quite playful. As this story is exclusively about what we did not see, I took the liberty of extrapolating what 'I' think their private relationship could be like. After all, this is Fan Fiction - : D The moment HH calls me to offer me a position on his writing staff, I will tone it down, rest assured! (Like that's gonna happen ...*smirk*)**

**I hope you continue to enjoy the ride! Regardless, keep Lovin' Bones!  
><strong>

**Sincerely, **

**MoxieGirl**

**MoxieGirl44 on Twitter**


	55. Rubber Ducky, You're the One

**Chapter 55 Rubber Ducky, You're the One!**

Larrinaga descends the steps and stands at the bottom, hands on hips. His shirt is splashed with large oval dots of water. He looks at Booth and shakes his head. They share a laugh.

"Ohhhhh. I been there!" says Booth, chuckling in acknowledgment. "Nice splatter pattern.

"Yeah, well … luckily for me, Carmen handles most of the wet work in this household, but I think even she'll tell you I try to do my share."

"Right. Who are you kidding?" Booth gives him a sly, knowing look, and holds out his half empty beer bottle.

Larrinaga grabs a fresh beer from the table, opens it, and leans in to clink Booth's bottleneck. He sighs, smiles, takes a long swig.

"How do they do it?" he asks Booth, a look of incomprehension on his face.

"You know what? I don't know. They make it look easy," he shrugs.

"Well, sometimes you wouldn't think so, considering all the complaining they do …" Larrinaga says feigning exasperation and taking another swallow.

"We are talking about the women, not the kids, right?" clarifies Booth.

"Heck yeah," answers Larrinaga. "Sometimes when I come home she gives me this look like, "Gall dang you, you turd. How could you leave me alone with these obnoxious, ungrateful, slobs all day!"

"Well, how could you, you gall dang turd?" Booth asks, a serious look on his face. His beer bottle is half way up to his lips and he's looking sideways at Larrinaga. They both crack up.

"Feces," answers Larrinaga as they both pull from their bottles. Larrinaga shakes his head. They stare at each other, both knowing there really is nothing they can say about the fortunate situation they each live in - cared for and loved by women - or at least one of them knows for sure he is. The other is still working it out …

"Yeah, Rebecca, that's Parker's mother, my ex girlfriend, manages to have time to raise Parker, run a household, manage a successful branch at the bank in her neighborhood, and date a guy we affectionately call CAPTAIN FANTASTIC," comments Booth, screwing up the corner of his mouth in awe. They both think about that for a minute, both looking at the floor, or their shoes, lost in contemplative silence.

"Do I detect a bit of envy there?" asks Larrinaga.

"What, about Captain Fantastic? No. Nah. Rebecca is a wonderful mom, but she and I - we're not in love anymore. I want her to be happy - and this guy is actually pretty nice. He treats Parker well, that's all I care about," Booth explains.

Larrinaga continues looking at him as if he knows there more to be said. Waits for Booth to continue.

"IT's just that sometimes I see the three of them together, Rebecca, Parker, and Captain Fantastic …

"Yeah …?"

"… and they look like a family. You know?" Booth finishes speaking, purses his lips, sneaks a look up toward the stairway, eventually putting the beer bottle to his lips, pausing before he takes a sip. A small display of … resignation … frustration … acceptance?

Larrinaga is no dummy. He can read the writing on the wall. This is a touchy subject for Booth. And Larrinaga knows when to walk away from a conversation and let a guy have his thoughts to himself. If Booth wants to share, he will, but he gets to decide when that will be.

"What about Dr. Brennan, Temperance? She have any kids?"

"Nope - she vacillates on that subject. She has said that she doesn't understand the logic behind bringing children into a world so full of darkness. But you know, I think she's been coming around the last couple of years."

"Really, how so?"

"Well, she's become quite attached to Parker. She and he spent time together while I've been here the past two days. They have their own jokes that they don't always let me in on. It's sweet."

"Hmm. Interesting."

"Yeah. A couple years after we met, she got the idea that she was doing the world a serious injustice by not depilating herself for future generations."

"Was she seeing anyone at the time?" Larrinaga asks, his brow furrowed.

"Well, it is an interesting story - for another, much more inebriated time. Suffice it to say, things didn't turn out the way she planned She hasn't brought it up since." That was all Booth was willing to say to a man he'd only known for two days. Maybe someday … maybe someday he and Bones could tell that story together to Carmen and Enri. Booth exhales deeply - sighs audibly.

"What are you thinking about, partner?" asks Larrinaga.

"I'm thinking I could use another beer," he says, raising his beer bottle in front of himself and over his head and grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

"I am fully qualified to accommodate you, Mr' Special Agent Seal Booth!" Larrinaga gets up from his squat on the lining room chair and heads into the kitchen.

Upstairs, Brennan sits on the toilet seat, elbows on her knees, up to her forearms in soap suds.

"What's this?" she asks, pulling a little yellow rubber ducky up through the suds and squeezing it. She touches the bubble-covered squeaking duck to Anna's nose.

"Gwack, gwack!" she says, moving the duck through the air repeatedly to bop Anna on the nose then fly away.

"That's Yellow-ey," but he doesn't know how to fly … he's just a baby!"

"Did you know, Anna that ducks are waterproof" Asks Brennan.

"Of course Yellow-ey is water proof! She's plastic!" Anna giggles like this is the funniest thing she's ever heard.

"Well, did you know that ducks don't have any nerves or blood vessels in their feet, so they can stand on ice cubes as long as they want without feeling cold? They can also swim in very cold water."

"Really? I don't like swimming in cold water. I like swimming in warm water - AND BATHTUBS WITH HOT WATER!" As Anna says this last part she stands up, her pink slippery Rubanesque body covered in patches of soap suds.

"Ohhhh, ha ha ha! Ohhhhh AHHHHHHH!" screams Brennan as Anna makes a dive into the water, landing on the bottom of the tub onto her stomach and splashing gallons of water onto Brennan. After landing, Anna slides her body up and down the tub. "Look, I'm flying! I'm flying!"

For a split second, Brennan sits there, arms out in front of herself, shocked and not sure what to do.

"You stinker!" Brennan breaks into a playful, surprised laugh, standing up. "I'll get you - ha ha ha he he ha - you say you don't like cold water, huh?" Brennan looks around, knowing she'd seen a pitcher somewhere on the floor.

"Ha ha ha!" Anna continues to slide the length of the bathtub on her tummy.

Brennan locates the pitcher and fills it half way with cold water from the tap in the sink. As she turns back toward the tub, she catches a glipmse of a slippery, suds-covered little body, hopping out of the tub then running naked down the hall, screaming.

"Mommymommymommy!"

As Anna had exited the tub, she had grabbed Brennan's thigh, imprinting it with little hand prints, and knocked Brennan off balance. The pitcher, still half full of water, knocked against Brennans chest, sloshing its contents onto her already wet shirt.

Agent Booth, Temp wasn't you to bring in her suitcase," says Carmen, standing half way down the stairs.

"Why?" he asks, confused about what reason she could possibly have for wanting it.

"Don't ask why!" Carmen shouts, laughing.

"Don't ask why, man. Just do it," Larrinaga whispers out the side of his mouth so Carmen can't hear.

"She just needs her suitcase. Anna decided to give Temp a bath …"

Booth looks at Larrinaga with a quizzical smirk and shakes his head.

"Do the smart thing, Seal," Larrinaga advises.

"What's that?"

"Whatever she asks you to do. Go!"

Booth goes out to the SUV retrieving Brennan's suitcase and bag, and returns within minutes. He takes the stairs two by two and heads for what he thinks must be the bathroom. Brennan's shoes have been flung into the corner. Brennan is not in the bathroom, but it looks like a hurricane Katrina hit. He spies two sets of wet footprints on the carpet and tries to follow the larger set.

"Bones, where are you?" he shouts.

"I'm in here, Booth," he hears from behind one of the closed doors. "But don't come in, I have nothing on … just leave the suitcase outside the door there."

At the thought of Bones on the other side of the door, possibly wearing only a damp towel, Booth closes his eyes and shakes his head several times, trying, very unsuccessfully, to think of something else less ... provocative.

"There is a time for every purpose under heaven," he whispers to himself, taking a deep breath.

Just then, Carmen comes around the corner, and has her own interpretation of his head shake.

"What do you mean, No?" asks Carmen, in a very mother-like tone.

"Booth, did you say No?" asks Brennan, surprised, from behind the door.

"No! I didn't say no. I was shaking my head - but it wasn't because I was saying no! There was a bee in here - I felt it land on my ear. Oh, there it goes. We're all safe. Here's the suitcase," he explains quickly as he leans the suitcase against the door. "I brought in your bag too - in case you need your … you know ... lady things ... in there too," he finishes, clearly embarrassed, and retreats back down the stairs.

If Hodgins were here, thinks Booth, he'd have one word to say about the situation Booth had just been in: "DUDE!"

* * *

><p><strong>Note to reader: Julianne (As I don't know what chapter you are currently on, I will attach this note to several chapters to assure you see it.)<br>**

**You're killing me! I would very much enjoy the opportunity to respond to your reviews, but I can't unless you sign in with an account! : ) Think about getting one - it's free! (My favorite price point). I think you will find as we go forward that I have tried to equally spread responsibility for Brennan and Booth's relationship issues between the two of them.I do believe they both play3ed a hand in what happened for them from the time he said, Let's give this a shot - till present day. If you are still engaged in this story by chapter 123, you will see what I mean. I hope you get that opportunity!  
><strong>

**Do I channel my inner David Boreanaz? Yes, I do. However, there is a lot that goes on in the make-believe world of Planet Bones that we don't get to see much of on screen. In their private moments, my Brennan and Booth are quite playful. As this story is exclusively about what we did not see, I took the liberty of extrapolating what 'I' think their private relationship could be like. After all, this is Fan Fiction - : D The moment HH calls me to offer me a position on his writing staff, I will tone it down, rest assured! (Like that's gonna happen ...*smirk*)**

**I hope you continue to enjoy the ride! Regardless, keep Lovin' Bones!  
><strong>

**Sincerely, **

**MoxieGirl**

**MoxieGirl44 on Twitter**


	56. What's the Deal Between You Two?

Chapter 56 What's the Deal Between You Two?

Carmen knocks gently on the door, "Temp, he's gone. Want you things?"

Brennan opens the door unabashedly, indeed wearing only a damp towel. "Thank you so much, Carmen."

"You should have seen Seal. His face was all red and I think I actually saw a bead of sweat on his forehead."

"That's strange. He is in very good shape - one flight of stairs, even carrying my suitcase and bag shouldn't have winded him. Is he inebriated, do you think?"

"Doubt it, big guy like that. Take more than two beers to lay him down," Carmen says smiling devilishly.

Brennan sees Carmen's lascivious grin smile and entertains her own thoughts of laying Booth down for a moment. If the walls weren't already steamed up from the hot bath, they would be now.

Carmen snaps out of her reverie and looks up at Brennan, still contemplating her own. The two smile at each other.

"Say no more," Carmen says, a shrewd glint in her eye, and turns to go tuck the kids into bed.

"Carmen," blurts Brennan. Carmen turns on her heal to face Brennan, arms crossed, she leans against the door frame.

"What did you mean by that? Say no more?" I don;t know what you mean by that.

"It means, my dear anthropologist, that I know exactly what you were thinking - At least I had the general idea …"

"That's not possible. How is that possible? No person can know what's going on in someone else's mind. ESP is a hoax," Brennan states.

"Yes, my dear, but the body gives freely what the mind tries to hide."

"I don't recognize that quote," says Brennan, still confused.

"Of course you don't, it's attributed to one Carmen L. Larrinaga, circa 2003.

Brennan's confused face slowly lightens in comprehension. "Okay - I get that. Don't use psychology on me, sister. It's an inexact science."

"Which, fortunately for the rest of us, doesn't depend on your belief in it to exist …" answers Carmen, a little snarkily, then smiles sweetly, too sweetly.

"Temp … I'm putting the kids down. It'll only take a minute. After you get dressed, could you wait up here for me for a moment?"

"Sure," agrees Brennan. "I apologize for getting the bathroom floor all wet - and causing Anna to run naked and dripping onto the carpet."

"Oh, forget about that. I have something else I'd like to talk to you about."

"Something about anthropology? Or bones? I'm an expert at bones."

"Not exactly, although one could say that …. no, never mind. I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

Brennan dresses and combs her hair, which by now is half wet, half firizz. She sits on the chair in the bedroom and waits. This must be the master bedroom, she observes, noting the king size bed, dresser covered in jewelry and makeup, the mirror sporting two crayon drawings of white kittens and a little girl.

"Now, forgive me if this is too personal," begins Carmen, closing the bedroom door behind her and sitting on the bed across from Brennan.

"I will," replies Brennan.

"So … What's the deal between you and Seal?

"There is no deal."

"Come on, there's gotta be something going on," she insists. "How long have you two been working together?"

"About six years," Brennan answers.

"Listen, I'd be hyperventilating all the time if I had to work beside that delicious hunk of manhood down there - every day, too." Carmen scoffs.

"It is obvious he's hot for you. And you're hot for him. So, what's the hang up?"

"Have you ever …"

"Had sexual intercourse? No.

"Has he ever kissed you?"

"Not that would really count for anything," she says, thinking back to the few times they had kissed … under the mistletoe, on the steps of the reflecting pool before she turned him down, and then there was the first time … outside the bar the night he fired her from their first case. That was h-o-t hot. For a moment she can't breathe. Memories of that kiss, that amazing kiss, still gives her shivers when she thinks of it.

"So what gives, sister? Carmen crosses her arms, snapping Brennan back to the conversation.

"Well, actually, its complicated, but suffice it to say, um, he got engaged," she begins to explain. She heaves a heavy sign and slumps back in her chair. "I don't even remember how many months ago. Something could have happened between us before that, but I wasn't ready - and after a while we went our separate ways. Nine months later when we got back together as a team, he came back with a girlfriend. He ended up proposing to her - she turned him down, now just this last week she's reentered his life."

Okay …" says Carmen, clearly ready to hear more, even if she has to drag it out of her new friend.

"Ever since Hannah, that's his old girlfriend's name, turned down his proposal, Booth has been a bear to live with. He barely makes eye contact. He's humorless, in comparison to his old self…"

"Ew, that must have been hard," says Carmen, commiserating.

"Well, I guess you could say that. But anyway, It's really none of my business," she adds. Carmen gives her an are-you-kidding-me look.

"So Hannah reemerges into his life this past week and all of a sudden his mood is a lot better - he's happier - he's joking with me. We're having a good time … and you know I … eh … Its … "

"Did you ask him about it? Did he tell you anything?"

"No. He doesn't know that I saw them together holding hands and you know, talking, forehead to forehead pretty much," Brennan says, the memory making her uncomfortable.

"And … did you ask him about it?" Now Carmen is giving Brennan the tone of voice she probably uses when she's asking her child: And what did you THINK was going to happen when you put your baby doll into the microwave and pushed the fifteen minute button, huh?

"I did, I did," she admits.

"Well, what did he say?"

"He said its personal."

"What the $*%&$ is that supposed to mean?" Carmen blurts out so fast Brennan jumps.

"That's what I'd like to know! And the thing is, he usually doesn't keep ANYTHING from me," she says, clearly a more than a little distraught.

"Honey, we all got secrets," answers Carmen, shaking her head.

"We share everything. We're partners. We've been through everything. I mean, you name it - everything. We've been through it. Together."

"Hngh," is all Carmen can say. She regards Brennan like she's assessing her for something. After a moment, she sighs.

"So Im not really sure, Carmen, what's going on with him," Brennan sys, clearly finished.

"Well, you know, baby doll, you just never know. Who knows what it could be you saw. Sometimes these things happen and derail us, but I'm telling you, I can't imagine that he's in love with somebody else and he behaves the way he does with you, looks at you the way he does."

"What way?" Brennan asks innocently.

"Like he's a hungry tiger and you're a big juicy slab of top sirloin," she says.

Brennan's stomach does a triple flip upon hearing it put that way. "Dang," she says. "Oh, I'm sorry, Carmen, I don't usually express myself using colloquial slang. I've just been uncharacteristically … something … lately. And it's physiological in nature - this - whatever I'm feeling."

"Well, you should have seen him this afternoon. He'd just talked to you and discussed you coming here. He was pacing around like a jungle beast, he was so agitated - excited, I'd say," Carmen informs Brennan. "Or he's just an incredibly good actor."

"He can be a good actor. Especially in the interrogation room." They both think on that for a while.

"Okay well, if you're with him for six years, and all of a sudden you're hyperventilating, something must have happened. Something that has messed you all up. I'm just saying."

"Well there's no scientific basis for that so …."

"Okay well, good luck with all that, Temp," she says, and what she means is, "There is nothing more I can do here."

As Carmen and Brennan are about to go back down stairs, Brennan's phone rings. Brennan digs around in her bag, locates it and answers.

"Hella Angela, I really don't have time to talk. We're interviewing a couple suspects and we'll be busy all evening …"

"Bren - I just wanted to warn you - Hannah has been here, twice, asking for you."

"Did she say why? Brennan asks.

"Nope - just wants to talk to you."

"Any theories on your part - you're good at that …"

"Yes, but it'll have to wait until you get back. We need to talk. In the meantime - you're out there alone with the gorgeous FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth …. and I'll bet he brought his handcuffs. Maybe it's time for the beautiful anthropologist to get arrested by the sexy FBI man! Just forget that Hannah exists. That's my advice, Sweetie."

"Thank you, Ange, I'll take that into consideration," she says grinning, her face turning red.

"Are you really doing that - interrogating suspects - is that what this is?" asks Carmen, sitting back down on the bed, maybe a little hurt. But just a little, she's big girl.

"Of course not. No. Although, I will be honest with you, Carmen. Because remains were found on this campus, right outside your husband's building, he will be questioned. That's our job," Brennan informs her, apologetically.

"Well I guess that is all we can expect," answers Carmen, "But you know what? You go right ahead and interrogate Enrique. Try to torture him, if you want. But I know my husband. My husband would not kill another human being. I'd believe that I killed someone before I could believe he killed someone. It's just not possible." She stares defiantly at Brennan.

"Sometimes people do things we think they'd never, ever do," Brennan says, compassionately.

Carmen looks Brennan straight in the eyes. "Not my husband."

"I'm sure you are right. Booth knows people. That's his super power. If Booth has bonded with Enrique this quickly, it is highly unlikely that he is the killer. But please understand that it is our job to ask questions … of everyone."


	57. The Way You Look Tonight

**Chapter 57 The Way You Look Tonight**

The children in bed, Carmen returns to the kitchen to put the final touches on her lemon pepper salmon.

"Men, dinner will be out in less than ten minutes and Temp is finally dried out - so have a seat at the table in the dining room, please Enrique, could you pop open that bottle of wine?".

As if on queue, Brennan appears at the stairs and descends slowly. She's feeling a little flush after Angela's comment about the handcuffs. Her fresh face is clean of all vestiges of makeup that may have survived her day thus far.

Brennan has put on a rosy-burgundy top made out of stretchy, thick polyester with the texture and appearance of suede. The top has a plunging sweetheart neckline. From each underarm to the opposite hip, fabric is draped, yet form-fitting. A capped sleeve, attached just above the underarm, holds the top in place - otherwise, it would probably fall down into her lap. Her hair is off her face, a ponytail twisted into a chignon so her wet hair doesn't drip onto her clothing. Below, she's wearing a pair of black denim low riders which cling to her thighs, then flare gently from her knees to the floor.

Booth, his back to the stairs and in the middle of telling Larrinaga a story about Parker's hockey team, notices that Larrinaga is no longer paying attention. He is staring at something behind Booth with his mouth hanging open. Booth turns to see what it is, and sees Brennan. If he had had a cigarette in his mouth, it would have fallen to the floor when he saw her. "Thank you, Jesus, for little kids and water fights," he says to himself as he struggles to refrain from making the sign of the cross.

"Bones," he says, coughing on his own saliva. "Eh, excuse me." He grabs a napkin off the table, covers his mouth and coughs to clear his throat. "Bones," he tries again. "You look … refreshed," he finally gets out. Though from the sound of his voice, you'd think he'd said, "Holy … wow."

"What, are you kidding me? She's HOT!" says Larrinaga giving Brennan a wonderfully warm smile.

Attempting to recover his composure, Booth continues. "I think my man here put it very succinctly," he says. "Did you know one of her book reviewers calls her the sexy anthropologist," he says to Larrinaga, sounding boastful."

"The way you say it, Seal, it sounds like you take a little credit for it."

"No - she's a sexy anthropologist all on her own - I'm just proud when my partner gets the acknowledgement she deserves," he explains. "and this one's the whole package - she's both beautiful AND brainy." He winks at Brennan and they share a smile, both knowing the other is thinking about the little Smurf Booth gave her once after she shared a painful and embarrassing story from her childhood involving Brainy Smurf.

Booth's eyes linger on Brennan's, and he wishes he could take her somewhere else and tell her everything he's just learned from Hannah … and much more. It almost hurts to see her standing there, gorgeous, the dark top setting off her eyes so they sparkle like a full moon on a very dark night.

With every minute he knows that being with Bones is right. He's known she was the one for him since he first saw her six years ago. The night in front of the reflecting pool, he told her this, and it frightened her. His feelings were strong, almost unbearable then. But those feelings were a mere shadow of what he's been feeling these past two days. She seems to be responding to him, not at all afraid. She's … she's … she's the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with and this is how being in love REALLY feels. He's never felt this way about anyone before. Not Rebecca. Not Hannah. Thank God they both turned him down, he thinks. "I would have never gotten to this … place … and found these feelings … with her." He can barely breathe. Remember Gordon Gordon, he reminds himself. Take it slow, let her come to you.

For a moment, which feels like five, Bones and Booth maintain eye contact as she comes into the dining room and stands next to the table. He can't help himself, he reaches out. Grabbing her hand and pulling her to him, he takes her in his arms, kissing her on both cheeks, then lets her go.

A little embarrassed at his impulsivity and the intense intimacy of that act, he looks to Larrinaga and says, "I hear the bathroom will never be the same, though!" His voice hides what is going on in his chest - a thunderous pounding. He looks around to see if anyone else can hear his heartbeat or see it jumping under his shirt. A bead of perspiration trickles along his hairline.

"Yeah, it will finally be completely clean," Carmen says, cheerily, as she comes into the dining room carrying a glass bowl containing a romaine heart salad and a set of tongs. Temp, I want you here, Seal across the table from her, and honey, you sit where you usually do," she says giving everyone their assigned seating. Always the hostess, Carmen likes to orchestrate every aspect of the entertaining experience for her guests. "Would anyone care for some white wine? We have a chilled Gewürztraminer in the fridge, and a Zeller Schwarze Katz Riesling chilling in the ice bucket on the table over there," she says, pointing to the the corner of the table between Larrinaga's and Booth's place settings.

"If you promise to lift my head off my plate when I pass out," says Brennan, yawning "I will gladly have a glass of the Gewürztraminer. But I have to warn you - after the long day I've had, followed by this wonderful evening, I am not going to need any assistance getting to sleep tonight!"

"Boy Scout's honor," says Larrinaga, holding up three fingers.

"Me too, but it's supposed to be the other hand, buddy," Booth chides Larrinaga, who quickly switches hands. Everyone cracks up at the same time.

"What? Larrinaga says defensively, laughing. "I was brought up in a Spanish household - I didn't learn about Boy Scouts until I was too old to be interested!"

"Come on, Enri, you're never too old for Boy Scouts! Get this, the Boy Scout Law: A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent. How 'bout that?"

"No wonder you don't have a girlfriend, Booth. You gotta get out more!" teases Larrinaga.

* * *

><p><strong>Note to reader: Julianne (As I don't know what chapter you are currently on, I will attach this note to several chapters to assure you see it.)<strong>

**You're killing me! I would very much enjoy the opportunity to respond to your reviews, but I can't unless you sign in with an account! : ) Think about getting one - it's free! (My favorite price point). I think you will find as we go forward that I have tried to equally spread responsibility for Brennan and Booth's relationship issues between the two of them.I do believe they both play3ed a hand in what happened for them from the time he said, Let's give this a shot - till present day. If you are still engaged in this story by chapter 123, you will see what I mean. I hope you get that opportunity!**

**Do I channel my inner David Boreanaz? Yes, I do. However, there is a lot that goes on in the make-believe world of Planet Bones that we don't get to see much of on screen. In their private moments, my Brennan and Booth are quite playful. As this story is exclusively about what we did not see, I took the liberty of extrapolating what 'I' think their private relationship could be like. After all, this is Fan Fiction - : D The moment HH calls me to offer me a position on his writing staff, I will tone it down, rest assured! (Like that's gonna happen ...*smirk*)**

**I hope you continue to enjoy the ride! Regardless, keep Lovin' Bones!**

**(Please let me know if you HAVE received this note. Thanks!)**

**Sincerely,**

**MoxieGirl**

MoxieGirl44 on Twitter


	58. Fairy God Mother Has a Word

**Chapter 58 Fairy Godmother Has A Word With Cinderella**

Carmen serves dinner and it is delicious. The four friends eat, talk, and laugh for almost two hours. By this time, Brennan, though completely relaxed and truly enjoying herself, is waning.

The group moves to the living room, despite Carmen's insistence that Booth take Brennan to the hotel and let the poor girl get some sleep.

"I'm having too much fun," says Brennan. "Give me one more hour before I turn into a pumpkin."

"If you're sure, Cinderella," says Carmen, heading back into the kitchen to get desert ready.

"I'm sure," says Brennan, nodding her head and smiling warmly. She then follows Carmen into the kitchen to see if she can help.

"About your relationship with Seal," says Carmen, now that they have a minute alone. She had witnessed Booth's welcoming embrace from the kitchen earlier. Then after watching the two interact over dinner, she can't help having one more go at this. "You said it was complicated?"

"Yes," Brennan answers, her hands on the counter top in front of her.

"You are wrong," says Carmen, looking her straight in the eyes. Brennan is a little surprised. "When you truly love, you can't help but overlook the obstacles. Tackling them together is much easier than doing it alone." She pauses, watching the emotion fleeting across Brennan's face. She reaches out and covers one of Brennan's hands with her own. Brennan looks away, a tear trembles down her cheek. After a moment, Carmen says, "Forget about Hannah. This man adores you. There's no one else. Men aren't that complicated."

"But …"

"Ch-ch-ch-shhh…" says Carmen, slowly shaking her head and putting a finger to Brennan's lips to silence her. Brennan is overwhelmed by the compassion she sees in this woman's eyes. She nods, silently, unable to look up, and covers Carmen's hand with her free one.

"Now go. I'll be out in a minute…"


	59. Cinderella Versus Sleeping Beauty

**Chapter 59 Cinderella Vs. Sleeping Beauty**

"Who's ready for some Crème Brûlée? Maybe some coffee?" announces Carmen as she emerges from the kitchen.

Booth and Brennan sit on the couch, but not touching. Larrinaga is sitting on the edge of his favorite chair. All three are laughing at something Carmen was too late to hear.

Dessert is phenomenal. Booth asks for seconds.

"Now that's a compliment, if I ever heard one," says Carmen, happily heading back to the kitchen.

When she returns, she has two Crème Brûlées - the second for her husband who would eventually ask for it anyway.

After downing the second dessert, Booth excuses himself to use the facilities. Carmen takes the dishes and silverware back to the kitchen. When Booth returns, he sees that Brennan has fallen asleep, her head laying back on the edge of the couch.

"I think I bored her to death," whispers Larrinaga.

"I doubt that," says Booth. "She probably won't tell you, but she was looking forward to meeting you - she prepared the dossier on you so I wouldn't sound like an idiot." The two men share a grin. Booth slides onto the couch beside Brennan and lifts her head from the back of the couch, putting his arm around her. She stirs, and lays her head against his shoulder. She stirs again, yawns, and reaches up to grab a hand full of Booth's tee shirt which she holds in a fist like a child's favorite blanket. Booth's voice, vibrating through his chest and into her dream, lulls her right back to sleep.

The men exchange a glance. "Is she awake?" asks Larrinaga.

"Doubt it," says Booth. "We've had an unbelievable week." He briefly explains the Broadsky case, Vincent's tragic death, and the 24 hours Brennan spent with Parker. He looks down at Brennan's face. Her face is expressionless and perfect, a gentle smile on her lips. Booth takes a deep breath and watches her head rise and fall with his chest.

His arm still around her, Booth's hand rests on Bones' hip. Occasionally, he moves his hand over her waist and back up onto her hip, giving her an gentle affectionate squeeze. He can't help notice that her top has risen about two inches above her jeans in the middle of her back. Seeing her bare skin, he sighs, wanting really badly to run his fingers across her skin, but that might wake her up - and he's enjoying holding her too much.

Returning from a little clean-up in the kitchen, Carmen stops behind her husband, smiles, and sweetly says, as if speaking about a child, "Ah, Cinderella finally gets to sleep …"

Booth and Larrinaga talk for another hour or so. Eventually, Carmen gets up, leaves for a while, and returns to report that she's made up the guest bedroom with fresh sheets and put a set of clean towels in the bathroom.

"There's no way she's gonna make it to the hotel, Seal. Did you check her in before coming here?"

"No - her flight got in at 7:45. We wanted to get here as soon as possible."

"Can you wake her?" asks Enrique.

Booth looks at her face and pinches her cheek a couple times. She just wiggles her nose, swallows, closes her mouth, and squeezes his tee shirt even more tightly.

"Now I have to use the restroom," says Larrinaga leaving the room.

"Me too," says Carmen, leaving Bones and Booth alone in the living room.

As Booth watches her sleeping face, trying to decide what to do, Bones murmurs, "Booth is mine, Hannah."

"Yes, he is," Booth whispers back, his throat tight. He closes his eyes and presses his lips to her forehead.


	60. Take Me to the Hotel, Booth

**Chapter 60 Take Me to the Hotel, Booth**

"She's dead to the world, she's not going anywhere," says Carmen returning to the living room. "Will it upset her to wake up in a strange place?"

"Bones has been in many places much stranger than this. She'll be fine."

"Okay. I won't take that as an insult"

"Sorry - you know what I mean!"

Booth sits up, Bones still attached to his side and chest. He tries to get her standing up - she's just incapacitated. Seeing no other option, Booth leans down, puts his free arm under her knees and lifts her like a parent lifting a child who fell asleep on a long car ride.

"So where's this guest bedroom?" he asks.

"I'll take you." She leads the way down a hallway in the opposite direction of the family bedrooms. A guest bathroom is off to the left, and the bedroom is at the end of the hall. She opens a door to a quiet little room with dusty-purple colored walls and a mauve tapestry duvet cover on top of a queen size bed. A small lamp sits on the dresser, illuminating the room just enough to show the way, but not enough to wake anyone up.

Carmen pulls the duvet cover down to the bottom of the bed, then pulls the sheets down far enough for someone to climb in. Booth is waiting, leaning his back against the door frame, still holding Bones.

"Can you pick it up a bit Carmen? She weighs a ton!"

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," she says, plumping up a pillow. "I'll get out of our way." Carmen leaves the room.

Booth hefts Bones onto the bed. Brennan rouses and mumbles, "Take me to the hotel, I'm so tired. Take me to the hotel, Booth."

Booth says, "I thought you'd never ask - but not tonight. You are incapacitated, partner." He realizes he's just talking to himself because she's already gone again. "I never had you pegged as someone who talks in her sleep," he says, once again to no one conscious."

Relieved of his cargo, Booth stands beside the bed, one hand on his hip, the other rubbing his sore trapezius.

"What should I do about her clothes?" He asks the empty room. "She'll have to sleep in them," he says and turns to leave the room. As he's about to go, Carmen arrives with Brennan's suitcase and toiletries bag.

Carmen unzips the suitcase and flips the cover over. Right on top is what appears to be a long, white, tailored, button down shirt. Buttons go from the collar down about 12 inches. The material looks much softer than a regular shirt. These are obviously pajamas.

"If I were her, I'd be much more comfortable in this," Carmen says, plopping the nightgown onto Booth's chest.

"Wha?" manages Booth. He gives Carmen a look that says, "will you do it?"Carmen looks at him, smirks, and says, "She's YOUR partner, Seal," and walks out of the room.

* * *

><p><strong>Note to reader: Julianne (As I don't know what chapter you are currently on, I will attach this note to several chapters to assure you see it.)<br>**

**You're killing me! I would very much enjoy the opportunity to respond to your reviews, but I can't unless you sign in with an account! : ) Think about getting one - it's free! (My favorite price point). I think you will find as we go forward that I have tried to equally spread responsibility for Brennan and Booth's relationship issues between the two of them.I do believe they both play3ed a hand in what happened for them from the time he said, Let's give this a shot - till present day. If you are still engaged in this story by chapter 123, you will see what I mean. I hope you get that opportunity!  
><strong>

**Do I channel my inner David Boreanaz? Yes, I do. However, there is a lot that goes on in the make-believe world of Planet Bones that we don't get to see much of on screen. In their private moments, my Brennan and Booth are quite playful. As this story is exclusively about what we did not see, I took the liberty of extrapolating what 'I' think their private relationship could be like. After all, this is Fan Fiction - : D The moment HH calls me to offer me a position on his writing staff, I will tone it down, rest assured! (Like that's gonna happen ...*smirk*)**

**I hope you continue to enjoy the ride! Regardless, keep Lovin' Bones!  
><strong>

**Sincerely, **

**MoxieGirl**

**MoxieGirl44 on Twitter**


	61. See You In My Dreams

**Chapter 61 See You In My Dreams**

He knows he should do this. No one sleeps comfortably in jeans. But he argues with himself anyway.

Will she be upset that he undressed her while she was sleeping? Of course not, he assures himself. She's logical. She'll be grateful. There was no other way to provide her with a comfortable night's sleep - and she needs that sleep - they have a lot of work ahead of them tomorrow. Right. Good. That makes sense to him.

Then he remembers something else risky he's recently done. Changing her into her pajamas would be much easier to explain than the cell phone photo of her sleeping in his bed. In the end, this doesn't make him feel any better. He actually feels worse, remembering that there may be hell to pay when she finds out about that. He starts to feel like a stalker. This is ridiculous, he tells himself.

"Here goes nothing," he says, shaking his head and taking a deep breath, hoping he gets through this without going crazy ... this is the woman he loves, after all. Asleep. And about to be mostly naked. In a bed. In a dimly lit room. This is almost as dangerous as the night Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray was killed and she came into his room needing comforting. Actually, it's more so, he tells himself, knowing what he now knows, and wanting her even more than he did then, if that is at all possible. Except that he knows this absurd story in the retelling will be hilarious. Not that there's anyone to share it with except Bones herself. He does look forward to that one day, he decides. He considers what he will say if she wakes up to find him disrobing her. What could he possibly say? Would she scream?

Booth decides a little prayer might help him remain … focused … on the task at hand: getting her into the pajamas without his mind, hands or any other body parts, wandering where they shouldn't be.

He makes the sign of the cross, the prelude to all of his prayers and closes his eyes.

"In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen." He can't think of a single prayer that would be appropriate in this situation, his brain is a little fuzzy right now. _Flooded with pot-o-mean, fen-fen-amean, en-dolphins and oxy-genic whatever,_ Bones would tell him.

Okay. Now. Where to start? Jeans? Jeans, it is. He takes a deep breath and tells himself, "Just think of her as a really big Parker - too tired to dress himself. With breasts." He pauses. "Focus, Booth, **focus**!"

He unzips her jeans and gingerly peals them down past her hips, making sure her panties stay right where they belong. He squeezes his eyes shut and says another prayer. This one to a patron saint of chastity and impure thoughts, which a good Catholic boys know by heart, as a result of saying it a million times by the time they reach 18:

_"Merciful Lord, please accept the suffering of my weak human mind _

_with all itsunwanted thoughts as a small relief of the pain which You felt,_

_when You were crowned with thorns."_

Not that the thoughts were particularly unwanted, if he was honest with himself, but they were ill-timed, considering the situation.

He rolls her onto her side to pull her jeans off her rear end, noticing with a smile that he recognizes this style of panties. He seemed to recall they were made by a company called 'Cotton Candy.' Rebecca had gone crazy trying to find a pair of them back before they'd gotten pregnant with Parker.

Made of a solid, silky, baby blue material, the panties are loose-fitting, except for the waist band and leg holes, and left a lot to the imagination - which was a relief to Booth. The waistband and leg holes were fringed in a one inch ruffle made of the same fabric. They look more like bikini or pajama bottoms and made him feel a little less … guilty? Apparently Rebecca had seen them on a Frankie music video for a song called "Big Girls Don't Cry."

As he's working her jeans down toward her knees, Booth notices a flash of contrasting color on the back of the panties. Curious, he rolls her to her side just far enough to make out the image. Screen printed in an elegant deep blue cursive is a phrase. "Surely Bones doesn't have **Days of the Week** panties" he says to himself, "that would be way too cliché." He has to look closely to see what it says, something in Latin, he guesses

_**"If this whole "Anthropologist" thing doesn't work out, I can always fall back on my modeling career."**_

He reads it out loud. Realizing what he's just read, he lets out a loud laugh and slaps his hand over his mouth. He then quietly and carefully returns Bones to her back and looks at her face to see if she wakes up. "This is too damn hilarious to keep to myself," he thinks. "Where's Hodgens when I need him?"

From this point, with the jeans around her knees, Booth walks to the bottom of the bed and does what he'd do if it were Parker. He grabs the pant legs at her ankles and pulls the whole pair off and out from under her.

Now for her shirt. This is going to be tricky. The top half includes the … the face … and … other personal items that are hard to ignore. He hesitates, trying to think through a strategy, talking himself through it.

"First, get the pajamas ready," he tells himself. He unbuttons her pajama shirt and lays it out on the bed.

Then he takes hold of one of the sleeves, picks up the forearm attached to the arm inside that sleeve, and gently moves the sleeve up, and the arm inside the shirt. "Whew!" he thinks, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He quickly performs the same maneuver on the other arm. Now he's gotta get it over her head without pulling on her face enough to awaken her. Since the possibility of her waking and the potential for getting caught is greatest at this point, he decides he's going to have to be quick about this. Holding his breath, he lifts the shirt from around her neck, pulls it up to her hairline and lifts her head, pulling the top out from underneath.

He'd already decided removing her bra was going too far. In his book, no matter how close they were, that would cross a line that he shouldn't ever cross without being invited. It's a matter of trust and respect to him.

Looking down at her, he can't help but notice how exquisite she looks in only her bra and panties. "Holy Mother of God!" he says before he can stop himself. Her skin is the kind that's been written about in books for centuries, creamy and porcelain and healthy. Her curves are … she got great curves. Her face, in sleep, is peaceful, beautiful.

Being a breast man, he can't help noticing that those curves are rather nice as well. Usually when a woman lies on her back, her breasts slide into her arm pits. It's basic physics. But put a bra on her, everything stays in front, and she turns into Pamela Anderson. "Wow," he says, his mind going completely blank. Where are those prayers when you need them? It's as if he was a hard drive and she was a gigantic magnet that just erased his entire memory. "Holy Mother of God," is all he can say. Although, _Holy Mother of God_ doesn't feel like enough to get him through this. Surely there's a patron saint for people whose brains stop working when there's a near-naked woman in front of them? If there is a prayer, there's no way his feeble mind can recall it right now. "Holy Mother of God," is just gonna have to do!

Throwing the top backward, he grabs the pajamas from the bed, scrunches them into a big ring of fabric so he can get the whole garment over her head at once, and places it over her head. Since he'd already unbuttoned all the buttons, it wasn't difficult to get her arms through the generous arm holes. He pulls the pajamas down to her thighs with a little tugging here and there. Relieved to have that over with without waking her, he pulls the sheets and the duvet up to her chin.

As if she knew he had completed his task, she rolls toward him and half way onto her stomach, bringing her outside knee up and her fist up to under her chin. He watches her for a moment, thinking nothing at all, just enjoying seeing her like this. He can't wait to tell her everything he learned Monday morning with Hannah, so they can get on with their lives and he can see her like this every night and every morning.

Feeling brave, he sits down on the bed beside her, careful not to make noise or touch her. Placing his hand on the other side of her for leverage, he leans down without touching her, closes his eyes, and breathes in the scent of her. A goofy, intoxicated smile flitters across his face. He leans in an inch or two more and kisses her on the nose. As he's about to do it again, she shifts, kissing him on the lips like long-time lovers greeting, and rolls over onto her other side.

Booth feels like he's been dropped three flights down an elevator shaft. He's not sure he'll be able to walk to the SUV.

He smiles, kisses her on the cheek now closest to him, and says, "Good night, Bones. See you in my dreams" into her ear. As he's getting up, he notices a faint smile cross her lips. He reaches up to turn off the dresser light, and quietly leaves the room, closing the door.

All the lights are off in the house except the living room lamp. Enri is waiting on the couch to say good night to him. He stands up as Booth enters the room.

"Would you like a beer, or perhaps a bag of frozen peas?" Larrinaga asks.

Booth looks at him, confused, maybe he misunderstood Enri?

"I better just pack it in, buddy," he says. "We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow."

"It's not to drink, Seal. I don't think you're going to get anywhere with that extra gear shift in the way."

Booth looks down and laughs at Mother Nature.

"I guess I'll take that beer," he says. "Maybe we can sit here for a couple minutes?"

"Just partners, huh?" he says with a lopsided grin as he heads to the kitchen for both the beer and the bag of frozen peas.


	62. MYOB

**Chapter 62 MYOB**

Carmen waits in their bedroom reading as Enrique sees Booth to the door. As the front door lock tumbles into place, he makes a B-line for the bedroom.

"Enrique - do you realize what time it is?" Carmen asks as he crosses the threshold.

"I'm well aware of what time it is, Carm," he says, yawning, unbuckling his belt and pulling it out of its loops.

"Then why did you keep Seal here when you knew I was waiting for you? That man needs his sleep," she says, closing her book and putting it on the bedside table. She's actually delighted that he's made a new friend - but she's also feeling a little … frisky … and impatient.

"Sorry for making you wait, Your Royal Highness, but there was a little unfinished business that needed to be dealt with before Seal took off."

"What was so important it couldn't have waiting until morning?"

"Well, lets just say, after helping Temp into her pajamas he needed to cool down a bit," he says to her, standing at the foot of the bed, a look of amusement on his face, a sly smile playing at his lips. "And friends don't let friends drive impaired."

"Did you two have another beer? He didn't seem inebriated an hour ago."

"No," he says, "Quite the contrary." He whips off his shirt and jeans, dropping them in the hamper. Over his shoulder he tosses out to her, "it was more of a circulation problem." He turns and looks at her, hand on his hips, and grabs his own junk until she understands.

Carmen gives him a quizzical look, then her eyes open wide and she lets out a howl of a laugh. Immediately she covers her mouth with her hand, not wanting to wake the kids who are across the hallway in their beds.

"Man - those two better get it together before he breaks something," she says with a wicked grin.

"Yoww - don't even say that," Enrique replies, a pained look on his face. He heads into the bathroom and disappears behind the door.

Carmen climbs out from under the covers and sits criss-cross-applesauce at the end of the bed. "So what do you think of them," she says loudly toward the bathroom. "As a couple, I mean?"

Enrique flushes the toilet, washes his hands, and reaches for his toothbrush and paste. "I think they're fine."

"Yeah, but did you see the way he looked at her when she came down the stairs? If you looked at me like that we'd have six more kids by now!"

"I still look at you that way …" Enrique insists.

"Eh …" she says, half-heartedly shrugging her shoulders and looking away, a mischievous expression on her face. She peeks back at him to see if he caught the rub.

Enrique chuckles a tiny bit, raising his eyebrows at her.

"It's young love, Carm."

"Young? They are almost as old as we are!"

Enrique, now brushing vigorously with a mouth full of toothpaste, shrugs his shoulders noncommittally. His back to her, they exchange glances in the bathroom mirror. They've been through this before. She used to need to dissect everything that went on after an evening of mixing with Muggles - which was her name for the unmarrieds. Since hitting forty, she only wants to hash it out over particularly interesting cases. Neither of them knows if this change in her is a case of losing steam, or losing interest, over the years, but no one's complaining.

Enrique just wants to get his bathroom routine completed and hit the sack.

He turns off the bathroom light and emerges from the bathroom, coming to sit on his side of the bed. Carmen crawls back to her side and tosses the pillows she'd lain against while reading, onto the floor. Climbing under the covers, she lays on her side, facing him, her head propped up by her hand. "Can you believe they've been working together for six years, and just now they're getting all - hot and heavy?"

"Maybe they've always had this … chemistry. What do we know?" says Enrique, lifting his legs and swiveling to get into bed.

"Man, who could take that much … electricity? I could't take it," she says, incredulous and shaking her head. "Man, six years …"

"Well," he says, getting under the covers and closing his eyes for a moment. "Some nuts are harder to crack than others. But if the prize is worth the effort …" he says, opening the eye closest to her, and noticing she's wearing the red nightie he loves. Actually, he'd noticed it the moment he walked into the bedroom, but he had business to tend to before he could do anything about it. He knows that **she** knows that wearing this nightie is like waving a red flag in front of a bull in a bullring.

"Yeah, but six years?" Noticing that he's noticed the nightie, she gives him a come hither look, lying back so he can take a good look.

"Hey, it took me three years to crack you," he says, scooting closer to her, turing on his side to face her, and putting his hand on the silky fabric covering her hip. He gives it a squeeze that is more like a whole-handed pinch. She leans forward again so they are face to face.

"What are you talking about? We dated 18 months before we got engaged. Married six months after that," she says, closing her eyes slowly, letting him nuzzle her neck. He runs his hand from her hip down to her thigh, then to the hem of the matador's cape, and back up that same thigh, under the nightie this time. When he gets to her waist, he emits an involuntary noise from his throat. Her waist and hips have always been like Viagra to him.

"Yeah, but that never would have happened," he says between kisses, and teasing nibbles, "if I hadn't laid three years of groundwork before that," he says with a chuckle into the hair behind her ear, as he gently runs his hand up and down her side, then back to rest on her ass. His warm breath on her skin makes her shiver involuntarily. She's been ready for this for quite a while.

"What?" she says, sounding sleepy. "Oh, now I get it … all those 'I was just at Ikea and thought I'd stop by' visits ..." she pauses, closing her eyes and laying back as he lifts the nightie up to her neck and covers her erect nipple with his mouth. "Ummm," she says, having lost her concentration for a moment "Mmmm," she sighs from somewhere below her throat, lifting herself up toward him while also scooting further down toward the foot of the bed. Finally, she's able to finish the sentence, and this is new information - so she's highly motivated to continue. "Okay, so all those 'drop-in' visits were a ruse to get in my pants?"

"Carmen, there was an Ikea three blocks from my old house," he says, lifting the red nightie over her head and tossing it in the direction of the floor. All obstacles overcome, he rubs his cheek across her other breast and takes a bite.

"That wasn't built until after we got married," she says, correcting him.

"Uh, actually, it **was** there. You just never saw it because I always drove you in the opposite direction ... so you wouldn't find out …" He leans back and smiles at her like the cat that ate the canary. When he leans back, she's fully exposed. He loves looking at her naked body. THis is the body that he's made love to for so many years. The body that bore him two healthy children. The body that, even now in her mid 40s, still gives him an erection that can pound nails.

"Well, you see?" she concludes, "That's why you're the scientist. You can work and work for long periods of time getting next to nothing. I, on the other hand, need results - like NOW!" She laughs.

He grins at her, not really hearing what she's saying. He's more interested in finding out about the results of his caresses on her circulatory system, the answer to which lies further down her gorgeous anatomy. But he knows he better listen and get this conversation over with, or there won't be any relief tonight.

"What you do takes commitment and stamina," she concludes, looking in his eyes.

"Come over here - I'll show you some stamina," he says, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her to him as he starts to chew on her neck again, then works his way to her lips which he parts with is tongue and kisses her passionately.

She's quiet for a minute or two, eyes closed, enjoying the tingly feeling at the back of her neck, traveling down toward the base of her spine to meet an even more tingly sensation traveling from between her thighs northward. She puts her arms around his neck, and runs her fingers through his hair, breathing in the aroma of his shampoo and sweat.

"Did you see them on the couch - and her, clutching his tee shirt like that?" she says, exhaling a sigh. "I wish she could have seen that. I wish she could have been awake for that."

"Why …? If she'd been awake - it probably wouldn't have happened," he says stopping and looking at her, amazed that her brain still functions at this temperature.

"Because I really don't … " she pauses for a split second to throw her leg over his hip, pulling him even closer while trying to find the best way to describe this sentiment lodged in her chest. "I don't think she really has a grasp … on how much she means to him." She looks at her husband, and wants everyone to have what she has - a wonderful man to wrap their legs around. "Um, I think she feels that she … or that he's a lot more important to her than she is to him - and that's a new thing for her - as scary smart and as beautiful as she is." She pauses again, "Oh, what do I know?" she finishes, not wanting to betray any confidences.

"You think so, huh?" asks Enrique.

"Yeah, I do."

"Well you know what? That's their business, its not our business, and things will work out the way they'll work out. We don't need to be messin' around in their business … besides, I've got a transaction of my own I'd like to complete here."

"Enrique, I'm not messing - I'm just curious …"

He gives her the "Give me a break" look and a snort-like laugh. She gets the point and relents. He works his hand over a breast, down her ribcage, over her belly, and hits pay dirt below the magic triangle. Ever since he was a teen, and, because he worked at a _RapidLube_ shop the summer between high school and college, he hasn't been able to get to past this point of foreplay without thinking about how much it's like using a dip stick to check the oil in a car. From there, his brain goes to thoughts of viscosity, or the degree to which her fluids facilitate that friction that makes him crazy. Luckily, that's where the science stops and raw desire wrapped around instinct takes over. As he's exploring, and enjoying the slipperiness of her arousal, he notices she's stopped talking. She's begun to move against his fingers in long slow strokes. God, I love doing this, he thinks, rolling over on top of her, moving her opposite leg over, giving him full access.

"Are the kids asleep?" she asks, breathless.

"Yeah," he rasps, docking, and putting his full weight on top of her.

"Did you lock the door?"

"Yep," he says against her lips, pushing his hips into hers.

She kisses him back, wrapping her legs around his, enjoying the feeling of fullness that comes with the first full penetration.

"I think he might even want to marry her someday," he says.

"Hmm. I'm not sure she's a big fan of marriage …"

"You didn't give her the bra-burning sexual inequality talk, did you?" He says, stopping all forward motion completely.

"Well," she says, "I shared some of my thoughts about our own experience, and she agreed with me, on principle. But I also told her a bunch of good stuff. About it all being worth while. Stuff we've learned together that make everything worthwhile."

"Oh," he says, forehead resting on her chest in resignation. He rolls off of her and onto his back. "This conversation is where boners go to die," he groans.

Seeing he's waning, she says, "Did you feel all that sexual energy zinging around the room all through dinner?"

"You'd have to be dead to miss it!"

"I wanted to grab you by your shirt and drag you back here to have my way with you," she coos lasciviously, leaning over him, burying her face in his neck, and biting him on the ear lobe.

"It's not like we haven't done that before …" he reminds her, with a happy grin and a raise of the eyebrow.

"Not with only two other people at the party …"

"I like small parties."

"You like VERY small parties …"

"I'm trying to have one right now," he says rolling her over onto of himself like a crocodile performing a death roll, except that now she's the crocodile.

"Well, I guess we better get rid of all this pent-up energy so we don't burst into flames in front of the kids tomorrow," she relents. "You sure you locked the door?"

"Yes."

Three minutes later, they are finally back to where they had left off a moment earlier, and they get interrupted by the pitter patter of little feet and the sound of the bedroom door being opened.

"You said you locked the door!"

"I lied."

"THIS is why we only have two children," she says.

Fortunately, all Anna sees is Mommy and Daddy in an affectionate embrace, the covers up to their arm pits.

"Anna, Sweetie," says Enrique, "I'll give you a hundred dollars if you'll turn around and go straight back to bed …"

Anna gives him an uncomprehending stare, rubs her eyes, and goes back through the bedroom door, closing it behind her. They aren't sure if she was awake or asleep. Carmen, biting on her lips during this entire exchange to keep from bursting out laughing, says, "I'm so glad I married you," as the crocodile rolls her to the bottom of the river, and has his way with her.


	63. Stairway To Heaven

**Chapter 63 And She's Buying a Stairway to Heaven**

Booth stops in the hotel lobby on the way out the next morning and purchases two tall café mochas with shot of vanilla topped with a dollop of low fat cream on the way to the Larrinaga's house. In the SUV on the way to their house, he can't help but admire the beautiful dashboard display and the 8 speaker Bose sound system in his rented Steel Green Metal Chevy Suburban SUV 2WD 1500 LTZ with 326 horses under the hood. He cranks the tunes and catches Stairway to Heaven only 1/3 into the ballad.

"There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,

And my spirit is crying for leaving."

The song brings him back to 1983. It's the summer Pops takes him and Jared to live at his house on Mimosa Street. This song reminds him of a time of great confusion in his life. Pop's rescue, which is how Booth has come to call it, is an end to the tumultuous days and nights of never knowing what was going to happen next, never knowing when and what they will eat. It isn't that they can't afford food. Dad Just sometimes forgets to buy it. When he does buy it, sometimes he comes home with strange combinations of food. Doughnuts, shampoo, ketchup, Cheerios, Butter, canned beets, beef jerky, Doritoes, a gallon of OJ. Cigarettes. A case of Old Mil. A bottle of Johnny Walker Red. Dad walks into the house carrying the case of beer and smaller, brown paper-wrapped bottle. He tosses the car keys to Booth.

"We're having a guest for dinner, son, go on out to the car and bring in the groceries.." The guest, Both is well aware, is always Johnnie Walker. If it is Friday, payday Friday, Dad usually brings along Johnnie's best friend, "Beam, James Beam," Dad says, as if he's introducing "007" from Live and Let Die, his favorite Bond film. "That's the only one of the whole cotton-pickin' bunch that's got balls, son," he'd slurs after every single one of their monthly late night film viewings.

This is life before Pop's rescue later in July of that summer. July forward is filled with blue-sky days, base ball games, bingo down at St. Catherine's - Jared and Booth placing little red circles on Pop's cards even though they are too young to officially play. For dinner they have what Booth thought of before as old people food: Beanie Weenie casserole, tatertot hotdish, french toast and scrapple, lasagna, baked chicken and smashed potatoes, salad, VEGETABLES. They start drinking milk. Booth never knew how good milk tasted until he drank it out of a tall clean glass at Pop's house. He never knew a stomach could feel so good from drinking one thing. "A milk mustache is a sign of a healthy growing boy," pops tells him, ruffling his hair.

There is an afternoon that Booth thinks about now as he goes through an intersection three blocks away from the Larrinaga's house. It is a September afternoon in 1971. The first week of school. Booth and Jared are waiting on the steps at the front of the school - the one that reminds Booth of the school in D.C. Parker now attends. They wait for Pops to come pick them the other kids have left on the bus are been picked up by their folks.

Today, instead of Pops, it's Dad that comes around the corner. He drives up in his beat up old 1969 Aztec Aqua Torino with the velvet seats and the cigarette burns all over the carpet in the front.

Upon seeing that Torino, Booth recalls putting his arm around Jared and pulling him closer. Dad parks the car at the curb and walks toward the boys.

"Daddy!" screams Jared excitedly, running into his father's arms. Booth himself doesn't move from his spot on the steps. His eyes are steady, the eyes of a boy who has had many more birthdays than Seeley Booth.

"Dad," he says calmly, acknowledging him with a nod.

"Son, I've come to take you home."

"Pops will be here any moment. He'll be expecting to pick us up."

"Pops ain't commin' son. You're stuck with me."

Booth can't believe his ears. Can't believe Pops would abandon them like that. Then he's worried that something has happened to Pops. Maybe he had a "mass attack" like the old guy down the street last year who dies afterward in the hospital.

"What's wrong with Pops?" asks Booth.

"Nothin's wrong with your Pops. He just knows when it's time for a man to take up his 'sponsibilities and rear his own kids. A boy's place is with his father. And you belong with me," he explains. Pops said I could pick y'all up and take you back home with me."

Booth hanse't taken a step forward since Dad stopped at the curb. Jared had gone back to tossing pebbles into the grass beside the school steps.

"We like it at Pops' place, Dad," says Booth.

"Looks to me like your bother has a different opinion."

At this, Jared stops playing, the pebbles falling from his hands. He stands completely still.

"I gotta be with Seeley," little Jared says, as he watches, barely breathing, to see what will happen next. This scene and the tension in the air remind Jared of a gun fight scene in Pops' favorite spaghetti show, The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly. He swears he can hear the the whistling theme song float by on the breeze. He looks closely to see if Booth's and dad's fingers are poised, itching to grab their guns and be the first to fire a shot.

Booth, maintaining eye contact with his father, takes one step forward, putting himself ahead of Jared. Jared can no longer see his brother's face, but he knows this means business.

"We live with Pops now, Dad. We're staying with Pops."

Now a foot closer to his father, Booth can smell that Dad had a visit from Johnnie and Jim this afternoon. This gives him the courage to say what he has to say next.

"Dad. Dad, we love you …"

"I am your father. You belong to me."

"Dad, we love you. But we live with Pops now. And we need to stay with him."

"Little man, you do not have the right to talk to your father like that. I will tell you where you live. And I will tell you who you are."

Pops had made it clear to Booth that summer that he, Booth, is the only one to decide, all on his own, who he will be, no matter what his father says or does. Booth knows his father is wrong. He gains confidence from this and takes one step closer to his father.

"I decide who I am. And I live with Pops. Jared goes with me." He braces himself for his father's reaction.

Never to disappoint, Dad smacks Booth up the side of his head with his fist. Booth maintains his stance without flinching. A ringing hotness hangs off his head like a gallon of hot pancake batter. The pain travels down his neck; in front of his eyes appear tiny little sparks of light overlaying his vision.

His father stands in front of him, watching for a reaction, perhaps surprised that he has hit his son, once again … and in public. Luckily, no one is there to see it, his dad tells himself.

"I decide who I am. And I live with Pops. Jared goes with me," Booth says again, louder and more defiantly than the first time. He never touches his throbbing ear or blinks away the sparkles floating in the air in front of his eyes. He stares straight at his father, praying that there won't be another blow, but ready to stand his ground if there is.

His father walks backward three steps and sways a bit. An observer might think that the father was tho one who had been hit, not the son.

Once again, this time as a statement, a declaration, Booth shouts, "I DECIDE WHO I AM. I LIVE WITH POPS. JARED STAYS WITH ME."

His father doesn't move for a couple of long minutes. Then he nods at Booth, nods at Jared, and gets in his car. He squeals the tires as he speeds away. Booth drops to the cement steps and exhales the fear, the anger, and the disrespect that have lived inside his chest like a ton of volcanic ash for as long as he can remember. Jared sits next to him. Neither says a word.

Not two minutes later, Pops pulls up. Without saying a word, the boys climb into the car and Pops, never looking at either one, drives away.

Back at Pops' house, Jared climbs out of the car, just like ny other afternoon. Booth sits, unmoving, the full impact of what he has just done finally hitting him, a thunderous head and ear ache making themselves known and heard.

Pops, still sitting in the driver's seat, slowly turns the key in the ignition, and leaves it hanging in the steering column. Staring out the front windshield, Pops says to Booth, "Today, son, you became a man."

Pops sneaks a sideways glance at his grandson, disengages the car keys, and gets out of the car.

Booth sits alone for a moment. He allows several hot tears to drop onto his lap. Ten minutes later he joins Jared on the front porch for a game of marbles. Jared wins this time. But Booth knows that today they have both won.

"And she's buying a stairway… to heaven..."


	64. Putty Tat

Chapter 64 I Taught I Taw a Putty Tat, I Did I Did Tee a Putty Tat

So enraptured by the music and his memories, Booth is startled when his cell phone vibrates in his pocket. He punches the volume knob on the Boze, not sure he's in the mood for Fat Bottom Girls anyway. If it had been We Are the Champions, he might have let the call roll over to voice mail. Queen can pull him out of a funk better than most of his favorite English rock bands.

Hearing Cyndi Lauper's lyrics and knowing it is Bones on the other end, Booth grabs the phone, twirls it with one hand, flips it open, and punches the TALK button gladly. Now, THIS is really what he needs to pull him back into the world of the living, he thinks, smiling at the irony.

"Booth," he answers, his smile traveling along the line with his voice.

"It's Bones."

"I know, the girl who just wants to have fun ..."

"Fun today would be examining some remains and catching a murder," she says. "I'm up and ready to go as soon as you get here. Have you eaten?"

"Nope – I was hoping Carmen would have some waffles waiting for me … yesterday's were dy-no-mite! You eaten yet?"

"Just coffee. I'm waiting for you. I thought we could pick something up on the way to the remains on campus, but … " she pauses, trying to read Carmen's lips while deciphering her pantomimed message. "It looks to me … like Carmen would be … very happy if … you were to come here and … have some waffles."

"Sounds good to me. I'm already on my way - "

"You okay, Booth? You sound a little … off."

"I'm fine. Happy for the interruption."

"What interruption?"

"The interruption of your phone call on my maudlin morning thoughts."

"Hmm. That's interesting. Any new developments I should know about?"

"Nope. Being at home tends to bring back memories for me."

"Some good, some not so good?"

"Yip."

"Kay. Tell me later?" she says, making a mental note to ask him what the funk was all about. Sometimes a mood can hang over a whole day, confusing her and sometimes causing friction between them. She has learned to address whatever seems to be going on in Booth's head when this happens. Simply acknowledging the cause and letting him tell her about it had an ameliorating affect on their interactions for the remainder of the day.

"Yip. I'm almost there."

"Booth," she says anxiously, "could you pick me up …"

" … A tall café mocha with a shot of vanilla and low fat cream?"

"Yes," she says gratefully, with a sigh.

"Nothing like AstroBrew's in the morning," he says, knowing she misses the chain's special blend if she doesn't get at least one hot cup of it before noon. "Already got it. See you in five."

Booth pulls into the Larrinaga driveway two minutes later, already in a better mood.

Tossing a defrosted bag of frozen peas on the kitchen counter, Booth hands Brennan her cup of AstroBrew, and pulls a bar stool away from the breakfast counter saying, "Thanks for the loan, Carmen."

Carmen looks at him like he must be certifiable. "Uh, we don't want those back, Seal" she says. "could you drop them in the garbage can for me? It under the sink …"

"Sure. Sorry. I owe you some frozen vegetables." He notices Brennan's quizzical look as this exchange takes place.

"Don't ask," he says, looking at her and then back to Carmen. "Where's my kitten this morning?" he says.

Anna peeks around the corner of the stairwell leading to her upstairs bedroom and gives him a sheepish grin. He gives her a wink and reaches out his arms. Anna crawls over to him on her hands and knees. Booth crouches down and picks her up, sitting her on his hip, her little dimpled legs straddling his waist.

"Prrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," she says. Booth scratches her under her chin and tousles her hair with his free hand. "What a sweet little kitten," he says. After a moment, he puts her back down and she goes running off to the living room where Dora the Explorer's theme song is playing.

Turning to Bones, who has been watching the whole cat interchange, he asks, "How'd you sleep?"

"I slept fantastically, though I had some abnormal dreams. I am usually a fairly formulaic dreamer, but last night … I don't know. Maybe it was the Crème Brûlée. I'm not used to having sweets that late in the evening."

"Hm. Interesting," says carmen. "I still have some left over if you;d like to have some for breakfast …"

"No, thanks Carmen - I'd rather get going to the college to examine the remains."

"But what about my waffles?" asks Booth, disappointed.

"I've got them heated, buttered, and covered in syrup, here in this Tupperware container for you. I had a feeling Temp was a slave driver," she says. "Here, you'll need a fork," she says handing one to him as he heads out the door behind Brennan."

"Thanks, Carmen. Where's Enri, by the way?"

"He leaves for the office around seven every morning," she says as Bones reaches back and pulls Booth's arm to get him out the door.

"Just cant wait to get me alone, huh?" he teases Bones once they are out of the house, approaching the SUV.

"Just can't wait to see what the remains have to say …" she answers, rolling her eyes.

Booth opens the Tupperware and demolishes the waffles in three stabs of his fork. "Nom, nom," he says, running back into the house and returning the empty container to Carmen.

"Right after you called," began Booth as he backed out of the driveway and put the SUV in reverse, "I received a call from Officer Ronald Benton. He's pulled together all the cases of missing twenty to twenty-five-year-old females within the past ten years. He'll go back further than that, though he says anything prior to 2000 would be unlikely because that land was cleared of trees in 1999. That was when they last expanded the science wing and laid sod over the surrounding acre to be used as a social and event venue."

"Okay. What time does Wendell get in?" she asks.

"His flight arrives at 10 AM. Officer Bendel will be picking him up and bringing him to the site."

"I thought you said his name was Benton," says Brennan, confused.

"Whatever. Any news from Hodgens?"

"There was a text saying he has uploaded several potential scenarios under which the bones could have been cleaned, if indeed that is what has happened."

"What are the options?" asks Booth, looking back and forth from the road to Brennan, back to the road. It is good to be working a case, he thinks to himself.

"I'd prefer not to review his findings until I've examined the remains myself. I don't like my first view of the skeleton to be influenced by conjecture. Even if the conjecture is based upon sound reasoning."

"I should have known," Booth says. "Anything else?"

"He also requested that the Philadelphia Science Center not remove the core soil samples from the crime scene until Wendell has looked them over. He doesn't trust anyone else's work."

"He thinks Wendell's that good already?"

"No. I didn't say that. I said he doesn't trust anyone else's work. Even Wendell's, if he can help it. But at least Wendell, he can hold accountable."

"Right. Hm."

"What about you, anything else from the locals?" Brennan asks.

"I've had Bernstein .."

"Benton …"

"Benton, right," says Booth, not really caring what the pleeb's name is. "I've had Benton call all facilities in Pennsylvania and within 100 miles of its borders. He's checked about fifteen so far including Drexel University College of Medicine, Jefferson Medical College of Thomas Jefferson University, Raymond & Ruth Perelman School of Medicine at the University of Pennsylvania, University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine, Penn State Hershey Medical Center and Penn State College of Medicine … the list goes on. He's also got his people calling all hospitals and mortuaries. So far no one is missing a skeleton, clean or otherwise."

Listening intently to Booth's report, Brennan catalogues it all in her brain. "Hmm," is the only sound she makes. "What about cemeteries? Back in the 1800's there was a shortage of cadavers. Well, actually there was a boom in medical schools and no increase in the death rate, so medical schools actually paid people to dig up graves and purloin remains. Maybe someone dug this woman up, used her for study, cleaned the bones, and dumped here here."

"Bones, you have to see these remains," Booth says, looking at her while stopped at a light. "Those remains were laid out perfectly. This was no dump. Either she was laid there and her … soft materials just … disappeared, or … someone placed them there very carefully. I don't know much about bones and how they hang together - but these looked like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be."

"Interesting. I find that I am very much looking forward to seeing this for myself."

Booth shrugs his shoulders and nods his head, putting his foot on the gas as the light turns green. Bones' attention has already turned to something else inside her head. "How close are we?" she asks.

"It's just around the next corner," he says.

"So, are you going to tell me or do I have to ask?" she finally says.

"What? There's nothing else to tell at this point. Until we hear back from Benton." Booth flips open his phone and gets Benton on the line.

"Any updates since we talked fifteen minutes ago?"

Brennan hears a scratchy little voice on the other end of the line.

"Good work, Berstein. Another job for you and your men. See if there have been any reports of grave robbing in the last ten years."

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

"Yep. It is a possibility, gruesome as that may sound," says Booth, snapping his phone closed.

"So?"

"So. He's going to have his guys check into it."

"Is this another one of those guy things? You know his name, but insist on saying it wrong to assert your rank or power over him?"

"Maybe," he says, a sly grin on his face - but she can only see half of it because he's not looking at her.

"So ….?"

"What? You keep saying SO …"

"So," she begins and then pauses for dramatic effect. "Are you going to tell me how I got into my pajamas last night or are you going to make me ask?"

"Wow, look at that. Here we are!" he says, pulling up to the building and jumping out of the car.


	65. May I Please Continue?

**Chapter 65 May I Please Continue?**

Brennan had researched the College before lunch the previous day and can now see that the website's description of Haverford was quite accurate. Haverford College is situated on over two hundred acres of lush vegetation, mature trees, and a beautiful nature trail that provides a tour of the entire compound, including the award-winning architecture and landscaping. According to the on-line brochure, "the campus itself is a nationally recognized arboretum, with more than 400 species of trees and shrubs, a 3.5-acre duck pond, multiple gardens, and wooded areas." One hundred and seventy-eight years old, it was started by the Quakers in 1833.

Larrinaga's office is located in Sharpless Hall, though much of his work is conducted out of the Strawbridge Memorial Observatory. The new Stevens Morris Nguyen Center, which will eventually house the School of Physics and Astronomy, is being built near the observatory, tucked into a generous semi circle of coniferous trees. On the interior perimeter of the semicircle of conifers is where the ground breaking ceremony took place the previous day. This is where Brennan and Booth are headed this morning.

Into the compound, they'd taken College Lane which is lined on the right by the duck pond and on the left by medium-sized cottages inhabited mostly by professors and their families.

College Lane turns left into Coursey Road which then turns right, passing a parking lot on the left, then turns right again, into Walton Road. At almost the end of Walton sits the observatory on the left, behind which is the site for the new building.

As Brennan sits in the car, she watches the back of Booth as he heads across the lawn toward Strawbridge Memorial Observatory. She is perplexed about his abrupt behavior. Something fairly powerful is in charge of his mood this morning, she surmises, because clearly Booth is not. "Before this goes any further," she announces to the dashboard and any other inanimate objects inside the vehicle, "I think we better get to the bottom of this."

Brennan opens the SUV door and has only one foot on the ground when she notices Booth has stopped in his tracks. She watches as he waits a moment, drops his head, turns on his heal, and returns to the car. When he reaches it, he goes to the cargo area in the back and opens the hatch.

"Glad you came back, Booth," says Brennan quietly. "I need some help getting my equipment to the site of the remains." She says this without rancor, without sarcasm. If something is bothering him this much, she knows from experience, now is not the time to play games.

"Be open. Be compassionate. Be nonjudgmental. Be attentive. Give him room to figure out how to say what he wants to say." That's what Sweets has been advising her when it comes to Booth's moods.

"Okay …"

"If at all possible, rather than looking in or at his face, stand next to him or near him looking elsewhere, perhaps doing something that gives the impression you are not prying, not focusing too much on him. This will give him the privacy to gather his thoughts without having to worry about what his face might reveal. Males don't like getting caught displaying intense emotion. Allow him that and he'll open up more readily."

"I forget we're animals just like all other primates. This is fascinating, and predictable once you put it in that context."

"Men have just as many emotions as women - they just rarely talk about them because they, emotions, have been categorized as feminine. It's a pervasive belief entrenched in our society. And it's totally bogus. The deck of emotions is stacked against men from the moment they spring from the womb. It's unfortunate, but true."

"It's ridiculous. Life would be much easier if neither of the sexes were influenced by their emotions," she recalls having said to Sweets.

"Yes," he conceded. "Easier, and a whole lot less enjoyable, powerful, satisfying, purposeful. I think you can agree it is a worthwhile trade-off, Dr. Brennan."

"But a lot more complicated," she had said.

"You do realize, Dr. Brennan, that without emotion there could be no love?"

"Dr. Sweets," she had countered, "I am not saying that I would prefer a life without emotion. Quite the contrary. It is just that I find emotions in others difficult to interpret. In all honesty - I frequently find my own emotions difficult to name."

"Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery..."

"I didn't say I have a problem."

"As your therapist," he'd said to her gently though directly, "your trusted confidante who is committed to your personal growth and success, I declare that your inability to decipher both your own emotions and those of others … has made relationships … challenging."

"Agreed. Lets move on..."

"Is this the closest we can get to the site of the remains?" she asks Booth, just making conversation as she reaches into the SUV and grabs her gum shoes.

"Well, it's just on the other side of this domed building," he says, pointing directly ahead. She can see the large area cordoned off by the yellow crime scene tape beyond and partially obscured by the observatory. But again, she had just been making conversation.

"So … " she begins.

"Let's just focus on getting our gear over there …" Booth interrupts, clearly avoiding something.

"Booth," she starts again, sitting down on the edge of the SUV to put on her boots. "It's going to take me a couple of minutes to be ready. Can we talk for a minute? You seem … agitated."

Booth takes a big breath in, his diaphragm rising and then falling on the exhale, which is accompanied by a sound indicating something akin to agitation and resignation at the same time. He has not been looking forward to discussing the whole pajama … topic. After leaving the Larrinaga's last night he mulled over his decision to do what he had done. He wasn't so sure he had made the right one. The fact is, he had been trying to prolong just being with her. Holding her as she slept in his arms on the couch had been so comfortable. It had been more than comfortable. It had felt … RIGHT. There had to be a better word for that feeling - but he couldn't come up with one.

WIth her in his arms, as he sat chatting with a friend, after a wonderful evening of laughter, camaraderie and relaxation together - how do you put that into words? This is how he always imagined his life would be … shared this way … with someone he couldn't imagine ever saying goodbye to.

Her body, the way she clutched at his tee shirt, leaned into his shoulder and chest, allowed him to rest his hand on her hip, seemed to be saying, "I belong here. And no where else. I am happy, content, and safe. I can sleep, knowing you are taking care of me. All is right in the world, as long as I am in your arms." It had been a heady feeling for Booth. Made even more intense by his knowledge that Bones submits her care and protection to no one. She is the most courageous and self-sufficient woman he's ever seen. Yet, hasn't she been allowing him to protect her for years? Funny - he has put his life in her hands many times, and not just in the field. His life and his heart. Last night, he just hadn't wanted it to be over. As long as she was asleep he could pretend he lived in that dream. But it wasn't a dream, and he would have to account for his actions eventually. Until he does, he wants to savor the experience. Talking about it will take all the romance out of it for him, he's absolutely certain.

"When we talked on the phone this morning you said there was soothing that had put you in a maudlin mood. That's the word you used, "maudlin," she reminds him. "As in self-pityingly or tearfully sentimental. I find I am concerned. You can tell me now … if you want to."

Booth purses his lips and looks at her as she makes that face she always makes when she's leaning back and pulling on her long gum boots. She isn't looking at him, she's concentrating on the task at hand. "I find it so cool that you remembered that. Thank you for asking," he says as he sends her a gentle, almost sheepish smile.

Brennan looks up and smiles, knowing that this is truly a compliment. She's been working on increasing her awareness of the … sensitivities … of others.

"I've told you a little about my childhood here in Philadelphia," he begins.

Bones nods, leans back to pull on the other boot, then sits up, leans forward and settles back against the interior wall of the SUV. She looks at him. It's the right time to do that, because he's ready to talk, and he likes eye contact when he's at this point.

"On my way here I was cranking the tunes, listening to my favorite old R&R station …"

"I will assume you mean 'Rock and Roll,' not 'Rest and Relaxation," she says.

Booth nods, continuing, "Being on these streets, smelling the Philly air. It's a mixture of heat and grit, sweat and humanity. The taste of wet metal and history in your mouth. Residue from years of street vending activity, food wrappings long ago washed into the drainage system. You know - the smells of home."

"I've never heard you being so nostalgic, Booth. This was an important place for you?"

"Very important. This is where I … became a lot of who I am , I guess you could say," says Booth, sitting down across from her, one foot still on the ground. He gets up abruptly and disappears around the side of the SUV. She hears him open and close the driver's side car door. When he comes back, he sits down again, just like before, and hands her what's left of her tall café mocha with a shot of vanilla and low fat cream.

"On the way to pick you up this morning, Stairway to Heaven came on the radio."

"Led Zeppelin."

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"There's a singer named Robert Plant

"Bones, ROBERT PLANT isn't just any singer!"

"So I gathered by the expression on your face when I said his name," says Brennan. "Anyway, his father was a prolific anthropologist back in the '60s and '70s. I saw him lecture once. Dynamic speaker. A bit unfocused, but fascinating. I asked him about the substantiating proof for his theory regarding the liminal period in religious marriage ceremonies during the eleventh and twelfth centuries."

"Interesting."

"Yes. He said Stairway to Heaven was the inspiration for his research in that area. He played the song five times during his presentation. It was … interesting."

"Wow. There was actually a point to that story."

"A relevant one. The point is, I am familiar with the song, Stairway to Heaven. Too familiar," she finishes, noticing the look of incredulity on his face.

Booth pauses, just looking at her for a minute. "May I continue?" he asks.


	66. I Like You Just the Way You Are

**Chapter 66 I like you just the way you are**

"I had no idea you were so young when Pops took you in." This is the first thing she's spoken in over twenty minutes as he had recounted his memories from this morning. She had sat quietly, moving only to raise the coffee cup from it's resting spot on her lap to her lips and back.

"Yeah, so from then on we stayed with Pops," said Booth with a heavy sigh. "We never went back. Pops didn't want to see a reenactment of what he'd witnessed at the front of the school that day. He and Dad had exchanged words that morning, apparently. As a result, Pops agreed to let Dad go to the school and let us decide what we wanted to do. Pops made Dad promise he'd respect whatever we said."

Bones puts down her empty coffee cup and reaches out her hand, placing it on his shoulder like a cheerleader in a dance line.

"So Pops saw it all?"

"Yep. I didn't know until years later. Said he allowed my Dad to come to the school because it was important for me to take that stand. Said if he'd made the decision for us, it would have be like cutting open a cocoon to help a butterfly get born. The wings would never get strong enough to fly."

"You Booth men are a poetic bunch," she says, squeezing his shoulder, and smiling sideways at her partner.

"Somehow he knew I could do it. I don't know how he could have know that," Booth says, shaking his head and looking at the ground. "I was only eight! Younger than Parker. Would he be able to do what I did at his age?"

"Parker doesn't have to."

"Of course not, but would he be strong enough to do it if he had to?"

"Parker doesn't have to because he has you as his father. You are a completely different kind of man."

"Sometimes my anger scares me - you've seen it. It's not right," he says, looking at her as if he's just asked a question.

"Booth, all men are built with the capacity to do great harm. Anthropologically speaking, that capacity is necessary for the survival of the species. Since before the first Upper Paleolithic Cro-Magnon man , or even the first Neanderthal of the Middle Paleolithic, picked up a stone and used it as a tool," she said, attempting to be as accurate as possible without Booth's eyes glazing over.

"For a very, very long time," she says, "the male of the species has had to defend, hunt, and compete - or become extinct,"she explains. "Could the females of the species do it? Certainly, if they had to. But it would severely limit the population's growth, and therefore it's survival," she continues. "What's important, Booth, is what a man chooses to do with it." She pauses, slides her arm the rest of the way around his shoulders and squeezes, the side of her rib cage a half inch away from pressing into his arm, her breast pressed against his shoulder. "I learned that from you," she says, an empathetic expression on her face. "And Parker has too. Believe me, he has the fortitude to make good choices in tough situations."

"You think so?"

"I know so. Like I said, he learned it from you."

"Anyway, that's what all came flooding back to me when I listened to that song," says Booth. "It just kinda hit me. Boom. There it was."

"I'm glad I called at that exact moment," Bones says, releasing him from her squeeze and picking her coffee cup back up, but not moving any further away from him.

"Me too," he smiles, putting the arm that's stuck between them behind her and leaning back a little. "Its okay. Its over. Part of my past. Made me who I am," he smiles, now ready to get on with their day, but in no hurry to move away from her.

"We've got a big case ahead of us," he finally says. "Shall we go look at some bones?"

Bones drinks what's left at the bottom of her coffee cup and looks for somewhere to put it. She spies his cup in his hand and he hands it to her. She puts one cup inside the other, folding the caps in half and shoving them into the top cup.

"Well, I am glad it happened the way it did," she says after a moment, looking back at him now, not yet ready to be done with this conversation - even if there are bones waiting for her.

"How can you be glad an 8-year-old kid got his Dad's fist across his face?" Booth leans away from her the beginnings of a scowl on his face.

"For exactly the reason you just stated," she says, still looking back, though their faces are only about eight inches apart. "Because it made you who you are. Seeley. Joseph. Booth. My friend. And much more. And I wouldn't change a thing."

"You wouldn't?" he says a little surprised by her absolute statement.

"I wouldn't."

"Even … "

"Even that … " she says, cutting him off. "whatever you can come up with. I wouldn't change it. Even the things you do that make me want to throw …"

"I got the picture. Better stop while you're ahead."

"Thanks for saving me," she chuckles. "I wasn't sure how I was going to end that sentence … "

"Your welcome," says Booth, smiling back at her.

" … in fewer than a hundred words," she says, smirking just a little, and winks at him when he starts to protest.

"You ARE getting good at the winking," Booth compliments her, his voice a little softer than he'd expected. "The timing was perfect. The smile was good," He continues, reaching over and tucking a loose hair behind the ear furthest from him.

"The **curl your toes** kind of good?" she asks, though she wants to say, "please, please, please kiss me or I just might pass out.

"And then some," he says, looking into her eyes and feeling … impulsive, but not stupid enough to make his move until he hears some kind of declaration, showing she's ready to go forward. DANG YOU, GORDON!

"We better get over there," he says, breaking eye contact and regaining his voice, masking the fact that a moment longer sitting like that, and he'd have taken her by the back of her neck, pulled her closer, and showed her what her winking finness really did for him.


	67. A Note to Myself

**Chapter 67 A Note to Myself**

Taking an inventory of everything she'll need at the site, Bones hands Booth her bag of tools and a folding table, and sends him toward the crime scene.

"Don't you want me to show you where it is?"

"I'm fairly certain it will be somewhere inside the police tape and most likely next to a pile of freshly dug-up dirt. If there are several of those, I will assume the hole you are standing next to is our target," she says to him, not looking at him

This is ridiculous, she thinks to herself. This tension is distracting. How am I going to get any work done? I have GOT to find out what the deal is with Hannah so I don't make a fool of myself and screw up our partnership. If they are reuniting and I jump Booth … which I am about to do any minute … what then? WHAT THEN?

Based on the look in his eyes and the change in his voice, I am certain he is struggling not to get sucked into this vortex of sexually charged magnetic attraction - just as I am. I am stronger than he is in this area. I am an expert at compartmentalizing. The subject of Booth and Bones and our romantic future is now in a box - and hidden on a back shelf, until I can take it out and look at all the information. Make an informed choice about what I want to do next.

"Okay," he says, looking at her for a moment and realizing she's in the zone and can't be reasoned with. He takes off on the same path he had walked thirty-five minutes ago when he shot out of the SUV to avoid having to talk about the pajama ordeal. Put all of this out of your mind and focus. We are now working a case. This is no time to be in a fog. And stop thinking about her lips, her foot note, her panties printed with "If this whole "Anthropologist" thing doesn't work out, I can always fall back on my modeling career."

Brennan gathers her remaining equipment and follows the path Booth had walked moments before. The site was exactly as he'd described it to her yesterday on the phone. The dimensions, the gigantic yellow equipment, the half-dug trench. Approaching the polices car that someone had driven onto the lawn and up to the site, she places her equipment on the folding table Booth had set up for her. She opens what looks like a hard-sided suit case and surveys her supplies.

"Bones, I'd like you to meet Officer Ronald Benton," he says, over-pronouncing every syllable to show Bones that he DOES know the guy's name. "Officer Benton, this here's Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institution in Washington, D.C. Dr. Brennan is the top forensic anthropologist in the nation …"

"Actually, in the world," corrects Brennan.

" … and she's been brought here to assist in this case."

"To solve this case, probably nearly single-handedly." she says, looking at Booth. "Why are you saying it that way, Booth?"

"Can I have a word with you privately, Bones?" he takes her arm and moves her toward the hole containing the remains.

"Booth, this IS our case, isn't it? Tell me you didn't fly me out here for nothing," she says, with a warning expression. "THis isn't just because you like Enri Larrinaga and you want to protect him in some way?"

"Bones, it's not exactly our case yet. Remember I told you I got pulled of my flight?" He asks as she begins pulling off-white latex gloves onto her hands. "The Men in Black are the whales at the top of this food chain and they really call all the shots."

"Booth," she says, clearly irritated, pulling off her gloves and slapping them onto the folding table. "I do not work this way. I will not conduct an investigation into the cause of death for this poor girl only to have it swept under the rug because some millionaire alumnus paid off the Philadelphia police force to keep it quiet!"

"I agree, Bones. Just hear me out. Right now all they want is an identification on these remains. They want to control the story that gets out. Damage to this school's reputation could have severe repercussions for the future of the school."

"Since when are you the defender of private schools who provide advanced babysitting services for a bunch of rich people's kids?"

"Hey, now that's not fair. Enri is not a babysitter … he's an astrophysicist and a professor who, I am sure, does great work. I just don;t want to see him take a hit for something that could have nothing to do with Haverford College - or Enri's work."

"If I work this case - I will do whatever I need to do to get to the truth. Even if that means pointing the finger at your friend, Enri. And I will not hide any information - or 'sweep it under a rug' as you so eloquently put it. And here's another thing, Booth, I am not some cheap facial recognition software. I do not just IDENTIFY who the remains belong to, I uncover how they got to be remains in the first place. There is a killer out there. And he, or she, needs to be stopped and brought to justice before he, or she, kills anyone else."

"Great - now just find me a reason to declare this case under FBI jurisdiction - then you can figure out whatever you want about the cause of death, the color of her hair, what kind of sports she was good at, and what her favorite childhood pet was named."

"I can't just MAKE bones provide the information I want. I have to go through a process - with the proper channels. And I need full cooperation from the Philadelphia PD to get that accomplished. And the evidence has to support a jurisdictional change."

"Just work with me here, Bones. Find me something that can get us this case. Our way. Then we can prove whatever … we can prove … and we can put away whoever committed this crime."

"Fine, Booth. I will do what I can. But since we're kind of negotiating here, there's something else I want to know from you."

"Shoot - give it your best shot. What do you need?"

"I want to talk about a couple things having to do with us personally. There's something funky going on … between us … and I want to know what is going on with you. With us. It seems like you are on the verge of kissing me one minute, and the next you are taking off down the path and I have no idea what to think."

"Wow, Bones," Booth says, taken aback that she'd just laid it out there like that. "Um, okay - but can it wait until we at least get an ID on this case? Does it have to be right now?" He's sweating a bit, keeping the panic from his voice as best he can. Why does she have to knock me off kilter like this? And is this it? Are we going to have THE conversation right here, right now? Are we ready? Am I ready? This isn't how I wanted this to go … and what if it goes badly?

"It can wait - but not forever, Booth. I need to concentrate and I cannot do that with you getting a mushy on me overtime I say something nice …"

"Bones, what is UP? Why are you talking this way? We have been having a good time, and all of a sudden, I feel like I don't know what's going on. Are you angry with me?"

"No, I'm not angry with you. Well, maybe I am, a little. I don't know! But this … tension … between us is screwing with my concentration. And I can't have that while I'm working on a case. SO I need to deal with it. With you."

"Do you want to have a fist fight? A screaming match? Do you want to go screw behind the bleachers? I don't know what you want. Help me out here," finishes Booth, clearly agitated at this point.

Bones lets out a huge sigh and drops her forehead into her hand. Without looking up, she says, "Booth, I just need to set our … stuff … aside and focus on the work in front of us. And I want to know that we are going to talk about our relationship for once and for all."

Booth isn't sure where to go from here. He paces a bit, hands on his hips. Confused. Nervous. Clearly he's done something wrong, but he can't figure out what. Maybe she doesn't know either. That is the disadvantage of being in a relationship with a woman who con't figure out her own behavior and feelings, let alone anyone else's.

"Bones, you're kind of scaring me here. Have I done something wrong? Do you not want to work this case with me? Is there something I need to know about that you are not telling me?"

Yes, she thinks, actually there is. I want to know what the $*! is going on between you and Hannah I want to know how whatever that is might affect our relationship. And I want to stop feeling out of control around you. And I want you to either kiss me so hard I can feel it in my toes, or to STOP looking at me with those I-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off eyes. And I want to stop WANTING you to look at me with those I-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off eyes.

"Booth," she says, finally resigned, after the shouting in her head stops, "Right now, I just want us to do our job …"


	68. I Need a Drink!

**Chapter 68 I Need A Drink!**

"I need a drink," says Booth, under his breath, and to no one in particular, as he walks past Officer Benton.

"I don't know about in D.C., sir, but we usually wait until about noon to start drinking here in Philly," Officer Benton says.

"Nobody asked you!" says Booth, without even stopping. When he reaches the observatory he goes inside and finds himself alone in a three story room. In the center of this room is an enormous cylindrical piece of equipment reaching almost all the way to the domed ceiling The room is actually round, with several doors leading who knows where. Except for where the doors are, the walls, - actually, its only one wall because it's round - are covered in shelves. Most shelves hold books and papers. Some groups of books have identical covers, with gold engraving on the spines. Some shelves hold dusty metal equipment - some whose use is apparent, others that are either missing parts or are just not identifiable, for Booth anyway.

Booth smirks, thinking Bones probably has no idea what most of this junk is either.

Bones. Bones. What is he going to do with Bones? Why does she have to be so - blech - Infuriating? Impatient? She is clearly, clearly, not ready for this, but she wants to bring it on.

* * *

><p>What had Gordon Gordon said? <em>"Wait for the declaration - make sure she's ready to fully commit. If you want her for the distance, my dear boy, she has to relate to you as a man, as a person, as a partner … as a lover, Agent Booth. You are not a toy, or a collection of bones, or a novel. You cannot be compartmentalized and put on a shelf. You are a human being. A living, breathing, caring, giving, feeling man … who wants to share his life with her."<em>

_"The most important things in life do not fit into a box," _he'd continued. _"If your Dr. Brennan is to be able to fully commit … FULLY COMMIT," _he had said, making an upturned fist and thrusting it toward Booth's chest as if he were stabbing him in the heart with a dagger. _"If you want this woman, this brilliant, frightened woman, to fully commit, she has to CHOOSE to live out here where there are no boxes. She has to discover, for herself, that what is possible, what is extraordinary … is out here."_ He emphasized this last point by putting his hand on Booth's shoulder and maintaining full-on eye contact for longer than most people are comfortable with. Booth had let out a deep sigh and nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

"_If YOU want that for HER, I'm afraid you're going to have to allow her to punch her own way out of that box. You cannot do it for her, old boy." _Gordon had given booth an encouraging and confident smile.

_"It will be difficult,"_ he said, _"But …. I do believe you could be the man for the job."_ He'd paused then. "_If you really want it," _he said as if to insinuate that there are others out there who could do the job, it didn't have to be him. Gordon had a way of helping a person commit by making sure they new they didn't have to. It always appealed to Booth's sense of responsibility, pride. Booth WANTED to be the man for this job. Gordon knew that. He wanted to make sure Booth did too.

_"I never said it would be easy, Agent Booth," _Gordon Gordon had said as he'd shown Booth to the door.

"The best things never are," answered Booth, with a small grimace, then a smile. "Thanks." He left Gordon's house and went home and listened to "You're My Best Friend" off Queen's **Live Killers** album. It had become his unofficial song for him and Bones, though he hadn't told her that. After that he'd rocked out on his air guitar to the entire "Dazed and Confused" album by Led Zeppelin.

* * *

><p>"AAGHHHHHHHHH!" Booth gives out a little scream of frustration, wishing he could punch something, but everything in here is metal. And from the looks of it, possibly really expensive.<p>

Hearing a knock at one of the doors, Booth quickly makes a fist and puts it up to his mouth, faking a couple coughs. It's Officer Benton.

"Sir, Dr. Brennan is asking for you. She wants you to bring your car around and onto the lawn," he relays, leaning into the room and looking around with awe. "Hey, I used to want to be an astronomer - would you look at the size of that …."

"Thank you, Benton," interrupts Booth. "Tell her I'll be right out."

"Agent Booth, if you're comfortable giving me the keys, I can move the car for you. Dr. Brennan seems a little excited. I think she wants to see you right away."

"Fine," says Booth, tossing the keys to Benton.

Benton doesn't move, as if he wants to escort Booth back to Brennan. "She must have intimidated him," thinks Booth. "I'll bet he's afraid of returning without having delivered the car AND the FBI agent!"

"Go!," he shouts at Benton, who ducks out the door. letting it slam behind him.

Booth thinks to himself for a while, then heads toward the same door Benton disappeared through a moment ago. "I gotta make this work," he says to himself.

* * *

><p>As he approaches the hole in the ground, he doesn't see anything at first. He knows this is because Bones is suited up in her blue Jeffersonian Institution jumpsuit and is crouching down, intently examining the bones.<p>

"Benton's getting the SUV. What have we got?" He peers down into the hole and finds Bones just as he'd imagined she would be. At the far end, the same end where he himself had entered the hole just yesterday, he sees a metal painter's ladder extending down to the bottom of the hole and placed, it appears, exactly where Booth's footprints had once been. Bones was very serious about not disturbing any potential evidence. Surrounding the hole at ground level are four tarps, one covering each side of the hole and extending about five feet out from the hole. This is where she will place anything she bags to send back to the lab. It also protects the ground from being compromised. Nothing gets added to the surrounding soil, nothing gets unwittingly carried away by curious shoes.

"Well, I concur with Wendell's assessment that the victim is a Caucasian woman between the ages of twenty to … I'd say … thirty years of age. Never given birth. Approximate height: 165.1 centimeters."

"In American?" says Booth.

"Five feet, five inches tall. Some remodeling, though not within the five years prior to her death."

"Okay, okay," says Booth, jotting notes down in his little notebook.

"But here's where it gets interesting," Bones says, pointing toward the upper body. "See here? The clavicle, humerus, radius and ulna," she says, pointing a gloved finger at the shoulder, the upper arm, and the two forearm bones. "These bones, on both the left and the right, show indicators that this woman was an athlete. See the color and size?"

"Color and size mean nothing to me, Bones."

"She was a … very healthy woman. However," she says, raising her eyebrows, "Look at this," she says, swiveling her body so she is now facing the lower half of the skeleton. She points to the thigh bone, then the larger of the two shin bones, saying, "The femur and the tibia, in both legs, tell a different story altogether." Bones looks up at Booth who is now crouching on the tarp lining the opening of the hole.

Booth looks down at Bones, shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders and waves his hands to each side, palms up. Bones knows this means, "I have absolutely no idea what the significance of what you just told me is."

"These four bones show evidence of osteoarthritis. Somewhat advanced, I'd say. She may have even been in a wheel chair."

"So what does that mean to us … we're looking for an ex-athlete who was in a wheel chair before she died? Or maybe she wasn't an athlete. Maybe she was overweight. Lifting herself into and out of a wheelchair, then rolling herself around all day every day - could that give her healthy upper body bones, Bones? Did you catch that - I said, 'bones, Bones! Heh."

"Now that," says Bones, ignoring Booth's little joke. "is a reasonable theory. And now, how hard can it be to identify a woman who died five years ago - by the way, the bones appear to have been placed in this grave within days of her death. In other words, and we will have to confirm this back at the lab, but it appears that she was interred soon after having died. It is unlikely that she was a corpse stolen from a graveyard. This was a fresh kill followed by almost immediate interment."

"You were saying, 'how hard can it be to find a woman who dies five years ago …' and what?"

" … Had great upper body strength, and osteoarthritis in her legs, possibly rendering her wheelchair-bound?"

"And," added Booth, "who may have been quite overweight."

"Correct," says Bones, smiling up at Booth. "Now we have something to go on."

"Great - I'll get right on that," says Booth, standing up and dusting off his jeans, though there was no need because of the tarp. Must be a habit from being at way too many crime scenes.

"Just a minute," she says. "There are a couple things I need."

"Per usual, Bones. What do you need?" he says, opening his notebook up and flipping to a blank page.

"I need three 28-inch Samsonite Winfield Hardside Spinner suit cases with their interiors cleared of all belts, buckles, pouches, and zippers. Have Benton get someone to go get those," she said, a master delegator. "I also need 45 pounds of medium weight modeling clay. Get the pink kind …"

"Why, because it's prettier? Bones, the dead girl won't know the difference …"

"No, because the pink kind is the most malleable. It also sets the quickest. I will also need three to four rolls of heavy duty plastic - the wider the sheets the better. Like saran wrap. As a matter of fact - saran wrap would be perfect! Best place to find that will be at the college cafeteria. See if you can get one of those huge rolls of it."

"Got it. Anything else?"

"Yes, I will need a lettuce leaf salad with some kind of fruit, preferably raspberries or strawberries, tomatoes, sliced mushrooms, shredded asiago cheese - in a light vinaigrette … and a diet Coke. Lots of ice."

"Right. Anything else?"

"Yes, get something for yourself as well. It is going to be a very long day," Bones says happily. "Oh! And Wendell should be here by lunchtime. Maybe pick something up for him as well …"

"Wha?" says Booth, feeling like a waitress all of a sudden, but actually more relieved than anything. This is what he and Bones do incredibly well as a team - connect pieces of unsolvable puzzles and catch the bad guys. Booth starts to walk away.

"Booth, wait!" shouts Bones. "Can you help me get up out of here?" She stands up and carefully walks back toward the ladder, careful to use her previous footprints as a guide. Once she reaches the top, he takes her hand so she can step off the ladder without knocking it over or falling back into the hole.

"Thanks," she says, giving him a big smile. Not quite warm enough to make Bones relax after this morning's discussion, but he'll take it.

"Do we have the dental records of the women Benton identified as having gone missing from five to fifteen years ago?"

"We have from five to ten years right now."

"That's a start," she says, choosing four vials, a small bowl, and a knife from her case. Carefully shaking the silicone-polymer base component from the first vial into the bowl, she then adds a vinyl polymethylsiloxane cross linking agent, water, and finally, an elemental metal catalyst. These three materials, when mixed together, create a dental cement that will reproduce almost perfect impressions of bones, teeth, footprints. Bones likes to use Polyvinylsiloxane because it cures quickly, captures detail, releases quickly, and doesn't produce an offensive odor.

"After I mix this - it should only take a couple minutes - I'm going back down into the hole and I'll need you to hand this to me."

"Is it toxic? Do I need gloves?"

"Not toxic. Don't need gloves, but it does set rather quickly, so once it's mixed we have to get me into the hole and up to the skull to make casts of the teeth."

"Whatever you say, boss," he says, calling Benton over.

"This is a list of our demands ..." he begins, joking.

Benton, used to Booth's stern interactions with him so far, looks alarmed.

"Relax kid," says Booth, clapping him on the back. "I'm just screwing with you. These are some things the good doctor needs. I need YOU to stay here. Do you have a man you trust here?"

Relieved to see Booth lighten up, Benton says, "My dad's not here. Will my partner do?"

"Is he old enough to drive?"

"Yes, sir," says Benton, not sure if this is a joke.

"Old enough to drink?"

"Uh, yes, sir," thinking more that it might be a joke rather than not.

"But not at the same time, right?" says Booth, enjoying intimidating this pipsqueek. It feels good to be on the giving side again instead of the receiving side - like he had been earlier this morning with Bones.

"Never, sir!"

"Okay - he will have to do. Tell him to be back here in one hour."

"Yes, sir."

"I need you, Booth!" shouts Bones to get his attention. She's starting backward down the ladder.

"Gimme, gimme, gimme that bowl," she urges him, impatiently.

"Make that two drinks I'm going to need when this day is through," he says to himself, walking over to the SUV to open the back hatch and start setting up the telecommunication equipment and the laptop.

"A MINIMUM of two," he says out loud, shaking his head.


	69. Mr Bray Comes to Philly

**Chapter 69 Mr. Wendell Bray Comes to Philadelphia**

An hour later, as Wendell approaches the scene, he takes note of the numerous carefully arranged castings Dr. Brennan has lined up on the tarp on the North side of the hole. It would have taken any other anthropologist a full day to acquire that number of castings, but Dr. Brennan was doggedly proficient and meticulous, barely stopping to eat or take a restroom break.

"Dr. Brennan," he shouts toward the blue form crouched over the lower half of the remains. Intently examining the lateral condyle and epicondyle, the medial condyle and epicondyle, the patella surface, and the adductor tubercle parts of the right femur - more commonly known as the knee joint portion of the thigh bone, she shouts her greeting without looking up.

"Mr. Bray, welcome to Philadelphia. Why aren't you suited up yet?"

"I got off the plane and was brought here directly."

"You did bring your Jeffersonian Institution-issued coveralls?"

"Yes, Dr. Brennan. And plenty of gloves. Even a shower cap."

"What you wear in the privacy of your own shower is of no consequence to me, Mr. Bray. Just get suited up and join me down here. Don't forget to don the appropriate foot coverings - there's a box of them by my valise behind the tool box.

"Yes, Dr. Brennan," he says, setting his bag down, unzipping his parka, and digging around in his backpack.

"And Mr. Bray...," called Brennan.

"Yes, Dr. Brennan," answered Wendell, familiar with her direct approach and happy to have the opportunity to respond to it. After all, not everyone has the opportunity to work in the most respected forensics lab … in the world.

"Your assessment of the remains was as accurate as I would expect from mere photographs. I have confirmed the presence of osteoarthritis on the both the left and right femora and tibias, surrounding the patellae. Also, your assessment of age and height appear to be correct, though I added five years to the range, taking the arthritis into consideration. Hodgens can confirm as soon as he runs his tests with the bones back at the Lab."

"Thank you, Dr. Brennan!" Wendell is pleased to receive affirmation from his mentor.

"Well done. Do you know why I chose you to come out here, Mr. Bray?"

"Because Mr. Nigel-Murray … is no longer available," he says, knowing that she appreciates acknowledgement of the truth and is not shy to hear or speak it.

"That is correct, Mr. Bray," She says, still not looking up. Replacing the left thigh bone in it's original spot, she carefully picks up the left tibia and scrutinizes the end that mirrors the femur where it meets the knee joint. Slowly rotating the knee joint two inches from her face, she scrutinizes the medial condyle, the lateral condyle, and the tubercles.

"The position as my top intern, though not an "official" position, is open. Mr. Nigel-Murray's brilliance fell short of Dr. Addy, but he was also diligent and extraordinarily informed in matters across an impressive range of topics.

"Vincent was the best," says Wendell, in reverence for his colleague who was slain not a week ago.

"No, Dr. Zach Addy was the best. You would do well to remember that, Mr. Bray." Now she looks up.

"I defer to your judgement, Dr. Brennan," he says, respectfully.

"It is not MY judgement that determines brilliance, Mr. Bray." She's back to her inspection of the left tibia. "If I wanted the best, I would have no choice but to clone myself and hire myself as my assistant. But what do we know about cloning, Mr. Bray?"

"Cloning is not yet a viable option for reproduction. It has not yet proven to be as exact as the engineering scientists had at first theorized it would be." She's now replaced the left tibia in it's spot and has carefully picked up the right tibia.

"That is correct," she says, looking up briefly and removing her latex gloves.

"After the options of my clone, Dr. Zach Addy, and Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray have been exhausted, do you know who is my next choice for top intern?" she asks him, climbing gingerly up the ladder. "Can you give me a hand getting out of this hole, please?"

"Sure, here," he says, walking over to her and offering his hand. "Do I know who your next choice is for top intern?" he repeats her question.

"Correct," she replies.

"No, I don't, Dr. Brennan," he says, looking at her askance.

"You can get in the hole now," she tells him, motioning toward the ladder.

"I don't know either, Mr. Bray," she says, "Who my next choice is for top intern. So this is a very important opportunity for you."

"I'm honored, and thrilled to be here," Wendell says, smiling broadly, showing all his teeth.

"You should be," she says, looking at him briefly, then continuing. "I have closely examined the bones with the most visibly identifiable anomalies. I would like you to catalog all of the bones, all 216 of them."

"Excuse me, Dr. Brennan, don't you mean all 206 of them?"

"Good catch - you will have to pay close attention while here, Mr. Bray. I will be testing your attention to detail, your identification of falsehoods I may present to you, and your ability to make quantum leaps involving verifiable facts as to the causality of these, and any other anomalies while working on this case."

"You can count on me, Dr. Brennan," says Wendell.

"I should hope so - or I would not have invited you out here," she says, matter-of-factly, noticing that Booth has returned from making phone calls and overseeing Officer Benton's collection of her requested items.

"May I speak openly, Dr. Brennan?"

"Mr. Bray, I expect open communication to be the rule between myself and my squ- ah, interns, not the exception."

"I understand, um, Dr. Brennan. For the record, I have never spoken any way but openly to you," he says, just to confirm that she understands."

Brennan stands, looking at him. An uncomfortable silence ensues.

"So anyway," Wendell begins, "as I was about to say, openly, is that testing me on the number of bones in an adult human is a bit of an insult. That's Anthropology 101. I hope the 'challenges' get more 'challenging' as we go along."

"Mr. Bray," begins Brennan, "You are correct," she says, conceding the point. I am a little off my game today. Gotta have that talk with Booth. Grrrr! "That first question was just to jump-start your brain. The real challenges, I assure you, will be at a level commensurate with your … ability and experience." She looks at him, daring him to say anything else. She's getting antsy to get over to Booth.

"Now, here is the inventory …" she hands him a translucent blue clipboard containing about twenty spreadsheets held in place by the metallic pinching device at the top of the board. The clipboard has a cover and can be latched closed to contain any appropriately sized items held within.

"The numbered stickers are in the envelope which you will find under the spreadsheets, but please use the adhesive gum in my case to further adhere the numbers to each bone."

"I will note all anomalies on the sheet next to the number assigned to each bone. Anything else, Dr. Brennan?"

"I trust you will be meticulous. When I return this afternoon we will review your findings."

"Thank you - uh, how long will you be gone?" asks Wendell, not yet in the hole.

"Until I get back, Mr. Bray."

Wendell nods, he could have predicted that response … but what he really wanted to know is how long he would have to capture the requested information. And if he would have time to go to the bathroom first.


	70. We Have An ID!

**Chapter 70 We have an ID!**

Unzipping her Jeffersonian Institute jumpsuit, Brennan steps out of it and places it in a white cloth bag she always brings along for this purpose. Her jumpsuit will be bagged as evidence in case she inadvertently picked up any particulates.

Booth is in an animated conversion with Benton. He's waving his arms and pointing toward the hole with the remains. She walks in the opposite direction toward the building with the facilities she was directed to this morning. When she comes back out of the building, Booth is waiting for her. He flashes her a smile. Flip-flip-flop, goes her stomach - or something in her chest - she's not sure which. Suffice it to say, Booth's smile does something to her insides. He looks like he's in a good mood. Brennan hopes she doesn't say something to ruin it.

"What do we know?" she asks.

"We have an ID!"

"Okay. What do we know about the victim?"

"Aleesha Grimes. Twenty-one years old. Daughter of Barbara and Bob Grimes of … ," he consults a sheet inside an official looking folder, "Laurel, Maryland. And get this: past student of Haverford College."

"Interesting. Have you talked to them?"

"They are expecting us at four this afternoon. And, by the way, this makes it an official FBI case. Missing from Maryland, found in Pennsylvania." Booth puts up his hand for a high-five while still reading from the file. Bones gives his hand a good smack.

"Way to go, partner!" she says, with a big grin, as they walk toward the SUV. "You beat me to it. What time is it now?"

"About 12:30. Hungry?"

"What happened to my salad?" she asked looking back toward the hole in the ground with Wendell's head just barely visible poking out of it.

"I gave it to Wendell's new girlfriend."

"What? Wendell brought a girlfriend on a business trip. I will have to talk to him. I expect more professionalism from my interns ..."

"Steady now, Bones. Wendell did not BRING a girlfriend with him, alright? I'm referring to Little Officer Kenney, the officer sent by Benton to pick up Wendell at the airport." Booth nods toward the Crown Victoria parked beside Benton's. A female officer sits sideways in the driver's seat, chomping away at a leafy green salad in a clear plastic take-out box. "She seemed more than happy to take it."

"But …"

"Why eat a boxed salad sitting on a tarp, dangling your legs into a hole filled with bones, when you can sit down in a restaurant and not worry about dropping vinaigrette all over the evidence?" asks Booth, putting on the charm. During a case, sometimes its difficult to pull Bones away long enough to eat. More than once he'd been successful getting her to the diner, but then been abandoned as she ran back to the lab, having had a revelation about something that had been gnawing at her for hours. Booth makes sure she eats at least one meal a day sitting at a table from start to finish. Especially in the middle of a case.

"You know what I'd rather do?" she asks, giving him a look of supplication.

"I know exactly what you'd like to do, and I'm on it," Booth says. He knows her well. She wants to check into her hotel room, take a quick shower, put on fresh clothes, then get on the road to meet with their victim's parents, debriefing with Booth along the way. "While Officer Benton was dispatching his minions to acquire all the goodies you requested, I went to the hotel and checked you in. I also put your suitcase in your room," he explains, feeling competent and useful.

Sometimes when she's in the thick of the science part of a case, he feels like there's nothing for him to do - which there isn't, until her team finds something. This morning, he got an ID and made an appointment with the victim's parents, delegated the acquisition of the materials she requested to his newest whipping boy, checked her into her hotel, and returned just as she was finishing with Wendell. A very successful morning, in his opinion.

"You didn't have to do that, Booth. That's really going above and beyond," she says. "But I appreciate it. Do I have time for a quick shower?"

"Lets see - 12:30 …. we have to leave at 1:45, 2 o'clock at the latest to get to Laurel …"

"You know I am a very efficient showerer," she says. "I'd really rather not meet … what was her name?"

"Aleesha."

" … Aleesha's parents smelling like mud and looking like death warmed-over."

"Hm," he says, pretending to think about it. "I suppose we could squeeze it all in," he relents. "But you will really have to be fast. I've got an Ambrosia Burger on the mind and I won't be able to think straight until I've got one in my stomach as well."

"Deal," she says, "And did you notice my pun? Death warmed-over. It's a pun because we deal with death all the time … not really warmed up … Angela used to say she felt like death warmed-over after something else she called the walk of shame … which is when you return home in the morning after a hot date on a cool night with a warm dude - wearing the same clothes you went out in the night before. Or possibly less …"

"Nice pun, Bones. And I know what the walk of shame is, though I haven't heard it used in a LONG time. Angela's probably worn a hole in that path in her day."

"I don't know what that means ..."

"It means she has probably walked the walk of shame so many times that she could have partially eroded away the sidewalk creating a pathway."

"Except that she rarely walked the same path more than three or four times, Booth. Not nearly enough to erode concrete," she says, sounding very confident.

"Well ... there's something I did NOT need to hear ..."says Booth. Clearly, it's time to change the subject. "Okay - back to the case … or, where were we?"

"Shower. Laurel, Maryland. Victim's parents."

"Ah. No, it's shower. EAT. Laurel. Parents. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Lets go .." They hop in the car and Booth steers the SUV off the lawn and takes a right onto Walton Road, reversing their course from earlier that morning. As they drive past the duck pond, the mother duck is leading her six teenage ducklings across the water toward a toddler and his mother who have brought a bread bag full of crumbs.

"On a day like today - clear sky, bright yellow sun, gentle breeze rustling through the green leaves in the trees," she begins, looking past Booth to the scene at the pond, "It's hard to believe that a young woman's remains lie in a hole in the ground on this very campus. And that students may have picnicked on that very spot many times. Knowing nothing about what lie just five feet below their potato salad," Brennan says, forlorn.

"Yes it is," says Booth, pursing his lips and looking at her face briefly as he drives slowly down College Lane.


	71. Men Are Careless

**Chapter 71 Men are Stupid and Careless**

While Bones takes her shower and gets into fresh clothing, Booth goes to his room and makes a couple phone calls. The last one to Rebecca.

"How's he doing?" he asks.

"He's fine, Seeley. Why what's up?"

"Remains were found on the campus over here in Philadelphia. I'm a little concerned that I might not make it back for the weekend if this thing drags out," he explains. "We've already got an ID, but I've learned to never assume anything is as simple as it may seem at first."

"Hey, he'll get over it. You've already been fishing twice this Spring. That's more than a lot of kids get with their dads," Rebecca says, assuredly. "Want me to prepare him, just in case?"

"Ahhhhhhhh," Booth thinks about it for a moment. "What is this, Wednesday?"

"Yep."

"Tell you what - I'll call him tonight …"

"Tonight's soccer practice," she reminds him. "Let me just pave the way, soften the blow."

"Ouch - is it really a blow? You know I try not to cancel on him …"

"Seeley, he'll be FINE! Get back to work, solve this thing, and get your butt back to D.C."

"You're right. How are things with your boyfriend?" he asks, genuinely interested.

"He'll be okay. It was a stupid move. If I had a quarter for every time I warned him …"

"Rebecca - men are stupid and careless. How many times I gotta remind you of that?" he says, chuckling.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she says, "and I'm a sucker for the stupidest and least careful of the whole lot of you!"

"Hey! I never fell off a roof …"

"No comment, Seeley," she says, teasing him. "By the way, Parker cannot shut up about the project Tempe and her team had prepared for him when they picked him up yesterday afternoon. He can;t wait to go back and work on it some more."

"I haven't heard about this project. What is it?"

Rebecca explains the life size drawing of Parker, in three layers - the bottom being his entire skeleton, which Bones drew herself for him.

"Wow. That is really cool. Did you get to see it?"

"He doesn't want me to see it until it's finished. He's calling it "Flat Parker."

"Like Flat Stanley, the chapter book I've been reading to him," says Booth.

"Yep. He says he wants to hang it on the wall in his room at your place. I hope it doesn't scare him in the middle of the night …"

"We'll see what it looks like first," he says, intrigued and pleased that Parker had a good time while both of his parents were elsewhere. "Tell the kid I love him, and I'll talk to him tomorrow."

"Will do. Be safe," says Rebecca before hanging up.

Before leaving his hotel room, Booth takes out his wallet and fingers through the receipts, and plastic until he finds Bones' footie note. Unfolding it, he brings it up to his face, closes his eyes, and breathes in the scent. "We'll, what do you know?" he says out loud. "Hm. I get it." He smiles as if he's got a secret he's keeping, refolds the note, smelling it once again, then replaces it in his wallet.

"Sixteen minutes. I think that's a new record," says Booth, a little too energetically, smiling the world at her as she steps off the elevator.

"You have no idea how good you have it," she says. "If I had known this is all it takes to put a smile like that on your face, well ..." Bones says, then stops, squinting at him, then smirking, resigned. "I guess I hadn't thought that comment through completely before I opened my mouth ... "

"I love it when you act like a person," says Booth, draping his arm over her shoulders and laughing at her.

Bones smiles brightly at him, play punches him in his exposed rib cage, and gives him a mock-warning look.

"Whoa!" he says, feigning injury and backing off.

"As I was saying - before you derailed me with your silliness," she says, shooting him a 'what is UP with you?' look. "What I was saying ... is that you don't know how good you have it. The average adult female takes 45.3 minutes to get ready to leave the house."

"Oh, yes I do," he answers, confidently. "I've spent enough time waiting on women to appreciate a speedy one when I see her. How do you do it anyway? Rebecca takes - or at least she used to - no less than seventy-five minutes to shower, dress, and whatever else it is you people do to get ready to go somewhere, anywhere."

"You don't want to know," she says, smiling at him sideways. "Lets just say I've got it down to a science. Another pun …"

"Ha ha," he says, sarcastically. "Seriously though, you could give lessons. I know a lot of men would pay big bucks for their wives to learn how to get showered and dressed in sixteen minutes."

"Eh, I don't need the money. Besides, if I teach all the other women of the world, I would no longer be extraordinary," she says with mock concern.

"Right, especially since getting ready in record time is your one redeeming quality," he says, rolling his eyes.

Bones shoves him in response as they head out the door where the SUV is waiting at the curb.

"Where to for lunch?" she asks.

"A little place called The Grog. Wait till you taste their crab cakes!"


	72. The Napping Chapter

**Chapter 72 The Napping Chapter**

Their stomachs full, Booth and Bones' brains are relatively empty … of blood, at least. Booth sits in the driver's seat in the parking lot behind The Grog. He stares straight out the windshield. Neither one has said anything since slamming the doors shut and Bones buckled her seat belt.

"Booth," says Bones. It may have roused him, if she'd said anything else. But she forgot to, so full was her own belly and empty was her brain.

"Lets go take a nap," he finally says. "Or what if I climb in the back seat? You drive …"

"What? I had TWO crab cake sandwiches - I'm in just as bad a shape as you! Plus a big pile of French fries."

"Uh, plus most of MY fries …"

"I need a nap just as badly as you do … and I want one more … after being in the sun all morning in a pit of morbidity." She slowly turns to look at him. A look that says, "What the HECK are we going to do?"

"I never pegged you for the napping-kind, Bones."

"Oh, I LOVE napping. I'd nap every day if work and people didn't get in the way. I miss it when we're in the thick of a case."

"Really?" he asks, flabbergasted, dragging out the word. "Reeeeaaalllly? Well, I guess there's no way I coulda known that …" He turns to look at her, considering her face - a little bloated and soft-looking from so much diet Coke.

"Well," she says, considering him back. "We gotta get over this, 'cuz we've got a very important meeting in about …" she looks at her left wrist. Realizing she forgot her watch, she reaches across him and takes his left hand from the steering wheel, where it had been resting since he used it to pull himself into the SUV. "… in about - oh! - two and a half hours."

"How long does it take to get to there?"

"Where?"

"Laurel, Maryland!"

"Right. Two days."

"Noooo. Two hours, right?"

"That sounds more like it. But if it were two days, we could take a REALLY great nap. Great coupla naps…"

"Booth!" she shouts, smacking his thigh.

"Ouch!" he says. "Why'd you do that?"

"We gotta snap out of this … " she says, shaking her head. "I suppose we could go out behind the dumpster and puke up lunch. Then maybe our blood will return to our brains …"

"I guess you could call this a 'refractory' period?"

"Ohhhhhh, yes," Bones confirms, "But not MY favorite kind …"

"Right … you know I never understood the appeal of eating and then puking. That just seems crazy to me," he says, his face contorting into a question mark.

"Me neither. That has to be the stupidest strategy for weight loss ever conceived," she says, nodding her head and looking at him like they were discussing something truly fascinating. "I have an idea," she says still staring at him across the front seat. Bones unbuckles her seatbelt, opens the car door, and hesitates, gathering her thoughts and committing to her plan. To her crab cake-addled brain, it sounds like the only viable plan.

Slamming her door shut, she takes three deep, quick, breaths, and rounds the SUV to Booth's door, yanking it open.

"Come on, big guy," she says. "I have a plan. The perfect strategy for getting our blood pumping through the rest of our bodies."

"Am I gonna like this plan?" he says, giving her a sly grin.

"Nope. But we have to do it," she says, grabbling his left arm and pulling him into an upright position. "Okay - close the door and come with me." She pulls him by the hand toward the trees at the back of the tiny parking lot.

"Hm. I think I might enjoy this …" he says.

"Shut up," she says. "and focus." She slaps herself a couple times on each cheek, then slaps him a couple times on each of his cheeks. "Okay - we'll start with five jumping jacks …"


	73. On the Road Again

**Chapter 73 On the Road Again**

"Well, that was invigorating …" says Booth, putting the key in the ignition. "I usually don't like to exercise on a full stomach."

"We didn't really have a choice, Booth, unless you want to postpone our meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Grimes who have been looking for answers to their daughter's disappearance for five long years. Then you'll most likely also miss your fishing trip with Parker this weekend."

"I know, you're right," he says, burping. "Whoa - excuse me. See, that's what happens when you mix up your meal AFTER eating it."

"You are excused, but I don't understand why people are embarrassed about normal bodily sounds. Eructation is simply the release of air from the stomach or esophagus, usually because you've swallowed too much air. Most people burp three or four times after every meal," she explains. "In come cultures, if you DON'T burp after a meal, it's an insult to the cook."

"Are those cultures of mostly men?"

"Of course not," she says, looking at strangely. "Did you know that if you swallow air and don't burp, it'll go through your digestive tract and be expelled through your anus as flatus?"

"Whoa, don't say anus right after we've eaten!"

"Braaaap," Bones burps in response. "Oops, sorry!" she giggles, peeking at him over the hand covering her mouth. "Buup, burp, hick!"

"BONES!" he says, letting out a good laugh. "I am so attracted to you at this moment …" He says sarcastically, continuing to laugh, and pinching her cheek.

"Hey," she says," slapping his hand away. "Eructation, is not a sex specific phenomenon. Men have the advantage of bigger organs - that's why you are able to expel a greater volume than the female of the species."

"What ever you have to tell yourself …" he says, pinching her cheek again, still laughing at her.

"Would you just keep your hands to yourself and drive, neanderthal?" She burps one more time.

He just shakes his head, trying to control his laughter - but not that much. "Is that the best you can do?" he says. "Grraaaaauuuup!"

"Booth, if you seriously want to have a competition - let's go. Lets stop at a bar on the way home and get a couple cold ones - we'll see 'who da man' …"

"Nice," he says, sarcastically, looking to the left and pulling onto Lancaster from the parking lot. "But not tonight, I'm planning on having Ambrosia-Burger-jumping-jack heart burn …"

"Whatever," she says.

"Parker would LOVE this conversation … do you have a lecture on farting as well?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," she says, smiling and nodding at him.


	74. A Tale of Two Inconsistencies

**Chapter 74 A Tale of Two Inconsistencies**

"So what's the story on Aleesha Grimes?"

"It's all there in the file - she was in her third year at Haverford, home over Summer break."

"Some Summer break …"

"Right. One night in June she met some high school friends at a local ice cream shop and was never seen again. Haverford is sending us her school records. Benton is forwarding the original missing person's report from the PPD."

"Says here," reads Bones, scanning the first page of Booth's report from his phone conversation this afternoon with Barbara Grimes, "the date was June 15th, 2006. She walked from her parents' home at 1834 Gorman Avenue in Laurel, MD, to meet her friends, three high school girlfriends, at … Rita's Water Ice - in the Laurel Corridor Marketplace, address: 3353 Fort Meade Road."

"Sounds about right."

"Okay - Any witnesses to an abduction?"

Booth's phone rings.

"Booth," he says. "Okay, Benton. Hold on. I'm putting you on speaker phone so Dr. Brennan can hear you too. Give me a minute here."

Booth hands the phone to Bones who connects the phone to a gadget attached to the stereo system. She punches the ON button on the console and adjusts the volume.

"Good afternoon, Officer Benton," she says.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Brennan. Did you enjoy The Grog? It's one of me and my wife's favorite places to eat …"

"Benton," interrupts Booth, "the Grimes file?"

"Yes, sir, I have it in my hands. I've sent a digital copy to Dr. Brennan at the address you gave me. You should have it within minutes."

"Thank you, Benton. Did you also get the canopies erected over and around the site so Dr. Brennan doesn't have to work in the hot sunshine for the rest of today and tomorrow?"

"I did sir," he answers smartly, as if he's standing at attention on the other end of the line. "I supervised it myself. It was up by 1:15 this afternoon. Your Mr. Bray from the Jeffersonian is still working in the hole, sir. A fine young man, that Mr. Bray. Angel, I mean, Officer Kenney, seems to have taken a liking to him…"

"Officer Benton," interrupts Bones, "just a couple of quick questions while we wait for the digital copy of the file."

"Sure. Go ahead," he says, eager to be of assistance on what is now an official FBI case.

Again Bones scans the first page of Booth's notes and asks several questions in quick succession.

"Were there any witnesses to an abduction?"

"No, Ma'am."

"How did she get from her parent's home to Rita's Water Ice to meet her friends?"

"Says here she walked."

"How many miles is it from the Grimes' house to Rita's?"

"About two miles, Ma'am," he says.

"Is there a record of what time she left her parents' house?"

"Yes. Says here … according to the mother, Babs Grimes, Aleesha left 1834 Gorman Avenue at or around six in the evening."

"Okay. What about what time she arrived to meet her friends?"

"Her friends … Bonita, Chicka, and Corrine … reported she arrived at Rita's Water Ice at or around 6:20 PM. She left at exactly 8:30 PM. They all remembered that specific time because she said she wanted to be home in time to watch a rerun of San Francisco Crime Investigators which starts at nine o'clock."

"Hmm. Interesting," says Bones, thinking, but saying nothing. "Thank you, Officer Benton."

"My pleasure, Dr. Brennan. Is there anything else you want me to read to you off the report?"

"No - thank you. We'll call you if we have any further questions," she says.

"You have my number," he says.

"Wait - Officer Benton?"

"Yes, Agent Booth?" Benton returns to a more formal tone of voice.

"Who was the primary on the Grimes case?" asks Booth.

"Um," they hear him flipping through the pages of the file. "Well, it looks like the primary was changed half way through the investigation."

"What do you mean?" asks Booth.

"Officer Jezzi Bonzai is written down, but then crossed out. Officer Angel Kenney is written above Bonzai's name."

"Benton," starts Booth, pausing to think for a moment. "Is that normal protocol for the PPD - crossing out a name and writing another above it?"

"Not at all, Agent Booth. According to the PPDHOP," says Benton, pronouncing the acronym for Philadelphia Police Department Handbook of Protocol as 'pee-dee-hop,' "When a change in primary occurs, the original statement doc is not to be altered in any way. A new statement doc is created, dated and the change of primary is noted. The original state doc is stapled underneath the new primary's sheet."

"So, Officer Benton," asks Booth, suspiciously," what do you think happened here? Why the cross-out? Why the failure to follow protocol?"

"I will find out for you right away, Agent Booth."

"Let me know what you learn. I'll be waiting for your call."

"You can count on me, Agent Booth. Dr. Brennan."

Booth presses the END button, hanging up the phone.

"Interesting," says Booth, his face scrunched in thought.

"What do you think it means?" asks Bones.

"I don't know. Whoever it was didn't care that Bonzai's name was still visible on the report … or they would have covered it up somehow," suggests Booth, still working on the possibilities. "Or gotten rid of the original sheet and started with a fresh one. But that doesn't make sense. No one ACCIDENTALLY writes someone else's name on their own report. Someone higher up must have made the change. But why not go through the proper paperwork?"

"Know what I think is more interesting?" asks Bones after a moment, raising her eyebrows and staring straight through the passenger-side front windshield.

"What?"

"How does a twenty-one year old woman with semi-advanced osteoarthritis walk two miles in twenty, even twenty-five minutes?"


	75. The Patellae Don't Match

**Chapter 75 The Patellae Don't ... What?**

"Officer Benton, at your service," he says, answering his cell.

"Officer Benton, this is Dr. Brennan. I need the phone numbers of the three girls Aleesha Grimes met at Rita's Water Ice. I'm still waiting for that digital copy to download," says Bones. "Also, is the victim's medical file included in what you already sent me?"

"Um," says Benton, breathing hard, his voice bumpy.

"Officer Benton, are you jogging or are you suffering cardiopulmonary distress?"

"No worries, Dr. Brennan," he answers. "There's just been a lot of commotion here. Had to leave the file in the squad to go handle it. Here we are."

"Benton, this is Agent Booth," says Booth, unnecessarily leaning toward the speaker console as he speaks. "Are you at Haverford?"

"Yes, sir"

"Why is there a commotion going on there?"

"News got out about the skeleton being found. It's been a slow week here in the borough. I guess it made top news in the paper this afternoon."

Silence on Bones and both's end of the line. They exchange a glance. Both thinking about who has seen the bones.

"Benton, how do you think that news got out?" Booth looks at Bones, raises a vertical finger to his lips, signaling 'don't say anything,' He looks through the windshield, pursing his lips. He knows you learn more by asking questions rather than always relying on your own conjecture.

"Thanks, Angel," Officer Benton says to someone on his side of the line. "Agent Booth, we've just learned that one of the hole diggers has loose lips. Apparently, he took a picture with his cell phone and now that's above the fold in the afternoon addition of the Haverford Herald," he says, panic in his voice. "I am really sorry, Agent Booth. I thought we had a lid on this thing … college security had the over night shift … "

"Great," says Booth rolling his eyes. He looks to Bones, who is watching him carefully. He nods at her, indicating 'go ahead.'

"Officer Benton, this is Dr. Brennan of the Jeffersonian …"

"Bones, he knows who you are …" Bones sends Booth a warning glance.

"Officer Benton, we are not concerned about the news leaking. We are …"

"Wait - I'M concerned about the news leaking …!"

"What's MOST important to us," continues Bones, letting Booth AND Benton know that THIS really is the most important issue. "Is that the site is not compromised in any way. Nothing has been taken away, nothing has been added. THAT is what is most important."

"Understood, sir. Um, ma'am, I mean. Officer Angel Kenney says the college security report of the incident - I have it here - it says Security Officer James White, he's a friend of mine and a trustworthy guy, by the way, on the force for ten years before going private … "

"Focus, Benton. What does the incident report say?" Booth asks. "Feel free to paraphrase."

"Sorry, sorry, sorry. Okay - the hole digger climbed up one of the cherry pickers and used the zoom function. Point being that no one came near the hole, Dr. Brennan."

"Okay, Benton. I want you to snap walls onto those canopies," directs Booth. "If they don't have snaps - get new canopies that have walls. We're not running a circus here."

"Officer Benton?" interrupts Bones, "Is Mr Bray still at the site?"

"Never left it, ma'am. Well, except to shake the dew of the lilly, if'l you'll pardon my poetry, ma'am. Do you want to talk to him? "

"She has a phone, Benton. We'll call him ourselves."

"Right, sir. Anything else?"

"Phone numbers of Aleesha's girlfriends."

"Right. Got 'em right here if you're ready to take them."

"Go ahead and shoot, Benton."

Bone's cell phone rings. "It's Mr. Bray," she says, distractedly, looking at the caller ID. "Mr Bray, Dr. Brennan." She turns toward the passenger side window and speaks into the phone, one finger stuffed in her left ear. "Hold on a minute, just one minute," she says, pressing the phone into her chest so Wendell doesn't get confused by the other call.

"No problem," says Wendell, though Brennan never hears it.

"We've got another call, Benton," says Booth toward the radio console. "Lets get those numbers ASAP."

Bones copies down the numbers onto the front page of Booth's notes as Benton reads them off.

"Thanks, High Ho Silver, now get those walls up!" Booth clicks off the phone before hearing a response from Benton.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Bray?" says Brennan, putting her cell to her ear once again.<p>

"I'm here," he answers.

"What do you have for me?"

I noticed something strange about the patellae. Neither of them appear to have corresponding osteoarthritis. If the femora and tibias show signs of osteoarthritis, it stands to reason that the patellae should as well."

"Are you sure?" she asks, perplexed, but calm.

"Yes. Unless they are microscopic, which I can't confirm without a microscope. It's almost as if she had her patellas replaced."

"Do the patellae have the same amount and color of debris on them? Dirt from being buried?"

"Well, they appear to, but I captured seven samples of dirt from around the knee joint for comparison.""You still have your gloves on?"

"Yes, always, Dr. Brennan."

"What other questions might you ask in this situation?"

"How do the color and density of the patellae compare to each other and to the femora and tibias? Then I'd take a much closer look at the remaining bones to see if there are any other anomalies similar to this."

"Very good, Mr. Bray. What else?"

"I'd order millimeter drill samples to be taken of all six bones - three from each joint."

"Which means what?"

"We have to get the bones back to the coroner's lab as soon as possible. So I need to pack them up, take samples from all the soil and copious notes."

"This has become an FBI case. The victim was living in Maryland when she went missing."

"I guess I'll be sending the remains to the Jeffersonian, then."

"Very good job, Mr Bray," she says. "now, how are you going to do that?"

"I'm going to fill the bottom half of each suitcase with pink modeling clay. I will press the clay into the hard shell of the suitcase, making it four inches deep for the first two - deeper for the third, as space allows. Then I will carefully remove each bone, wrapping them, one at a time, loosely in saran wrap, and then pressing them at least 50% deep into the modeling clay."

"We may or may not be back before eight o'clock or so. We might get to talk to the last people who saw the victim alive here in Laurel," she says. "Very well done. Make it so, Number One!," she says and hangs up. Turning to Booth, "Did you hear my Star Wars reference?"

"Bones, that wasn't from Star Wars," says Booth, looking at her and registering her disappointment.

"It wasn't? Well, what's it from?"

"I don't know, but it wasn't Star Wars."

"It must be from one of those outer space shows," she says, disappointed. "Did you watch any of the other ones?"

"Nope - I was a jock, remember. Too studly to watch anything more far out than Star Wars and E.T. Chicks weren't interested in those other shows. Except the smart ones, but I ..."

"What's E.T.?" she says, interrupting him.

"You haven't seen E.T.? You need an intervention, Bones. Where are you getting these pop culture references from anyway?

"I bought a book on them. One of those Dummy Guides. I'm trying to fill out, Booth."

Booth gives her a blank look. Then a scrutinizing look. Then recognition dawns and he flashes her an affectionate smile. "It's 'fit in, Bones," he says. "Believe me, you've already filled out."

"I don't know what you mean. Or … oh … Are you referring to the development of secondary sex characteristics?" she says.

Booth looks at her and raises both eye brows. "Bingo Baby. That's what filling out means," he says with a wink and a … beautiful grin.

"That reminds me, Booth …" she says, her eyes narrowing, looking at him suspiciously.


	76. What Time Is It, Baby?

**Chapter 76 What Time Is It, Baby?**

"Hold that thought, Bones. Lets see if we can visit the high school girlfriends while in Laurel."

"Okay," she says, still looking at him suspiciously. "Give me your watch."

"What do you need my watch for?"

"I want to know what time it is."

"It's 2:37."

"Just give me your watch, Booth."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"I'm gonna wear it."

"What? Why?" Glancing at her quickly then back at the road, twice.

"I just want to keep track of the time and I don't want to have to ask you every five minutes."

"Why will you need to know the time every five minutes?" Booth is clearly confused, on the border of being really annoyed.

"Because …" she says, sounding like 'not that it's any of your business,' "I want to budget my time."

"For what?" he says. Then, "Oh," he says, realizing he's pretty much trapped. And he's not ready. And he's distracted by this case. It's nice to be distracted by a case.

"We have to call those girlfriends, Bones. We are going to be in Laurel for a short amount of time - and I'd like not to have to go back," he says.

"Alright. Girls, then talk," she says, pretty pleased with herself.

"Woah - I'm being blackmailed by my own partner," he says, acting put out. "I said we could talk about us after we get an ID on this girl."

"We have an ID," she says.

"Yeah, but what about the bones thing? Doesn't that make things questionable? How … Are we 100% sure this is the right girl?" he says, laying out some weak arguments, and knowing they are weak.

"We have the dentals. Dentals don't lie," she says, matter-of-factly.

"But don't you always say bones don't lie? What about the perfect patellae? What about that?"

"Bones DON'T lie, but you can identify someone quickly and irrefutably by their dental records. And we have those."

"Okay - you win."

"Why is this a win or lose thing with you? Angela says men almost always do anything to get out of talking about a relationship. In the past I have not found this to be true with you. Well, not most of the time, anyway," she says, "Why are you sounding frustrated? What is the big deal?"

Booth isn't sure what to say. He doesn't want to admit that the idea of having the relationship conversation with her makes him uncomfortable. On several levels.

"I'm struggling here, Booth. And you are the only one who can help me with this."

Booth's shoulders relax. What am I so uptight about? Once we have the conversation, Booth tells himself, everything could change. That's what I'm uptight about. What if it doesn't go how I want it to go? What if it does go how I want it to go and we just can't make it work? What then? He's always imagined having this conversation at his own house … or hers - somewhere comforting, relaxing, private. Maybe after a shared meal. Bones' homemade macaroni and cheese? In the car, in the middle of a case, is awkward - it takes a lot of energy to be in the middle of two tornadoes at once. A person could blow an emotional fuse, and then where would they be? On the other hand, being in the thick of a case made him feel sexy, exciting, intelligent, useful, strong. That's a good way to feel when you have to have a talk like this, right? But what happens to the case if we fight and she takes off? Or she's upset and doesn't want to finish the case with me?

She's a logical person, he assures himself. She'll understand what I have to tell her. And why we shouldn't get involved romantically right now - she has to be able to commit, emotionally. He's just isn't sure she is ready - or even wants to be. She's balked before. Will she get it that I need more than just a physical connection and camaraderie? What if she still just doesn't think she's capable of giving herself over - and being given to as well? Maybe I should call Gordon Gordon. Why am I acting like a little girl? This is ridiculous. This is Bones, we're talking about, here, he tells himself. This is me. Haven't we survived lots of stuff together? What is my problem?

Booth becomes aware that Bones has been talking to him, but he's been lost in his own thoughts.

"Booth! Yoo Hoo! Dr. Brennan to Agent Booth. Hellooooo?" Bones is calling his name and has begun to wave her hands near his face. He finally turns his head and looks toward her.

"Is it safe for you to drive while you're daydreaming like that, Booth?" she asks, concerned. "Maybe I should drive …" Booth is finally completely snapped out of his mental argument.

"Where were you? You leaned your head to the left, then the right, then the left - the whole time making faces - like you were playing both sides of a tennis court - and you were taking turns playing two completely different people."

"Don't get mixed up with me, Bones," Booth says, sighing. "I'm a nut job," he says, shaking his head.

"Too late," she says. "Besides, I love nuts." She takes out her phone and starts dialing the number of the first girl on the list of three, Bonita Lucas. Her last comment hanging in the air.

"Oh, Bones," he says, laughing, a pained expression on his face, "That's a wasted comment when there's no one else here to enjoy it with me."

"What? What'd I say? What's so funny?" She's clueless, of course.

"Never mind. Just, never mind," he says, making a fake, pained face.

"What?"


	77. When You're Happy and You Know It

**Chapter 77 When You're Happy and You Know It ...**

"Okay," says Bones. "Bonita Lucas will meet us at Rita's Water Ice at 4:45. We can get a look at the last place Aleesha was seen alive and grill her about that meeting," she says, noticing there is only an hour left of this ride to Laurel.

"What was the deal with the chicken-a-la-king girl?" asks Booth.

"Her name is Chicka Vegas. Wonder what that is short for?" Bones squeezes her eyebrows together in contemplative thought. "I mean, "Bones" makes sense. Booth - well that's just your name."

"Maybe she grew up on a farm?"

"Maybe she has one of those made-up names, like, I don't know, Chicanita?"

"It could be a nick name that has nothing to do with her real name," suggests Booth.

"True enough," says Bones, grimacing. "Her mom said she is babysitting, but should be back within the hour. Mom'll have her meet us with Bonita, if she can."

"Great. You know, I knew a hooker once whose name was Female - pronounced Fah-maw-ley. She said she was the last of twelve girls and her mom just ran out of names. She said she was too tired to come up with another one. Can you believe that?"

"Stranger things have been known to happen … I'm afraid to ask, but why were you friends with a hooker?" She looks at Booth not sure if she's joking or not. Forty-five minutes left.

"She witnessed another hooker being beaten to death but a John."

"Oh. Tragic."

"The world can be tragic," he says. "What about the third girl?"

"Corrine Anderson. She's out of the country. Took a nanny job and went to Majorca with the family. Won't be back for three weeks. That's a bust. Hopefully we'll have this thing cleared up by them."

"From your mouth to God's ears," says Booth, shaking his hand toward the ceiling.

"So now what are you, Jewish?" Forty minutes left.

"Heh," and a sideways look are the only response he gives.

A comfortable silence of about five minutes ensues while Booth entertains his own thoughts and Bones opens her laptop and reads through the file sent over by Benton. "Did I remember to ask for Aleesha's medical file from her pediatrician - or GP?"

"I think you were going to, but we got interrupted. Informatus Interruptus," he says, wiggling his lips around, playing with his made-up word. "Bummer," he says.

"Mmm," she says, still reading silently from the screen. She sneaks a peak at Booth's watch hanging on her wrist. Thirty-five minutes left.

"Hey, how do you get a word into the dictionary? Is there a form you can fill out or something? I bet I could discover some words …"

"Words aren't discovered so much as created, Booth. Someone creates a word. It kinda goes viral. Becomes part of the vernacular. Then it MAY get into the dictionary …" she says distractedly. I have a fascinating book on the creation of the first dictionary, if you're interested."

"No offense, but it doesn't sound like my kind of book."

"Actually, it might be right in your road. It's called Professor and the Madman: A Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of The Oxford English Dictionary, by Simon Winchester.

"Oh, yeah … Now THAT sounds like my kind of book. Are there heroes in it?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that," says Bones looking up from her laptop and staring out the window. "I'll lend you my copy. It's signed by the author, so you'll have to give it back."

"Or else … ?"

"Or else, what?"

"I have to give it back, or else … there should be a penalty if I don't give it back."

"I'll think on that, Booth," she says squinting back through the front windshield, a crooked smile forming on her lips.

"Good. You'll have to let me know what it is so I can decide whether or not I want to return the book," he says, pursing his lips, and starting to hum the theme song of the hit tv series based on the novels of Kathy Reich.

"Being with you is like being with a child sometimes," she says.

Booth raises his eyebrows at her a couple of times, smiling, and starts to whistle, his right wrist leaning on the top of the steering wheel, left hand resting on his thigh. The tune has changed to "If you're happy and you now it … clap your hands."

Bones roles her eyes and shakes her head. She goes back to reading her report. Twenty-five minutes left.

Her phone rings. They make a 6:30 appointment with Chicka Vegas, who can't meet them at Rita's, but will be home by 6 o'clock. Fifteen minutes left. Not nearly enough.

"You won this round, Booth," says Bones with a sigh.

"What? I did? What'd I win is it something good?,"he asks. "Wait, what'd I win for?"

Bones leans her elbow on the bump on the car door window, her face on her fist. She just stares at him, a stern expression on her face - kinda like "You've gotta be joking". She shakes her head. "Maybe not a child - maybe more like a puppy."


	78. It Takes All Kinds

**Chapter 78 Babs and Bob Grimes - It Takes All Kinds**

Eighteen thirty-four Gorman Avenue in Laurel, MD, is a single family rambler with yellow siding and a detached, one car garage in the back. Before even going into the house, Bones knows there will be three bedrooms, placed closely together, the first two on one side of a short hallway. The opposite hall wall gives entry to the third bedroom and a small bathroom with a green, yellow, or pink pastel tub. The shower curtain still smells like plastic and some kind of soap that was all the rage forty years ago.

At the very end of the hall will be a narrow linen closet, most likely overflowing with threadbare towels and faded queen and twin sheet sets. A second half bath will be in the cement floored basement, most likely situated not too far from the washer and dryer. Both the washing machine and the narrow shower will drain into a round grate in the middle of the slightly tilted cement floor. Neighbors will know when Babs is doing laundry because the heat and the fresh scent of Downy will billow into the back yard.

The front of the house is lined with shrubs that have been shaped and cut back as many times as the house is old. A small flower garden spills out of an overturned half barrel in the middle of the lawn, directly in front of a single-pane living room window.

Bones predicts the living room furniture will be gold or orange, and consist of a couch and two chairs, at least one of which stills rocks back and forth.

"I lived in so many houses like this when I was in the system," Bones says to Booth as they walk through the front yard to the white screen door that still has it's original glass louvers.

Booth nods, mounts the two cement steps leading into the house, and rings the bell.

"My favorite foster family lived in a house just like this. They raised eight kids in that house. Not all at the same time. When I was there, it was just me and the two youngest. At Christmas it was a regular puppy pile of bodies. People sleeping on every horizontal surface. They treated me like one of them. Birthday and Christmas presents - the works.

"How long were you with them?" Booth asks, looking at her, enjoying hearing about a happy childhood memory.

"Eleven months," she answered, a small shadow passing over her face before she puts on an impervious smile.

"What happened?"

"The dad, Ed was his name, was killed in a car accident. Brenda fell apart. Social Services said she was "temporarily unable to provide adequate care and guidance" for additional minors in the household."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Bones," he says.

"I was almost legal by that time. I only had one more foster family before I was let loose on the world under my own recognizance."

The interior door opens and a short woman with very low hanging breasts, wearing a pale paisley house coat, reaches for the handle of the screen door. As she swings it open, Booth and Bones see that she isn't so much short as wheelchair-bound.

"You must be the Feds," says Barbara Grimes.

"Yes ma'am. I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth and this here's my partner Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institution," says Booth.

"Won't you come in?" she says, rolling backwards and making a 45 degree turn so she's facing the living room. "You can call me Babs. My husband, Bob, is waiting for us in the living room." She rolls three feet forward into the living room. "And there he is!" she says loud enough for all to hear. Then whispering toward Bones and Booth, "Whatever you do, do not call him Robert or he'll think you're here to take him to the looney bin. You know how doctors always use your christian name. It scares the bajeezuz out of him. You understand."

"Certainly, Babs," says Bones, shooting a 'this is interesting' look at Booth. Booth just shrugs his shoulders and holds out his arm to indicate she should follow Babs.

Booth holds open the screen door, letting Bones enter the house, then follows her in, closing and latching the screen door, then closing the interior door behind him. They find themselves in a tiny vestibule which is really just a patch of linoleum leading into the living room.

"Can I get you anything?" I just made some chocolate chip cookies and I put a pot of coffee on the burner.

"No," says Bones.

"Sure," says Booth, at exactly the same time. "Real homemade chocolate chips. From scratch?"

"Yessir," says Babs, clearly delighted to have someone to feed. "That's the only kind worth eating!"

"Any takers on coffee?"

"I'm kinda caffeine out already this afternoon, Babs. But some milk with the cookies would be great."

"Booth," Bones shoots Booth a warning look."

"You're just like my boys, Agent Boost, is it?"

"It's Agent Booth, Mrs. Grimes," Bones says. "And this must be Bob," she says loudly, holding her hand out to the lumpy man on the couch who doesn't get up, but takes her hand. "Hello, Mr. Grimes. I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan and this is Special Agent Booth of the FBI."

Booth moves up next to Bones and offers his hand.

"Have a seat, if you have a seat," Bob says. "See, the first seat means a chair, the second seat means your keester. A joke of my own making. If you use it, you have to give me credit. Say it's from Bob. Just Bob." Booth and Bones are still standing, not sure what to make of Bob.

"Well, what you waiting for? Sit down!" Bob tells them.

Bones sits in a chair. Booth sits on the couch. Both pieces of furniture are orange and sag when they sit down.

"I guess you're wondering why I called y'all here today," begins Bob, his mouth hanging open. A questioning expression on his face, he looks from Bones to Booth and back. "Who's in charge here? The filly or the cowboy?"

"Um, Mr. Grimes, Bob," she says, leaning forward and looking back at Booth momentarily. Booth nods a 'go ahead' at her.

"Bob, we are here about your daughter Aleesha."

"Don't have a daughter Aleesha. Not no more. Not since she run oft with a doctor," he says, forlornly. "She was my one girl. My one chance for greatness. My one love. Cept'n you, Babs," he says, smiling and reaching over to hold Babs' hand. They exchange a tender glance. Babs puts her free hand over Bob's.

"Bob, Aleesha has been missing since June of 2006, correct?"

"Yes'um,"

"We understand that she met with three girlfriends early that evening. She left home at six o'clock, arriving at Rita's Water Ice, two miles away, at or around 6:20. She left Rita's water Ice at 8:30 in order to catch the rerun of San Francisco Crime Investigators. That starts at nine o'clock." Bones pauses, expecting some kind of confirmation or correction of the details.

"We have found her remains, Bob. She was buried in Haverford, PA, on the college campus where she was a student," explains Bones.

Bob just looks at her. He says nothing to Bones. "Where are those cookies, Babs. I think I'll have me some. And I'll have what the cowboy's drinkin' too." Babs had rolled herself back to the kitchen when Bones began providing the facts.

"Bones," Booth touches her on the arm. She leans back to listen to him. "Why don't you go help Babs with the cookies and milk?" He gives her his 'just go along with me on this' look.

"Okay," says Bones, too loudly, "I'll just go back in the kitchen to help Babs while you men have a chat …" As she leaves the living room, she turns and gives Booth a little thumbs up sign and a grin.

"She's a little on the dry side, the filly, she is," says Bob. "Doesn't know good humor when she hears it, poor thing. Now, lets you and me get down to business," he pronounces business as "Bid-Niss."

"I thought you'd never ask," says Booth, getting up and switching to the chair Bones vacated.


	79. A Man and a Cowboy

**Chapter 79 A Man and a Cowboy Share Milk and Cookies**

"You like chocolate chip cookies, Cowboy?" asks Bob.

"I do, sir. Very much," he answers him. "It's a man's cookie - if there is such a thing."

"Couldn't agree more, son, couldn't agree more," says Bob, cookie crumbs collecting on the shelf that is his seven month gestational gut. Booth knew better than to ask when the baby was due - though a guy like Bob would probably get a kick out of that.

"You like girls, too, Cowboy?" asks Bob, obviously trying to get a rise out of Booth.

"I do, sir. More than I'd like to," he says, a companionable grin on his face.

"Heh heh. Ain't that the truth, son?" he says. Can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em. Though I supposed a joke like that isn't too wise to share, present company considering…"

"Sir, I know a good joke when I hear one. And I promise not to handcuff you unless you lose your sense of humor."

"I appreciate the consideration, Cowboy."

"Mr. Grimes, Bob," says Booth. "You understand why we're here, sir." Booth takes another cookie from the plate Babs had placed on the coffee table between them. He looks covertly, yet closely, at Bob to ascertain how sane this man is - and if he does understand. "Through dental records we've identified five-year-old remains buried on a college campus in Haverford, PA. The deceased appears to fit the description you provided to the authorities five years ago June."

"I understand," says Bob, who has gone quiet and appears to be focusing on a patch of grease on his thick cotton, green trousers. "My life ended that month, Cowboy. A person just don't come back from a hit like 'at. My baby girl."

Booth purses his lips and sits back in his chair. "No, sir. you don't." They sit in silence for a moment until Bob starts back up.

"Here are the facts as I know them to be - you might want to take some notes," he says, looking up at Booth expectantly.

Booth takes out his little pad of paper, opens it, and clicks his pen so the inked end appears.

"Now that's a nice pen," says Bob, noticing how every time you click the pen, the lady stretched across the barrel looses her clothes, then gets them back, then looses them, then gets them back. "Can I have a look see?" He reaches out toward Booth.

"Well, I'll be damned," he says, handing it back to Booth. "What's the filly think of that there pen?"

"She hasn't seen it, Bob. Don't think she'd appreciate the humor, if you know what I mean."

"I do, Cowboy. I do," he says, grinning conspiratorially. Let's get this over with, shall we?"

Bob fills Booth in on the details as he recalls them. Aleesha had been in love with a professor at Haverford. They'd gone on several trips together, but hadn't in the year before she disappeared. Bob and Babs had never met this professor, but had seen him twice when he'd come to pick her up to leave for the trips.

"Do you know where they went on these trips, Bob?" asks Booth.

"Germany the first time, seems to me. Then Arizona. Or, no, it was Puerto Rico. Actually, I think she did go away with him three times. TO all those places. She said it was for research - but she said it in a way that suggested it wasn't the kind of research that got published in no scientific journal, if you know what I mean."

"She suggested they were lovers and that they used the trips as "honeymoons," shall we say?" asks Booth.

"That is correct, sir."

"What you gotta understand about Leesha, is that she was always falling for older guys. Unavailable guys. Guys with kids. I guess she was loin' to replace me, somehow. I wasn't the best of fathers, Cowboy. But, Jiminy Crickets, she was a beautiful girl. And a fine dancer, too. Ballerina," as he made the final comment he looked up at the wall above the television set. There hung about fifteen photos of a young woman in ballet shoes serenely pliéing, or balancing on point. In two of the photos she was being held high in the air by a ballet dancer in tight blue or black ballet tights.

"Who's she dancing with here?" Booth asks, pointing to the closest of the two couple photos.

"Some ballerina named Rick or Chip or Steve ..."

"I believe male ballerina's are called ballet dancers, sir."

"I been around long enough to know a ballerina when I see one, Cowboy. And that boy," he says flinging his hand toward the photo wall, "he is a ballerina, if you catch my ... whatever."

"Which is the most recent photo of Aleesha?" asks Booth, nodding toward the wall. He gets up, hands on hips and looks closely at the crookedly hung photos in fake wood frames.

"Here it is," Bob says, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. Bob extracts a curved portrait of Aleesha, her back leg up in the air behind her as she bows toward the camera, her face up lifted and lighted perfectly to show a fine face with prominent cheek bones and small, thin, impish lips.

Booth flips the photo over. Written on the back is "Baby Girl. 2005. December. Swan Lake.

"Bob, did Aleesha take any prescription drugs? Any pain killers?"

"Not a one. She was always on some purity kick or another. Too bad that purity didn't extend to her dating habits. Why do you ask?"

"The remains we found at the college show signs of osteoarthritis. Somewhat advanced, actually. A woman with the bones we found would not be able to hold this pose, much less do one of these other moves over here," says Booth, pointing to one of the photos where Aleesha is being carried as she bends both legs at the knees - in a 45 degree angle. "As a matter of fact, we were expecting Aleesha to have possibly been wheel chair bound, like your wife."

Bob looks at Booth with a blank expression on his face. "What are you trying to say, sir?" he says, suspicious of where this conversation is going.

"I'm not trying to say anything, sir. I'm just trying to clear up some inconsistencies." Booth pauses, letting that sink in - willing to wait until Bob says whatever he's going to say next.

"Babs!" Bob yells toward the kitchen, not taking his eyes off of Booth. "We need some more cookies and some female comp'ny out here."

"I'm comin', I'm comin'," they hear Babs yell from somewhere beyond the kitchen. As Babs rolls into the living room, Bones behind her carrying a tray of warm, fresh cookies, she says, "I made another batch so y'all can take some with you."

"Babs, don't be giving them no cookies to take with them! Why you gotta make friends with every Tom, Dick and Harry comes through that door?" He's clearly agitated. "Babs, the Feebs think Aleesha was a cripple … or they got the wrong girl. Maybe it ain't her after all," he says, looking like all the wind had been sucked out of him. His eyes slowly glaze over as Booth and Babs start to chat.

"How long have you been in the wheel chair, Babs?"

"Oh, Lord. Pretty much since Leesha was in diapers. Scoliosis. Bad. Pregnancy that late in life really made it bad. I used to be a dancer in my day.

"Just like Aleesha," states Bones.

"Why yes! But she was far better than I ever was. Straight back, long legs, beautiful face," she says, a dreamy look on her face. Slowly she returns her gaze to Booth. "What's he mean, you think she was a cripple?"

"Mrs. Grimes. Babs," says Bones, sitting down on the couch and speaking calmly and slowly. "The remains we have uncovered are of a young woman who suffered from osteoarthritis in her femora and tibias. A woman with this stage of disease wool don thane been able to walk comfortably, much less dance." Bones waits as Babs takes a moment to understand what she's just been told.

"Something that is confusing about this case is that Aleesha is reported to have walked, quite quickly, two miles from your home here to Rita's Water Ice two miles away. And the records show that she did this in under twenty-five minutes," she pauses. "The average adult female walks at a rate of fifteen minutes per mile." She pauses again. "It would have taken the average woman at least thirty minutes to get to Rita's from here. Much longer for one with osteoarthritis to the degree exhibited by the bones in Haverford."

"Well," Babs starts, then stops. "Well, whatever does this mean? I don't understand? Do you have my daughter or don't you?"

"Oh, I'm confident that we do have your daughter," Bones says. "Is it at all possible that she was using prescription drugs - pain killers - to keep this condition hidden from you?"

"What? That's ridiculous!" Babs is agitated now - not at all sure what this all might mean - but certain that it cannot be good.

I can prove she didn't have this disease you are talking about … I have a video of her dance performance the month before she went missing. Summers she teaches - she taught - ballet to grade-schoolers at the Laurel Commnity theater. They had an exposition to drum up kids for the classes that Spring. I'll show it to you …" Babs gets down on her knees and begins rooting through a stack of video tapes hidden in the brown cabinet that holds up the television set. "Here it is," she says waving it above her head triumphantly.

For the next ten minutes, the four watch Aleesha glide and prance across the stage.

"This has been very informative, Mr. and Mrs. Grimes. Can we call you if we have any further questions?" Bones rises in preparation to leave.

"So what does this all mean?" asks Babs.

"I do not know, Babs, but I promise you I will find out," answers Bones, turning toward the door. "One last thing, actually two."

"What?"

"Does Aleesha have siblings?"

"Yes, two older brothers. Bob Jr has been in South America for two years on a cultural diversity grant. He's a professor. The other is Charles, or Chaz, Leesha called him. He lives in King of Prussia, PA. Not far from Haverford. They were quite close, those two."

Bones collects contact information for both brothers, then asks, "Do you happen to have a copy of Aleesha's medical records?"

"Oh. Yes - somewhere. DO you need them right now?"

"Yes, I do, Babs. We can wait for you to find them."

"Well, how much time you got?" she says, a bit disgruntled, but rolling down the hall toward the bedrooms anyway. Ten minutes later she returns with a thick file on her lap. "It's yours if you want it. Not like WE need it anymore," she says.

"We really appreciate your time, Mr. and Mrs. Grimes," says Booth. Leaning toward Bob, Booth extends his hand, makes eye contact and says, "It was a pleasure meeting you, sir," as he slips something into Bob's shirt pocket.

"Likewise, I'm sure," says Bob, absently though looking in Booth's eyes and reaching for his shirt pocket.

After Booth and Bones leave the house, Babs says to Bob, "Whatcha got there, Bob?"

Bob smiles, looking at the girlie pen Booth put in his pocket. "Nothin' for you to worry your pretty little head about, Babs. Private joke between a man and a cowboy."

"WHAT do you make of that?" says Booth as they get in the car and he heads out into traffic. They've got five minutes to make it to their 4:45 appointment with Bonita Lucas.

"Booth, I am not sure what to think. That girl in the video - there is no way THAT girl had any kind of arthritis. Not possible. Not the way she was moving. With ease. Without pain. Even if she were doped up beyond caring - she would NOT have had that range of motion."

"So … the remains we found are not Aleesha Grimes?"

"Or the dental records are wrong. Maybe these aren't Aleesha Grimes' dental records. We should call the dentist or pay them a visit. These must be the records of some other missing girl," she says, thinking out loud and looking down at the laptop that booting up on the console beside her. "One with arthritic femora and tibias."

"How old are the dental records we received?" Booth asks, looking back and forth between Bones and the road.

"The last X-rays were taken right before Aleesha went off to college, according to Officer Kenney's report," she says, reading off the screen. "Maybe she saw a dentist in Haverford as well. If we can get a copy of those records, confirm that we have the correct teeth, that will settle it."

"So … if the dental records are correct … and these are Aleesha's remains … and there's no way Aleesha had osteoarthritis in her … leg bones …"

"Then we have two murders. Two victims. And another set of remains to find."

They share a long glance, both surprised by this sudden turn of events.

"Whoa," says Booth. "I better call Parker."

"And I better call Mr. Bray …"


	80. And One More For Good Measure

**Chapter 80 And One More For Good Measure**

"Dr. Brennan," Bones answers her cell, which rang just as she was about to call Wendell.

"It's Wendell," says the voice on the other end. "Hello, Dr. Brennan. I have some interesting information for you. I apologize for not calling sooner, but I wanted to be certain that I hadn't just made a mistake."

"I was just about to call you, Mr. Bray. It appears we have two victims." she says, getting straight to the point.

"That would explain the discrepancy with the patelae not matching the femora and the tibias. They do match each other, how ever. But … "

"Wendell, I want you to compare the patelae to the other bones. The first comparison I want you to do is to the cranium and the mandible. There is a possibility that the patelae and the skull belong to someone else."

"There's something else I found. The femora and the tibias seem to match each other in color and density. However, the fibulae match more closely with the patelae than with the femora and the tibias."

"That IS interesting, Mr Bray."

"One final thing, I started with the inferior aspect of the remains and worked proximally toward the superior aspect. Before careful examination of each bone individually, I counted the number of bones. This skeleton has 207," Wendell pauses.

"Two hundred and seven bones?"

"That is correct. I counted sixteen times. I had Officers Benton and Kenney observe me and count along with me."

"This is not completely outside the realm of possibility. Many people have 205 or 207 bones. But it is extremely uncommon. Babies have around 270 bones before fusing during maturation. This girl is past the age where a bone would not have fused. Count them again. This time get my red roll of tape from the tool box, cut a slice of red tape and place it on each bone to ensure you are not counting one twice."

"Certainly, Dr. Brennan. But I think you should know that I may have identified the extra bone. This bone would have been very noticeable. There appears to be an extra intermediate phalanx for the right digitus secondus. It was hard to see at first because there are 27 bones in the hand, 14 of which are phalanges. The right hand has 15 phalanges."

"And you checked, counted the phalanges of the left hand - it has the requisite number of phalanges?"

"Did you count and recount the phalanges of the feet?"

"Each foot has 14 phalanges as well."

"So we have an extra intermediate phalanx for the right digitus secundus. Fascinating," she says, thinking for a moment. "What will you do next, Mr. Bray?"

"I will compare the color and density of the rogue phalanx to our two other sets of bones."

"Correct. How far have you gotten in preparing the bones for transport?"

"Well, the discovery of the additional phalanx devoured part of my morning. I have inventoried and documented all 207 bones. The three cases are prepared with clay. I have secured the 26 bones of the feet - all bones present and accounted for. The fibulae, tibias, femora, radii, ulnae, coccyges, sacra, humeri, and the innominates. I skipped the hands - figured you would want to see them yourself."

"Go on …" she prompts him, staring out the windshield as he provides his report.

"That is as far as I have gotten, Dr. Brennan. I apologize for not having more completed …"

Bones does not detect Wendell's need for affirmation, and moves on.

"What about the soil samples?" she asks.

"Spent an hour on the phone with Hodgens."

"Did you video conference?"

"Um, no. Do we have that equipment here?" he asks, looking around what is now a big white tent surrounding the hole.

"Bones, WE have the only video conferencing equipment here with us," says Booth. He's been listening intently to this side of the conversation as he drove to Rita's Water Ice and is now parked in the lot outside the small window-fronted store. He sees who he assumes must be Bonita Lucas sitting at a small table, nervously chewing on the ends of her dish water blond hair.

"Right …" says Bones, looking at Booth and nodding. "Mr. Bray, we do have the equipment but it is here with me and Booth.

"I took 365 digital photos of the bones. I'll send them to you as soon as we get off the phone. Do you want me to finish packaging the bones and send them?"

"Yes. No. Yes! Send all but the right hand, one each of the tibias and femora, and the cranium and the mandible. The rest can go. Cam will arrange the delivery for you and provide confirmation and tracking numbers to us."

"You got it. I should have the remaining bones packed and ready to go in about two hours," says Wendell.

"Mr. Bray?" says Bones.

"Yes, Dr. Brennan?"

"Have you eaten anything today?"

"I had a small lunch on the way out to the the college … earlier this morning."

"Mr. Bray, have Officer Kenney take you to The Grog. On me. But don't have the Ambrosia Burger - or more than one crab cake sandwich."

"Awesome! Thanks. You know, I think she kinda likes me."

"Of course she does, mathematically you are a fine specimen and most likely a good breeder. Besides, if you're good enough for Angela, you're prime real estate, Mr Bray. Be back in one hour."

They hang up.

"That was very sweet of you, Bones. Making sure he eats," he smiles and nods his head, impressed with her generosity.

"Don't give me too much credit, Booth. His brain is no good to me if it's starved of nutrients."

"You're one to talk … " he says.

"I eat!" she asserts as they both get out of the SUV.

"Uh huh. And what is the color of the sky in your world, Bones?


	81. In English This Time, Please

**Chapter 81 In English This Time, Please**

"Bones," says Booth, sidling up beside her at the front of the car. "I believe that's Bonita over there with the yellow thingy in her hair." He describes what she's wearing as he inconspicuously looks around the parking lot.

She cranes her neck to see past him.

"Could you be a little less obvious? I can't take you anywhere."

"And yet you continue to. Why are we standing out here like this? Let's go talk to her. Get this over with so we can get home."

"No - then we have to see that other chick - at 6:30 or something," he says, looking to his wrist and rubbing around the space where his watch is supposed to be.

"When do I get my watch back?"

"When I give it back. Why are we waiting? This is some kind of test, isn't it? See if she'll come to us? But what would that tell us, Booth?" She looks perplexed but ready to learn at the feet of the master.

"We're here," he says, hands on hips, looking straight at her, some urgency to his voice, "So you can tell me what all that mumbo jumbo was on the phone with Wendell."

"Oh, okay. Wendell found that the intermediary ..."

Booth holds up his hand in front of her face, closes his eyes, and says slowly and quietly, "In ENGLISH, please. Right? Remember? Good looking jock here." He looks at her expectantly.

"Right," she smiles and nods, "Okay. The knee caps don't match the thigh and shin bones - we know that already. Well, the thin outer bone right next to the shin bone - the fibula - doesn't match the other leg bones. But it DOES match the patellae, um, I mean the knee caps. More interestingly - perhaps - depending how all this turns out., ...

"Rap it up bones," he says, making the universal fumble sign. "Twenty words or less ..."

Bones stands there, looking up into the sky, silently counting on her fingers.

"It was a figure of speech, Bones - you can USE more than twenty words - just make it short and sweet ..."

"Wendell found an extra hand bone with the skeleton. It doesn't belong to the other hand or the two feet. How much you wanna bet it matches either the patellae ... or the thigh and shin bones?"

"Thank you, Jesus! We have lift off. Okay ... next contestant is right over there ..."

"So that really wasn't a test ...?"


	82. The Serial Monogamist

**Chapter 82 The Serial Monogamist**

"Bonita Lucas?" Booth approaches the dishwater blond with one yellow scrunchie holding three braids together at the back of her head. Her face is clean, clear of makeup. Her limbs are long and thin. She's been working on devouring a Sundae like she hasn't eaten in three days.

"Yes, that's me," Bonita says, standing up, a dribble of vanilla ice cream on her chin. As she carefully wipes it away with her second finger, then licks that same finger, she leans forward across her table and offers her hand.

"I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth and this here's Dr. Brennan." He manages to avoid shaking her hand by flashing his badge. Bones, however, is not so lucky. She shakes the girl's hand and can't figure out what to do with the moist stickiness she's just acquired. She takes out her bag and roots for a handi-wipe.

"My friends call me Bonnie," she says, quietly, and sits down.

"Thank you for meeting with us," says Booth, as he and Bones pull out chairs opposite Bonnie and sit down. The chairs make a fingernails-on-chalkboard screech as the slide across the floor. "As you know, we are interested in the disappearance of Aleesha Grimes back in 2006."

"Yes?"

"Bonnie," begins Bones, noticing Bonnie's body language and concluding that she is either shy or frightened. Or Both. "Bonnie, the reason we are here is that we've found remains of a female who seems to match the size, age, and description of Aleesha Grimes," she begins, watching for any reaction. "She was found on the campus of Haverford College just outside of Philadelphia."

"Oh my God! That was Aleesha? Oh my God!," Bonnie's hand is over her mouth and her eyes have grown to the size of silver dollars. "I heard about that. Oh my God! So this means she really is dead? She didn't run off with that "boyfriend" of hers," she says, making air quotation marks when she says the word, "boyfriend."

"What? Was he a bunny rabbit? What is this for," asks Bones, mimicking the air quotation marks.

"It means," explains Booth, "That Bonnie, here, thought there was something suspicious about Aleesha's relationship with whoever this guy was. Am I right, Bonnie?"

"Suspicious isn't the half of it. I never saw the guy, but she said he had a lot of nice things. Aleesha changed men like some girls change purses. You know, not as frequently as you change shoes, but a couple times a year - seasonally, I guess you could say."

"Did any of you meet this guy? What did he look like?" asks Booth.

"Um, I think Chicka saw him pick her up once. Said he looked kinda creepy. I thought maybe he took off with her, but then Chicka said she saw him at Wal-Mart three weeks after Aleesha went missing."

"Hm. We're meeting with Chicka next. We'll ask her about him then. Did Aleesha have any jealous ex-boyfriends? Anyone who would want to harm her? Any threats she may have received?" asks Booth.

"Everyone Leesha left was devastated. She could have had any guy she wanted. She was cute, skinny, perfect lips, fairly stacked for a dancer, excellent posture, big smile, and not too shy to share the goods."

"You mean she helped other people out by sharing her groceries?" asks Bones, wondering what that had to do with anything.

"No - she was promiscuous, loose, easy, generous with the benefits, et cetera, et cetera," says Bonnie as if she's ratting out a competitor. She stabs the only remaining hunk of vanilla ice cream and lets the plastic red spoon stand like a flag pole on a hill top as she continues. "Well, not exactly promiscuous, really, if you compare her to most the girls we graduated with … but she had a lot of boyfriends. She was SERIALLY promiscuous. Yeah, that's what she was. She'd stick with one guy for a while - always faithful to him - but before you changed out your wool sweaters for the spring catalog, she was on to the next," she says, proud of her own metaphor - or something else neither Bones nor Booth were privy to. After a moment she continued. "Actually, she never moved right on to the next man-feast. She had time off between guys. Like she took time picking out her next prey."

"Are you suggesting she targeted guys, had a process, chose particular men who fit her specifications?" asks Bones.

"You know what? That is a good way to describe it. She wasn't the brainy type, but she knew what she wanted. Older, accomplished, established, financially set … the works. It didn't even matter if he was hot. If he met her criteria, he was fair game. Sometimes she even dated married men."

"Did she ever mention anything about being pregnant or wanting to encourage a guy to make a commitment?"

"You make it sound so devious!" Bonnie says. "No - she was a real straight shooter, as my dad used to say."

"Wha - I'm a straight shooter. And I'm rarely devious …" comments Bones, looking at Booth, then back to Bonnie.

Booth looks back at Bones and continues to ask questions of Bonnie.

"Do you recall her ever mentioning a professor at the college?"

"Yeah - that was about a year before she disappeared. She had this thing for her Astronomy prof. He was totally not her type. She said she was cleansing her palate."

"Now THAT I understand," says Bones, with a small chuckle. "She must have had a disappointing experience with her usual type and decided to try something completely different before returning to the pattern. Do you recall if she had specific reasons for going for this palate-cleansing guy?"

"George Norland," Bonnie says, nodding. "He was really - wow. He was hot, hot, hot. And a total douche. He had the looks, the gear, the technology - every new toy on the market. But he liked to spread the joy around."

"Another person sharing their possessions - this is not at all what college was like when I was getting ANY of my degrees," Bones says, dropping both of her hands onto the table, perplexed.

"Bones, once again, I think she means he was a little Free with the Willy. You know, dipping his stick in more than one tank."

"Booth, your attempt at metaphor is disappointing. Good thing you like your day job - and that is NOT a metaphor," Bones looks at Booth. He looks back at her, mouth hanging open a lit. "And close your mouth, you're catching flies. How's that for a metaphor? It means you look stupid."

No one says anything for a moment.

"Now lets get this over with, Bonnie. This George Norland. He was a disappointment to Aleesha - the reason she tried something different. Do you know where we can find him?"

"No idea. He was an older than average student. He'd been in the army or something like that."

"Okay - what about the professor? How long was she with him? And did it end badly? Who followed him? And do you know how we can reach any of these people?" Bones asks, peaking at her watch, Booth's watch, for the tenth time in as many minutes.

"Am I keeping you from something?" Bonnie asks.

"Not at all …" Booth says.

"Yes, actually," Bones says at almost exactly the same time Booth responds. "We do have somewhere we need to be … and soon. So … what can you tell us?"

"Bones, a word …" says Booth, getting up from the table, indicating with a nod that she should follow him.

"Give her a chance to answer a question before you shoot the next one at her! What is with you? If you've got a small bladder - the restroom's over there. And relax, for Christ's sake. We don't meet Chick-Fil-A until 6:30. We have plenty of time!"

"Not as far as I'm concerned!" she says. "Now Bonnie …" she directs at her, walking back to the table and sitting down. "You've had a chance to think - got any information that might be helpful to us?"

"Uh, what were the questions?"

Bones looks at her (Booth's) watch once again and catapults a couple of you-have-got-to-be-kidding darts from her eyes.

"Uh, well, okay." Bonnie swallows, feeling the pressure. "Uh, She was with the Astronomy teacher about four months, but they were still cordial afterwards. There wasn't, like, a fight or anything. His name was Spanish or Italian. One of those romance languages. But he looked totally American. I signed up for one of his physics classes, but dropped the first week. Too much thinking can make you ugly, you know."

"Well, that's just utter bull crap," says Booth, in defense of beautiful forensic anthropologists the world over.

"Let it go, Booth," says Bones, waving a hand toward him, but maintaining eye contact with Bonnie. "Now - I think we know who the professor is. What about the guy after him? Name? Rank? Serial number? Let's go, Blondie!"

You'll have to excuse my partner, she's had a little too much … forget it - just excuse her." Booth kicks Bones sideways under the table, and shoots her a look that says, basically, WTF - but not in so many words as to render the comment more adult than PG-13.

Bonnie is confused, concerned, nervous, at this point. "The guy after the professor was … I think that was the last guy she dated before disappearing. Like I said, I thought she might have taken off for good with that one."

"Hm … " grunt both Bones and Booth at the same time.

"Did we miss anything Booth? Can we go now?" asks Bones, standing up and stepping backwards.

"Thank you for your time, Bonnie. MAy we call you if we have any further questions?"

"Sure," she says, looking from one then to the other of her interviewers. "Is that it?"

"It is for now," he says, "Here's my contact information in case you think of anything else that might be important." He hands her a business card with the official FBI seal on it.

"What the hell is your problem, Bones?" Booth says once they are back in the SUV. He looks at her like she's a child who just painted a green elephant on an antique Persian rug.

"I think we both know who the professor was . . . "


	83. Life Is A Puzzle

**Chapter 83 Life is a Puzzle**

"Lets go get something to eat," says Booth, as he turns left onto Laurel Fort Meade Road, then right onto Russett Gren West.

"Where are you taking us?" asks Bones.

"No where," he answers. "Just driving around while we make a decision!"

"You're cranky."

"I'm not cranky!"

"See, only a cranky person would say **"I'm not cranky"** in that tone of voice."

Booth continues driving. Bones watches him, his jaw tightening, loosening, tightening again. He's quiet. There's a war going on inside his head, she knows. He always tilts his head slightly to the right and purses his lips. And doesn't say anything for a while.

"Booth …"

He turns his head and looks at her. "Hm?"

"Penny for your thoughts," she says giving him an open smile. She continues to watch him as he drives.

"Do you ever feel like quitting a case?" Booth asks. "Have you ever felt that way?" He looks at her sideways. She knows that he's not really looking for an answer, he's working something out. This is how he processes. He usually then makes some statements - usually about life, in general, or the injustices of whatever it is they are working with at the time. She watches him. Waiting.

"Sometimes, when things start getting complicated, and there are too many people involved in the case … I don;t mean the squints. I don't mean us. I mean the witnesses. The witnesses who didn't see anything. The loved ones who didn't file a missing person's report. The employer who is obviously hiding something, but you just can't get it out of him. The douche ex-boyfriend who couldn't care less."

He looks at her. She's tilted her body toward him to make it easier to look at him for an extended amount of time. She purses her lips. Nods her head. This is her compassionate look. He's seen it many times. It is genuine. And he feels safe.

"There's a time when … it's like the case is this enormous 5,000 piece puzzle, like the kind Pops always had set up on the dining room table. When all the pieces are put together, you know the puzzle will reveal the killer and the story behind what happened." He pauses for a moment, staring out the front window shield. "Don;t get me wrong. I LOVE what we do. I LIVE for what we do. The messiness energizes. The mystery intrigues me, 99.9% of the time."

"But there's this point, toward the beginning, when all you've been able to connect are the edges, you know, because they have a straight edge, and maybe part of the sky, right? - because the blue always goes on top. But there are pieces everywhere," he continues, gesturing with his right palm to the sky, moving through the air from the left to the right, finally resting on the console between them. "Sometimes, when there are so many people involved - when you can't even imagine how it will all hang together in the end … when you meet someone you actually, you genuinely, like who is involved in the case. And you really don't know what part they play - because people do unpredictable things. And you just never know."

There it is, thinks Bones. That's what is bothering him. The potential loss of a new friend. One of the inevitabilities of their job.

He looks at Bones. She smiles compassion in his direction once again.

"There's a sadness," says Bones quietly.

"Yes, there's a sadness," he answers in surprise. She nailed it right on the head. "Do you ever feel that way?"

Bones takes a slow, deep breath in, exhaling the same way, her shoulders rising and falling with each subsequent breath.

"Yes, Booth," she says, now looking out the front window shield, then back at him. "I do. And maybe a little anxiety."

"You get good at shrugging it off. But sometimes, for maybe a split second," he says, pinching his fingers together like you would if you were adding a pinch of seasoning to a recipe in progress, "I think about quitting the case. Giving it to someone else. Moving on to the next one."

They sit companionably as he continues to drive.

"Did Pops ever finish any of those puzzles?" says Bones, watching him.

"Are you kidding? He had a room in the basement that was a shrine to all the puzzles he'd completed," Booth says, smiling at the memory. "He'd get the things shellacked and put in frames sometimes. It was crazy. I mean, who has that kind of patience?" as he's describing this to Bones, he looks from her to the road and back.

"You do, Booth," she says, putting her hand on his shoulder. "I've seen it approximately 100 times. You are a very patient man." She smiles a slow sweet smile at him again, removing her hand from his shoulder and looking out her door window. "That's what makes you so good at what you do."She lets that hang in the air for a while. "You and Pops are a lot alike, Booth. You both always finish your puzzles. You just don't have a trophy room like he does."

Booth is touched. And validated. Staring straight ahead, he says, "Thanks, Bones," then looks at her and smiles.

"Now, can we turn around and get out of this neighborhood you've driven us into? I saw a Thai restaurant down Baltimore-Washington Parkway."

"Thai, it is, partner," he says. Then, looking at her once again, he says, "It amazes me sometimes how you get me … you understand me, on occasion." He grins at her, the mood changing to one of joviality.

"I understand you a lot of the time, Booth!" she says, giving him and indignant little sideways shove.

"Do not!"

"Do too!"

"Do not, I win."

"Booth, just because I don't say out loud every little thought that comes into my head, doesn't mean I don't get you. I'm just a little more private about my thought than you are," she says, smugly.

"Oh yeah? What am I thinking right now, with this expression on my face," he says, pinching his lips together and furrowing his brow.

"What? You're constipated? I don't know. But I'll bet you're gonna tell me any minute," she says looking out the window."

"I won."

"No, you didn't!"

"Yes, I did. You didn't know what I was feeling just then, with that face. I won."

"If it will make you happy - you won, but that doesn't make it true."

"What did I win? Huh, what do I win.?"

"You're gonna get Russ' famous knuckle sandwich if you don't shut up …!"


	84. Sometimes I Feel Like A Foreign Translat

**Chapter 84 Sometimes I Feel Like a Foreign Translator**

"Here it is, 9650 Justin Lane. Looks like Chickedy-Do-Da is home," says Booth, coming to a stop at the curb in front of a three bedroom, two bath, grey, wrap-around wood porch, colonial home.

"How can you tell?"

"A house like this? No way the owner drives a 1984 Toyota All-Track. The man that pays the bills is more the 2010 Audi A4 Sedan," he says, leaning across the console and looking past her at the house and neighborhood. "Nope. The All-Track is for the twenty year old daughter. Bet you five bucks."

"Oh, I learned long ago not to bet against you, Seeley Booth. Not if I want to keep my money," she says, chuckling as she unlocks her seatbelt and opens her car door. "Ready?" she says to him, because he's still not moving.

"Yep, let's get 'er done," he says, straightening up and taking the keys out of the ignition. He beeps the SUV locked and heads for the driveway. "Man I could get used to that sound," he says, with a grin. He beeps the SUV unlocked, then locked again, then locked, finally. he tosses the keys up in the air and catches them, all while taking long strides toward Bones who is ahead of him almost to the front door.

"Do you mind if we sit outside n the porch?" asks the diminutive red head after introductions are made. "My dad works nights at Harmon Glass and he's sleeping in the bedroom right above the living room.

"That would actually be nice after a day inside the car and various other places. Thank you," says Booth, stepping back to follow her. "Lead the way," he says.

Booth and Bones make a b-line for the wicker davenport that slides back and forth when you sit down or push against the floor with your foot.

"Whoa! Now that's what I'm talkin' about!" exclaims Booth, sitting and gliding, poking the cushions to see how comfortable they are. "Check this out, Bones! Do you think these things come any longer than this?" he says looking at Chicka. "I would sleep on the porch in the cool summer air every night if I had one of these babies, he says to Bones in awe."

"Really? I always thought they were kind of old fashioned," says Chicka, sitting across from them on the matching rocker, tucking one foot under herself.

Booth can't help gliding them back and forth. Eventually, Bones says, "Booth, I'm gonna be sick if you don't cut that out." He stops. "Thank you," she says, and looks toward Chicka who is enjoying the show.

"You two are cute," she says, with a smile that says she's got them pegged. "How long have you been together?"

Booth and Bones answer at the same time, talking over each other.

"Six years."

"Forever."

"It's been six years, Booth."

"Feels like forever … sometimes."

"And they let you work together?" Chicka shoots them a questioning look.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asks Bones, not sure if she should be offended or not. "Isn't that what you just asked?"

"I think that she means …. you know," Booth says, turning to Bones, "sometimes I feel like a foreign language interpreter, Bones …"

"Focus, Booth," she reminds him curtly, then gives Chicka a little pretend smile.

"You'll have to forgive my partner," she says. "He's been shopping for six months and just can't decide on anything he likes." She gives Booth one of those, "Pull yourself together, man" looks.

"But if you were asking how long we've been having sexual intercourse, the answer is that we're not. Having sexual intercourse. Not that we haven't thought about it, but …"

"Geez! What is there to think about? Man! Just get a room. Before you're too old," she says, enjoying keeping them on the edge. "Before you're grandparents!"

"Surely you know that would be impossible, Chicka. Didn't they teach you anything at that high school of yours? In order be grandparents we would have had to engage in sexual intercourse multiples times - though conception is technically plausible after as few as one incidence of coitus, but not commonly resulting in conception. We would have had to produce and rear offspring to the age of sexual maturity. Those off spring would then have to get married, though marriage is not technically necessary to create the state of parenthood, though it is preferable and creates a greater likelihood that the offspring will survive, even thrive … I digress, where was I?" she says, then continues, while both Booth and Chicka stare at her as if she were growing a second head right out of the side of her face. "… Anyway, our sexually mature offspring would have to engage in sexual intercourse many times - if they want multiple children, that is. And then, once our off spring produce off spring, we would become grandparents."

Chicka looks at Booth. "Is she for real?"

"Oh yeah, she's quite serious," he says, pulling his little notepad and a pen out of his pocket.

"I'm not always serious. I can be quite entertaining," argues Bones.

"No body said you weren't entertaining, Bones," he says, then directs his attention on Chicka.

Chicka, however, is not finished. "Seriously, dude, get the job done before she explodes. I know

Getting serious, Booth explains to Chicka why they asked to meet her and provides some of the details about the remains.

"Can you tell us about the last boyfriend Aleesha had?"

"His name was, is, Slade, if you can imagine that. Who names their kid Slade?" Booth and Bones give each other a look that says "this from a woman named "Chicka?"

"She met Slade at Haverford. He was older though. No idea what he was studying. I think he was just there to meet girls. How's that for a switch on an old tune?"

"Do you mean the antiquated belief that women from upper, middle and lower class families attend college for the sole purpose of finding a mate?" says Bones.

"Yeeeees," says Chicka.

"Okaaaaaaay," says Bones.

"Chicka," Booth steps in. "Do you anything else about Slade? His last name, where he lives or works?

"I believe he works in Upper Darby, you know, outside the city. He sells some kind of electronics in a little place in a strip mall. Aleesha said he had access to a lot of laptops, stereo equipment, computers, televisions, even cell phones. He took stuff home all the time."

Agent Booth, I always got the impression he was just a tool. I think he talked a big talk, and that's how he got into Aleesha's pants, but when it came down to it, he wasn't for real."

"Do you know of any fights they had?"

"When she found out that a lot of the stuff at his house wasn't really his, she freaked. I heard her on the phone shrieking at him. I couldn't even understand what she was saying. I'd never seen her like that before. It was strange."

"When was that," asks Booth.

"Two days before she disappeared," she answered. "OhmyGod! Holy Bovine Feces! Holy copulating bovine feces!" Chicka looks around as if she thinks he's going to jump out of the bushes and bite her. She thrusts her hands underneath her thighs, her shoulders shoot up to her ears. "Am I in danger now that I've told you this? What if he finds out? I saw him once, you know …" she says, shivering involuntarily. "He was at the mall, over there, not far from Rita's where we all used to hang out after school. That was before Aleesha went to Haverford, of course. He was alone. Ooooow. Creepy! She says scrunching up her face, then looking around again."

"Have you seen him since then?" asks Booth, doodling a bit on his notepad to make it look official somehow.

"No. Never. Thank God!"

"Chicka, did you ever meet any of her other boyfriends?"

"There was a professor at Haverford. She was ga-ga for him. Totally whipped. But I always got the impression they never slept together. He was married. Not that that would stop Aleesha."

"What about these trips she went on with him. Germany, two other places," Bones asks.

"Huh! Those were research related. Dr. What-ever-his-name-was - I think his first name is Enrique - that's what she called him. Enrique. You'd think he was Enrique Iglesias, the way she lusted after him…" she pauses for a moment, remembering something else. "Okay, the research trips, they were always to cool places - and Chicka loved traveling - thought it made her exotic. Any who, she was pretty upset when Dr. Enrique didn't ask her to go with him on the trip to Chilé. She said she begged him to do her this one last solid, but he wouldn't budge. I don't think she ever talked about him again after that. Most likely, he went on his trip and by the time he returned she's moved on to the next guy."

"One more question. How did she seem, that night at Rita's? Was she depressed? Excited?" Booth asks.

"No, she was just the same old Aleesha. Always plotting. Always planning…"

"Did she say anything about where she might have been going that evening?"

"She was heading home to watch San Francisco Crime Investigators. It was coming on at 9. She left at 8:30."

"And she walked?"

"Actually, not may people know this, but she had been training for the Laurel half marathon. She thought her boobs made her look fat. She was trying to drop a couple of pounds."

"Interesting," says Booth.

"Yes. Very interesting," says Bones.

"Chicka, do you have any photos of you three together, you Bonny and Corrine?" asks Bones, standing up, putting her bag over her shoulder, preparing to leave.

"Sure, wait right here," she says, jumping up and running into the house, up the stairs.

Booth remains seated. he leans back and lays his arms across the top of the davenport and sighs, pushing himself back and forth with his foot.

"Booth?"

"Hmm?" he grunts, biting his lower lip and turning his face up to her.

"Do you need to be alone with the glider for a couple minutes?"

"Ha, ha," Booth fake laughs. "You gotta admit this is great, right. Can you imagine this? We could have one in the living room, one on the wrap around porch …"

"Booth, you don't HAVE a wrap around porch."

"But I could one day," he replies.

"Booth, I can't take you anywhere!"

"And yet you continue to. Oh, there's Chicka Flicka," he points behind Bones, through the screen door.

"Shhhhhh, Booth. That is really rude," she reprimands him.

"She didn't hear me."

"SHH!

"Hey, by the way, good lie. Scary good. For a minute I believed you. HAd a senior moment and thought I really had been looking for furniture - and had forgotten about it."

"Thanks. Let that be a warning to you. I can actually lie … though I hate doing it. If you weren't such a **child** I wouldn't have had to."

"Thanks for the photos, and your time this evening, Chicka. Can we call you if we have any more questions?" says Booth, handing her his card.

"Sure …"

"Call us if you think of something, anything, that might be useful for our investigation."

"I do have something to tell you," she says, taking Booth by the arm and holding him back as Bones walks off the porch. "Dude, she really does need to get laid."

"And that's really none of your business, Chicka."

"Well, soooory for being alive!"

"We do appreciate your help though. Have a good evening," he says as he steps off the porch and follows Bones to the SUV.

"What was that all about?" asks Bones as they hop up into the car and Booth pulls out onto Justin Lane.


	85. I'm Sorry

Chapter 85 I'm Sorry

"Okay," says Booth, as he finds a driveway to turn around in so he can return the same way he came about a half hour ago.

"Booth, I have to apologize."

"What? For what?"

"Earlier, when we were with Bonnie. I was stressed. I think I could see the professor thing coming and I felt a tightness in my chest."

"Yeah, but it was nothing to apologize for … we have a stressful job. We can't always be impervious to what we see and hear," he says. "Hey, you know what that means? In your battle between imperviousness and strength, strength has the puck and the net is clear. Before you know it, you're going to score. This is good, right?"

"Being anxious isn't what bothered me most about my behavior. What bothered me is that in my anxiety, I told you you looked stupid," she seems truly ashamed. "Right there in front of Bonnie. Out in the open. I find I feel great discomfort remembering it.

"Wha … Bones …."

"Booth, we joke around a lot. We tease each other. But that's just between us. We know it's all in fun - I like to think it is one of the ways we show our affection for each other." She looks as him, pained.

"Wow, Bones, it was no big deal. Really."

"I feel I stepped over a line. You deserve better than that. Please accept my apology, Booth. It is important to me.

"Um kay. But it really didn't bother me. Just so you know."

"Thanks," she says, a weight lifting from her shoulders. "Now, it's …" she looks at his watch on her wrist. "It's 7:15. We've got a two hour ride back to Haverford. That will put us at 9:15, 9:30. Would you mind if we stop somewhere before heading out again? I'd like to go over our day and all we've learned. Not having my office to go to to regroup, think, I find the disjointedness of the case uncomfortable."

"Sure - have anything in mind? Probably don't want to do much drinking since I have to stay on the road and you have to stay awake to keep me company."

"Lets go have a glass of wine. I saw a cute little bar tucked away in the corner of one of those strip malls. I think it was called, "Lucy's" or "Lucky's."

"Okay. Maybe we'll get lucky at Lucy's and solve this murder tonight so we can get home by Friday," he says, smiling at her, winking.

"Ohhhhhhh," she says, stretching her arms and legs as well as you can when you're in the passenger seat of a Steel Green Metal Chevy Suburban SUV 2WD 1500 LTZ with 326 horses under the hood.


	86. My Kingdom 4 Chance To Rest Weary Bones

Chapter 86 My Kingdom for a Place to Relax My Weary Bones

Entering downtown Laurel on Main Street, Booth pulls up to the curb of an old building that spans a short block running perpendicular to Broadway. The building, an old cotton mill if the name etched into the stone facia is to be believed, was converted into long narrow shops on the main floor and condominiums on the top two floors decades ago.

They chose this venue after getting a good look inside Lucy's Bar and Grill, concluding that Lucy hadn't been lucky in quite some time. Oh well.

Inside Babb's Coffee House the wooden floors are well worn, but solid, the walls are pale brick on the north side, textured on the south as if the owner slapped up the left-over spackling compound, smoothed it out with a butter knife, and painted it a deep, warm, brownish red. The ceiling, two stories high, is outlined in tin copper tiles painted over in moss green.

Tables with cushy black leather chairs are arranged sporadically from the front to the back of the coffee shop, where the barista stands behind a glass case of locally made delectables including red velvet cake, turtle cheese cake, and peanut butter chocolate chip cookies as big as your head. Filling in the spaces left open between the tables are several couches and coffee tables arranged to resemble living rooms. The furniture is large, comfortable, and worn, but well maintained and inviting.

The ceiling lights being so far up, the coffee shop is mostly lit by several eclectic lamps of varying sizes and shade colors. The mood created by the lamps and the furniture arrangements is one of comfort, relaxation, privacy. Customers choose where to sit according to their mood. Booth and Bones need to relax, so they choose a high backed couch with thick and solid but cushy cushions covered in reddish orange leather.

Booth collapses in the center of the couch, lying more than sitting, and puts one foot up on the coffee table. "I don't think it's that kind of coffee table," Bones whispers to him as she sinks herself into the springy goodness of the corner to Booth's right.

Booth and Bones both sit up and look at the table. No scratch marks. Not even a coffee cup stain. "How do they manage that in a coffee shop?" he says, to no one in particular. The table is made of three enormous stacked leather bound books, or at least that is what they are made to look like. The title on the top book is, "The Catterberg Tales." The middle volume has "Before TIme" written in gold on it's spine. The bottom book is "Happiness."

Spying a foot stool across the room, Bones gets up to get it and places it on the floor between Booth and the coffee table.

"Ohhhh, will you marry me?" he says, kicking off his shoes and closing his eyes, smiling a contented smile, and putting his hands behind his head, elbows in the air. He returns to his original slouching position and sits completely still for a moment. Sighs that contented sigh one more time.

"Ohhhh, you can't afford me, my love," she replies, in her best Kathryn Hepburn. This is a game he sometimes plays with her when she's done something he finds particularly touching - something not quite maternal, but designed to provide him with comfort, or confidence. Like when she accompanied him into the operating room for his brain surgery, or attended his firearms test to get his gun back after he was cleared for duty.

Bones can't help smiling quietly from ear to ear, enjoying seeing him so relaxed and at home. If their relationship were different, she would have pulled him to her, cradling his head in her lap, and ran her fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. She gets a dreamy look in her eyes as she watches him.

Eventually, Booth opens his right eye to peek at her. "So what now, boss?" he says, letting the eyelid close again.

How easy it would be to lie my head on his chest right now and let him run his fingers through MY hair, she thinks, leaning back into the corner and closing her eyes. Succumbing to her need for relaxation, she says, "If I were a cat I'd be purring right now," her eyes still closed.

Booth opens that right eye again and smiles to himself enjoying watching her release the tension from the day, letting it drain right out through the bottom of her shoes. She opens her eyes for a moment, kicks off those shoes, and props her feet up on the footstool beside Booth's. "Now that's what I'M talkin' about," she purrs more than vocalizes.

"Why do I feel the urge to scratch under your chin and behind your ears?" he says, laughing.

"Oh, don't ruin this tranquility, even with humor," she says, laughing as well.

Eyes wide open, Booth slowly turns his head to look at her and asks, "Do you snore?"

"I have no idea, I've never been awake to listen," she says, a dreamy expression on her face, eyes still closed.

"I'll bet you snore," he says, facing forward again, interlacing his hands and laying them on his chest, closing his eyes once again.

"If I start snoring right now," she says, "it's over. When I sleep, I really sleep. You know the phrase "Work hard, play hard, sleep hard? That was written for me," she says, nodding her head in an exaggerated and haughty manner.

"Ooooohh no," replies Booth. "That was written for me."

"When do I get to win something?"

"You've already won, you've got breasts."

"WHAT!" she screams and laughs at the same time, so caught off guard by his response.

"Yeah - the ultimate prize. Do you know how many men would give anything to have a pair of those?" he looks at her very seriously, with one eye at least, and she's not sure if he's joking or not. "All of them, Bones. All of them. Only problem is, if we had them, we'd never get anything done."

Booth is jarred from his calm by a flying couch pillow.


	87. You Had to Be There

Commentaire - Mes amis Français. Il y a longtemps que je ne parle Français, mais je veux faire de cette histoire disponsibles pour la population de langue Français! Je cherche quelqu'un bilingue à traduire mon histoire en Français pour ce website . Si vous pensez que vous aimeriez le faire, envoyez moi un e-mail ici. Je l'attends avec anticipation. ~ Catherine

**Chapter 87 You Had to Be There**

Scrapping the idea of gathering their thoughts about the case, Bones and Booth spend the next forty minutes at Babb's Coffee House chatting and relaxing. On their way out the door they purchase two tall café mochas with a shot of vanilla and low fat cream with a monster cookie chaser for each of them. And two 20 oz. bottles of diet Coke.

"Lets hit the road, Jack," Booth says, then starts singing, "I like to move it, move it. I like to move it, move it," he says in a sing-song voice, moving his torso and hips to his own beat.

"What … is that?" asks Bones.

"A good father knows the words to many animated kid movie songs. I think that's Lion King or Madagascar. Can't remember which. But I think it's sung by a meerkat in a crown of palm leaves." Breaking out the falsetto, Booth treats Bones to his version of Hakuna Matata, while she laughs herself into spasms.

"Stop! Stop! I can't take it any more!" she finally screams, clutching her abdominal muscles and wiping the tears from her eyes.

"This a obviously a super power I was unaware of," she says, finally catching her breath.

"Of the highest order, Bones! Few receive the honor. Those that do, wear it proudly."

"Booth, this is going to be a long ride of solo performances if you whip out your entire repertoire of kid songs."

"Come on they're fun. Oh ... I forgot ... " he looks over at her with a pitiful expression on his face, "you sprang from the womb a fully grown adult woman ... deprived of the joyous and educational brilliance of Disney, DreamWorks, 20th Century Fox, Touchstone, Paramount, Universal Studios, and Tim Chambers with Quaker Media.

Bones rolls her eyes. "Okay, OKAY! I have watched a couple animated features with Russ' little girls. I found I was particularly captivated by a song sung by a red Jamaican crab in a silly little film about a mermaid."

"Really? How's it go?"

"Something like ... there you see her, sitting in a blue lagoon" Bones does her best Jamaican accent which comes out sounding more Majorcan than Jamaican.

"Oh, I am lovin' this!" says Booth, sporting a bright, toothy grin from ear to ear.

"... don't you know she wants you, too," Bones continues, "... so reach out and gra-a-ab her. Bla bla bla bla something something ... Na na na na na na don't be shy, come on and give a try ... go on and kiss the girl." Booth joins in after the "Na na na" part.

As they get to the point where neither of them remembers any of the words, they fall into a silence, Booth watching the road, Bones looking out her window. Both are relaxed after a good, fun, laugh ... but there is a palpable tension in the air. The significance of the words in the song has not been missed by either of them. They are each lost in their own thoughts for a moment, pretending there's no tension. Booth sneaks a look at Bones. She's still looking out her window.

Bones is turned away from Booth because she feels her facial veins dilating as a torrent of adrenalin causes her capillaries to widen . She knows full well that the blushing and tingling sensation are an involuntary and uncontrollable reaction. She also knows they are a physiological response to subtle psychosocial cues. She knows that this phenomenon indicates feelings of shame, anxiety, nervousness, or intense emotion.

"Oh my God," she says out loud, though not meaning to. She's had an epiphany. This is part of what has been happening to me when I've had those "panic attacks." THIS is what embarrassment feels like! It is no wonder that it has been a frightening, anxiety-inducing experience for me, she thinks to herself. Very rarely do I get embarrassed! I can't even remember the last time I felt embarrassed.

"What?" says Booth.

I am losing my imperviousness to embarrassment, she thinks. I AM LOSING MY IMPERVIOUSNESS TO EMBARRASSMENT!

"Huh?" Bones answers.

"You just said, "Oh my god."

I don't like embarrassment. It is an unpleasant feeling. And, it is embarrassing. How about that! Embarrassment itself is embarrassing. Hrm …

"I did?"

Yeah, just a minute ago …"

"Oh," she says, pressing her cheek up against the cool window and wishing there was a window between her and Booth so she could cool down the other cheek.

Booth continues to look at the side of her face, pressed up against the window.

"Don't you fall asleep on me now," he says, warning her.

"Embarrassment could also be considered kind of thrilling, don't you think?"

Even though they are lit only by the glow from the dashboard and the occasional street light, Bones knows he has a perplexed expression on his face without even looking at him.

"Woah, THAT came out of no where," he says, relieved that her voice doesn't sound a bit tired. She was just thinking, he knows.

"Yeah, sorry."

"So?"

"So, what?"

"Are you gonna share, or what?"

"Nope."

"It sounded interesting," he says, almost begging, "… like something interesting to talk about … we have almost two full hours ahead of us."

"Hm," she grunts, her left hand to that cheek, checking the temperature.

"At least 100 degrees."

"Wha … huh? Now you gotta tell me!"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"You had to be there," she says, smiling at him very sweetly, but also genuinely. She feels good having figured out a piece of the puzzle that is Temperance Brennan.


	88. Pajama Party For Two

**Chapter 88 Pajama Party For Two**

"Oh, … a … spoonful of sugar," he begins, having given up on getting her to tell him what she had been thinking. Changing his mind about the song, he says, " … forget it. I'm not really interested in singing kid songs anymore. Just trying to wake myself up for the drive."

"Right," she says, sounding completely unconvinced.

"Well," he says in a challenging tone, "since apparently you are the queen of entertainment …"

"Some would say so …"

"Do any of them that say so have any skin?" he says, giving her a little shove.

"Ha ha ha. Laugh it up, monkey boy. I've got some ideas up my sleeve that will keep you awake."

"Oh, do you now?"

"I sure do," she says. "I'd like you to tell me what happened the night I slept at Carmen and Enri's house …"

"Oh, excrement!"

"Come on, I have a right to know!" she says, cajoling him.

"What ever happened to What-happens-at-Larrinaga's-stays-at-Larrinaga's," he pleads.

"Try again, Booth ... !"

"I knew it was you who put me in my pajamas, Booth. A woman would have at least unhooked my bra. Those things are highly uncomfortable to sleep in."

"I gotta drive, lady, do we have to talk about this now?"

"Might as well get it over with. I am not going to forget. And you WILL tell me - because there's no one else you can tell. Come on, I won't freak out …"

"But **'I'** might freak out!"

"You are such a prude sometimes, Booth. Just spit it out … what happened?"

"If you MUST know, I'll tell you," he says, feeling a little uncomfortable, but also wanting to tell someone. Get it off his chest. So he launches into a fast mumbled explanation of his reasoning and how the whole thing went down:

"We'd had a really long day and I thought you needed your sleep since you fell asleep right there in the living room and Vincent's death has taken a lot out of both of us and then you had Parker for almost a full 24 hours and I know how exhausting that can be - plus you got almost no sleep at all at my place … and most people find it difficult to get a good night's sleep wearing jeans … so I relieved you of your jeans – and Carmen found your pajamas so I thought it made more sense to put them on you rather than to leave you

in just your … panties ... I mean … underwear and I couldn't very likely leave your top on or you would have been even more uncomfortable – so I imagined you were a larger version of Parker and you'd fallen asleep in the car. I was just concerned for your quality of sleep, Bones."

"I see. Then, thank you, Booth."

He looks at her to see if she's serious. "You're welcome," he says, smiling and relieved.

Wow, that wasn't too difficult, he says to himself. She understands. And is grateful! Whew, dodged a bullet there ...

A silence ensues during which, of course, the image of Bones in her hilarious light blue-green panties pays a visit to Booth's brain. And decides to stay for a while. He shifts in his seat. I can't drive and think about this. Fuzzy bunnies, fuzzy bunnies.

"What are you thinking about, Booth, you have kind of a panicked look on your face."

"Oh, uh, fuzzy bunnies." He feels caught.

"I see," she says, choosing not to follow up on it.

Again with the silence.

Blessed, beautiful silence, Booth says to himself.

"Was it difficult to manage? Getting my clothes off and my pajamas on? I must have been like a big sack of jello."

Holy copulating donkey turds, he says to himself. I knew that was too good to be true ...

"Well, the Jeans were a little difficult to get off. Getting the shirt over your head, that wasn't easy … or getting your arms into the pajamas while trying not to wake you."

"Oh, you wouldn't have awakened me. I sleep like the dead, usually. Well, when I'm not too stressed. Sleep is crucial to mental acuity, Booth."

"Okay, well, it would have been nice to have known that at the time … I kept telling myself it was the same thing as getting my sleeping son into his jammies."

"Hm. Same thing as changing Parker's clothes?"

"Yeah, the same thing."

"Except that it's not the same thing."

"Nope," he says. "It's not the same thing. At all."

"Because I'm a grown woman."

"Right."

"Who works with you all day, every day."

"Right," he looks back and forth from her to the road. Maybe she gets it, he thinks. Is she pissed? I can't tell if she's pissed.

"Hm."

"What does that sound mean? That "Hm?" What does that mean?" he asks.

"But it was a challenge to get my clothes off …"

"Yes, it was …"

"I'd have thought that would be easy for you."

"You mean, being a father?"

"No, I mean having had several sexual partners, you would be quite adept at undressing a woman."

"Well, I usually have a little help … and my partner's usually awake!" he says, more uncomfortable by the minute.

"So?"

"So, what?"

"So, what did you think?"

"What do you mean?"

"What did you think, based upon your sampling of the adult human female population?"

"Can we not have this conversation while I'm driving!"

"It's safer while you're driving..."

"Maybe for you ..."

"Anthropologically speaking, cultures in different times in history have defined beauty or desirability of physical traits differently. Marilyn Monroe was the epitome of beauty, yet it's widely documented that she wore a size 14 dress which is considered practically obese by 21st Century standards. A suntan in the 1700s was considered course and low class in a society when women kept their skin as fair as possible."

Booth is dumbfounded.

"I'd be interested to hear, based on your sampling of the adult female population, did you … find my body attractive?"

"Bones, I've seen you in a bathing suit tons of times. They don't leave much to the imagination, in case you hadn't noticed," he says, a nervous grin playing on his lips.

"Yes, but there's a difference between seeing someone in a bathing suit and actually disrobing them, which includes tactile stimulation."

"Look lady, there was no stimulation of any tactiles!" he says desperately. This was going in a bad direction as far as he is concerned.

"Booth, when there is visual and mental stimulation, which you experienced while getting me in and out of my clothes - at least if you DID find me attractive - which any man would, I am quite beautiful … the sexually mature human male brain receives impulses and the local nerves cause the muscles of the corpora cavernosa to relax, allowing blood to flow in and fill the open spaces. The blood creates pressure in the corpora cavernosa, making the male sex organ expand. The tunica albuginea helps to trap the blood in the corpora cavernosa, thereby sustaining erection."

"Whoa. Whoa! Nobody said anything about an erection! I can't believe I'm in this conversation! But of course, it's Bones I'm talking to. With Bones, anything could happen - any topic could just appear out of no where… and slap me right in the face … At this point it is clear to Bones that Booth is talking to himself.

"Are you talking to yourself, Booth?"

He sits in the driver's seat thanking God for a straight road ahead because if there were any curves he might drive right off the road. He also wonders if there is a hotel nearby that would take her if he slowed down and ejected her from her seat. "Why do Batman and James Bond get all the cool equipment?" he screams.

Bones looks at him a little perplexed.

"Don't be absurd, Booth. I'm fairly certain you have the exact same equipment as Batman and James Bond - maybe not in the same dimensions. Size and girth differ from person to person … but it doesn't mean you don't have the same equipment."

"JC on a pogo stick, Bones! My equipment is FINE. Can we please change the subject?"

"Your embarrassment over things that are perfectly normal and natural is unnecessary – especially with me. You should know this by now, Booth!"

And why should I be the only one on this trip to feel embarrassed tonight? she asks herself, and though she just chastised him for his embarrassment, she's also beginning to understand it.


	89. The Golden Ratio

**Chapter 89 What?**

"When a healthy heterosexual adult male disrobes a sexually mature adult female - somethings bound to come up, if you grasp my meaning - Ew, bad metaphor, the grasping part - not the coming up part - that was intentional. I'm not making this any better am I?" Bones says, turning to look at Booth as he drives. He will not even look at her.

"You think?" If he had a tie on, he'd be loosening it right now, but he doesn't. Instead, he wiggles in his seat and adjusts himself a few times. He can't decide which hand to steer the wheel with. Then it's air conditioner on. Air conditioner off. Vents open, vents closed. Vents directed at his face, then down at his hands, then back to his face.

"Are you okay, Booth? You're fidgeting. Do we need to make a pit stop?"

"No, I'm not okay," he says, still not looking at her. He takes a deep breath and lets it all out through his mouth.

"You're not going to hyperventilate on me, are you? You don't sound too good."

"BONES! Of course I don't sound very good - I'm trying to concentrate on not planting this monster of a car in the swamp - and all I can think of …." he stops, not going there. "You keep talking about …" he stops again. "Bones, you know men are visual yet you continue to talk about your …"

"Slow down, Booth! You almost went over the center of the road! Maybe I should drive. Why don't you ever let me drive?"

Deep breath in, cleansing breath out. I love my job. I love my job. I love my job. Fuzzy bunnies. Fuzzy bunnies all over my job. Booth decides perhaps the best strategy here is to pretend that she's not even there. Maybe if he stops talking to her, she'll shut up. Then he can concentrate on slowing his heart rate down and staying on the road. He pushes the button and turns the radio on. Ah, Elton John. Nothing like an obscenely talented flaming minstrel to put a different image in his mind. Goodbye to Yellow Brick Road - whatever the hell that's supposed to mean … He's thinking of big, round, plastic rose-tinted glasses and sequins lining the edges of a white tuxedo.

Bones tilts her head back. Is he shutting me out? "Are you shutting me out, Booth?"

Booth breathes in. Then out. He looks at her. A long hard look. A 'you can't ever leave well-enough alone, can you lady' look. Then he looks back to the road - the message delivered.

Bones takes the hint, and wanders off into her own thoughts. Until she can't resist saying something.

She punches the radio button. Elton disappears in a puff of smoke, like a bookmark dragged off a Safari browser ribbon.

Booth looks at her.

"It is not my intention to make you uncomfortable, Booth.

"Oh, I don't believe that for a second," he says, moving his head side to side, still not looking at her. "I think you enjoy it." Now he looks. Has to see her reaction. He knows she's not devious. But it will bother her if she thinks she is.

She looks back at him, then down at her hands, back out her window.

"Okay - I do enjoy it a bit. But obviously I have pushed it too far this time. I apologize. Can we continue talking?"

He sits there. He already knows he'll say yes, but he's more than willing to let her sweat it out.

"Just listen to me for a minute, Booth," she pleads. "I'm not saying you are weird, or lecherous, or prone to taking advantage of women when they are vulnerable …."

"Huh," he grunts. Not looking. And he knows it's killing her.

"I'm just saying that if you did have an erection …"

Booth lets his eyelids slowly close in resignation - or feigned disappointment.

" … it would be perfectly normal. It would be abnormal if you had no reaction at all," she finishes her sentence and gives him that 'If I were a puppy, I'd have my tongue hanging out, my face turned to the side and my eyes pulling at your heartstrings until you agree to go on a walk with me' look.

Booth gives in. He looks her way. Then shakes his head. One of those 'what am I going to do with you?' head shakes.

"Can I explain something to you?"

He looks at her. Can he trust her? "Can you keep it clean and appropriate?"

"We have different ideas about what is appropriate, but hear me out."

"You get one shot. If I don;t like where things are going I will SHUT - YOU - DOWN like Jesus going after the vendors in the temple."

"I am not exactly sure what that means - but I think I get the gist."

Deep breath in, deep breath out, Booth makes a big deal of it.

"Okay - you may proceed."

"Alright. This might sound bad at first - but just hear me out …."

"I will do what I can, lady, but you do have a tendency to irritate, so tread lightly."

"Another Jesus reference … walking on water, or something?"

"Just talk, lady."

"Okay," she says, adopting a clinical posture and a detached tone of voice. "I have been fortunate enough to receive a complimentary mix of genes from my parents which have manifested themselves physically in a manner considered by the majority of the population to be pleasing to the eye. It has been mathematically speculated that certain … combinations of … physical characteristics … when, symmetrical … and in proportion, are more likely to be considered beautiful, attractive," She pauses, not sure if he's following. "Have you ever seen Leonardo da Vinci's Vitruvian Man?

"Is that the drawing of a man with two pairs of legs and arms? One pair of legs and arms are straight down and straight out to either side, forming a capital letter 'T' basically. The second leg/arm combination has the legs apart and the arms raised at a 45 degree angle, forming what looks like a capital letter 'X?'"

"Well done! I am impressed." She is genuinely surprised, and continues to look at him.

Booth looks toward her and smiles, relaxes.

"Okay - well, the Vitruvian Man is meant to illustrate the nature of the human body's proportions. Scientists believe that bodies perceived to be in good proportion are also perceived to be healthier, and therefore, good breeders. We are genetically programmed to perpetuate the race … therefore, the more proportionate our faces and bodies, the more likely we are to be approached for reproductive purposes. With me so far?"

"A little nervous about where this is going, but, yeah, I'm following."

"As long ago as 480 B.C., humankind has been fascinated with proportions and something that has become known as the Golden Ratio. In the 13th century, Leonardo of Pisa, who was called Fibonacci, introduced a mathematical sequence that illustrates the relationship of proportions. Basically, it's an order that when followed created perfectly proportioned … anything. When applied to the human body - the idea is to be able to mathematically quantify beauty."

"Um, okay …"

"Still awake?"

"Waiting for a point … on the edge of my seat …"

"The Golden Ratio says that one part of a person's body should be X amount bigger than or smaller than or a distance apart from another part of the body. And when they are … that person is widely considered to be pleasing to the eye. And therefore …

"A good breeder?"

"Precisely," she says, and stops, finished with her explanation.

"And the point is ….?" He does a little drum roll on the steering wheel.

"The point is, Booth, that my face and my body meet the requirements of the golden ratio perfectly," she says, as if it should be obvious.

"Bully for you, hot stuff," he says. "Couldn't you have just said that?"

"I believe it is important to provide adequate context before making such a bold statement … such as I am perfectly proportioned. See, it's not just an opinion, Booth. It's proof, if you'll pardon the math pun."

"The what?" he says squinting.

"Never mind," she says, looking at his face in the light of the dashboard. "That part's not important."

"Why is everything science for you?" Booth asks.

"Why is everything based on your gut for you?"

"It just is. It's natural."

"It is natural for you, Booth. Science is natural for me."

"Well, I don't need a PhD in mathematics or some Italian guys formula to tell me what is beautiful, or that you fit that description. And I knew that just from my gut. How about that?"

"You go about it your way, I go about it my way …" she says, getting the point. "But my way is real …"

"And my way is faster … and therefore better."

"Hmm."

"Look, I think both are good. Both work. Together, they cover all the bases. Like peanut butter and jelly."

"Like black and white."

"Like baseball and hot dogs."

"Ketchup and mustard."

"Exactly," he says, poking a fake person in the chest with his index finger. "Exactly."

After a moment, Bones adds, "Like Booth and Bones."

"Like Booth and Bones," he replies, nodding and smiling.

You know what I love about spending time with you, Bones? It is always an education.

She rolls her eyes and purses her lips. "Yeah right. Ha."

"No. I really mean it, Bones. You know something about everything and you make it fun. Eventually."

"Well … it's the least I can do for how much you help me out all the time," she says.

"You don't have to say that just to make me feel good."

"No," she says. "It's true," she says, sounding like she's finally getting tired. She yawns.

"I think it's a good thing. A really good thing. It's part of what makes us a great team."

"That is an accurate assessment … I would agree," she finally smiles.

Another couple of minutes pass without words.

"I hope you found that discussion more satisfying than frustrating, Booth," says Bones. "I found it satisfying."

Booth can't help grinning - an acquiescent, contented grin.

Just for the heck of it, he punches her in the arm, following it up with one word, in a deep teasing voice. In the same way Hodgens would say "Dude," Booth gives her another playful shove and says, "Bones."

She smiles and gives it right back to him, "Booth."


	90. Super Short Chapter

**Chapter 90 You Should Be in Pictures**

"Booth"

"Yip," he says, keeping an eye on the road, and repositioning himself in the seat. "You falling asleep?"

"Nope."

"You sound tired"

"I am, aren't you?"

"Yeah - but I gotta get us another 30 miles down the road. "And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep."

"Ah hah - Frost," she says a gentle smile on her tired face.

"Yep. Didn't everyone have to memorize a couple lines of poetry in order to graduate from the 8th grade? This one seemed to make a lot of sense to me at that time of my life:"

"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep."

"Indeed. I AM impressed. I would have thought you'd be more interested in Poe. "Quoth the raven ... Nevermore."

"I'm am a wealth of surprises. Poe sounds more suited to you, I think."

"You may be right," she conceds. "Say, Booth?"

"Yeah?"

"If they were ever to make a movie about us - you know - our work - the fascinating forensic anthropological clues we use ..."

"And the genius intuition springing forth for the gut of a sexy FBI man? Yeah, what about it."

"Who would you want to play you?

"That's easy. Bogart."

"Who do you think would play me?"

"Lauren Bacall, of course."

"No ... I think I'm more a mixture of Katharine and Audrey Hepburn."

"I could see that ..."

"Enemies are so stimulating," she says, in the old movie style voice, pretending to wave a cigarette holder.

"So are you, Shweet-hart," answers Booth, adjusting his imaginary Fedora.


	91. The Final Thirty Minutes

**Chapter 91 The Final Thirty Minutes**

"So Bones, Queen of entertainment … we need a topic that's interesting to keep us both awake for the final half hour of this trip. Got anything else up that sleeve of yours?

"Okay, let's see … "

The final thirty minutes ends up being more like forty-five minutes due to the the traffic lights, toll bridge parade, an Amtrak postal train complete with box cars passing through Baltimore, and the congested mile skirting Philly heading toward Bryn Mawr Guest Suites in Bryn Mawr, PA.

Bones does the best she can to keep Booth alert, including at one point kicking of her left shoe and poking him in the thigh with her toes. As with many couples stuck in a car with nothing to do but talk, their conversation takes a circuitous route from Barbie™'s measurements to reading habits to vocabulary to Hannah, to relationships in general, and, of course, back to sex. Not necessarily in that order, but you, dear reader, get the picture.

**Is Barbie™ A Good Role Model?**

"Did you know they have researched what Barbie™'s body dimensions would be if she were a real person?" asks Bones, thinking back on their conversation about the Golden Ratio.

"Barbie™, of Barbie™ and Ken, Malibu Barbie™. **That Barbie™?"**

"Yes, there are differing stats depending upon your source, but they are all astounding."

"So what are her measurements?"

"If she were an actual woman, she'd be around 6 feet tall, weigh 100 lbs., and wear a size four dress," she says, shaking her head. "Her measurements? 39-19-33. She'd have to walk around on all fours because she'd be so top heavy, and her BMI would be so low she couldn't menstruate."

"Hmm. And Barbie™ is supposed to be the role model for teenage girls? No wonder there's so much anorexia going around!"

"Well, that, and everything else in this society, especially the sexualized mass marketing of everything from toilet bowl cleaners to vinyl siding to jewelry and perfume. It is a crime, truly a crime."

"Did you have a Barbie™ growing up. Bones?"

"You know, I actually did, for a while, until one of the other kids in foster care threw her into the sewage drain," Bones says, wistfully. "I don't know why she was so jealous - my Barbie™ didn't even have a head - and her right foot had been chewed off by a tiny dog."

"What about Ken? What were his dimensions, body measurements?"

"Now that, I do not know."

"Maybe no one's ever studied it. You don't hear about male eating disorders."

"But they do exist, Booth," she says, pausing, then starting up again. "Here's something interesting though, Ken was supposed to be the perfect mate to the perfect woman, Barbie, right?"

"That's the story …"

"Okay - broad chest, long muscular arms and legs, flat feet, blond hair ..."

"Hey - don't diss the dark-haired boys! Women want someone tall dark and handsome, right? Blonds may have more fun, but brunets have more babes!"

"Whatever. But do you know what Ken was missing?"

"A credit card?"

"No. He didn't have any genitalia."

"Ohhh. Ouch! Poor son of a mother who wasn't married to the sperm donor! Bummer!"

"Yeah."

Booth begins to chuckle, then begins to quote from Ghostbusters, one of his favorite movies when he was first in high school. **"Yes, sir, it's true. This man has no dick,"** he says, imitating Bill Murray delivering the line that Booth and his friends watched over and over and over until they could mimic it perfectly.

"What is that? Why are you talking in that strange voice, Booth?" asks Bones.

"Oh, come on, Bones! Ghostbusters?" He starts to sing, "When there's something weird … in your neighborhood. … who ya gonna call … Ghostbusters!" He attempts to provide the musical accompaniment with a bunch of 'da da da, da da dada's.' "Come on, Bones! Dan Aykroyd and Bill Murray? The Ghostbusters saved New York from the giant Stay Puft Marshmallow Man! **"He's a sailor, he's in New York, get him laid, no problem!"** again with the Bill Murray imitation.

A blank look from Bones.

"Okay, there's scene where Aykroyd and Murray are being bad-mouthed by a … Butt Head who's trying to convince some guy that the Ghostbusters are a sham. Anyway, Dan Ackroyd says to the guy ... " Booth scrunches his eye brows together and pinches his lips together, then says in a deep voice,** "Everything was fine with our system until the power grid was shut off by Dickless here,"** and he's pointing to the Butt Head. **"Is this true?"** says the guy. Then Murray says, **"Yes, it's true. This man has no dick!"** - totally straight faced. Me and Jared and our friends - we laughed till we just about puked Mountain Dew and Milk Duds all over the living room floor. It was hilarious!"

"Guess you had to be there …" says Bones, chuckling, but enjoying Booth's imitations and his enthusiasm.

.com/watch?v=cDQk4lGSEJQ

**Queen of the Tribe**

"Okay - based upon the Golden Ratio, if we were in a tribe, I'd probably be the queen and I'd have many, many lovers."

"Hm. How do you figure?"

"Best breeders become royalty."

"Then you'd have to get pregnant."

"I'd have to provide an heir. Most royalty have to provide many descendants, especially during times of great disease and war."

"Are they allowed to have multiple lovers, though?"

"More lovers equals better quality sperm, and stronger offspring," she explains. "I studied a culture whose ruling family had six heirs. The community was decimated by an epidemic. Having no immunity built up, all six died along with the queen, leaving no heir apparent."

"Sounds like a recipe for disaster."

"Well, it was. The remaining tribe was at a loss for how to determine who the next ruler should be. They went for three years fighting about how to elect an heir to the throne."

"So what happened in the end?"

"Many had died in the epidemic, several attempted to usurp the ruling authority and were banished from the community. Left behind were mostly teenagers. Predictably, that led to chaos and more blood shed."

"Lord of the Flies," says Booth.

"Yes, that is an accurate comparison," says Bones. "I didn't know you liked to read."

**Reading and Vocabulary**

"You know I didn't just start reading when I met you, you know ... reading Kathy Reichs novels."

"Hmm. What else have you read, Booth?"

"I don't keep a** list**. I've read some good stuff."

"Comic books do not count."

"They are called **GRAPHIC NOVELS** … and some of them are quite complicated."

"I'm still waiting for a title. Children's books that you've read to also Parker don't count."

"Okay – give me a minute here."

"What was the last book you read, Booth?"

Booth is silent for a moment. "Oh! I just finished the biography of Benjamin Franklin – the Prophet of Tolerance, the First American - by Walter Isaacson. Last year I read the John Addams biography by the same guy. When it comes out, I plan to read the biography of Steven Jobs, the guy who created Microsoft. Though that one may be a little too dry for my taste."

"Ah ah. Agent Seeley Joseph Booth. **You have managed to render me speechless."**

"A wealth of surprises … And that comment, just be simply voicing it, you invalidated it. How about that, huh?"

She stares at him. "You are correct."

"It's actually a paradox," says Booth.

"Yes, it is," she replies, looking at him as he exits the highway and turns onto a city street.

"It's self-contradictory," he explains.

"I know what paradox means."

"One could describe your statement as **paradoxical**," Booth continues.

"Okay Booth – was paradox the Word of the Day?"

"Yesterday, or at least this past week."

"I'm impressed."

"You should be. I'm working on growing that part of the brain. You could say I've been doing mental calisthenics. Sometimes, I do mental calisthenics while running or lifting weights. Preparing for the intellectual Olympics."

"I don't think they have intellectual Olympics."

"Bones – every day with you is the Intellectual Olympics."

Bones has no response for this.

"**Now** you are speechless," he says, looking over to her, a surprised smile on his face. "You better prepare yourself, baby. I may just screw up the **equilibrium** of our partnership."

"That will never happen." She laughs her throaty laugh.

He doesn't look at her, but smiles, enjoying the conversation.

"Now I'm going to have to look at you a whole new way, Booth," she says, crossing her arms and yawning. "What did you read before Ben Franklin?"

"Something by James Patterson."

"Ah – now see, that doesn't surprise me."

"And … before that – Kathy Reichs."

"Hm. Thanks Booth."

"Well, they are pretty entertaining, and sexy."

"They are anthropologically fascinating ..." she insists.

"And very entertaining. And sexy," he insists.

"Well … thank you, I think."

"Don't thank me, thank the New York Times Book Review."

She looks at him – surprised he reads the New York Times Review.

"If your gonna read, you might as well read the best," he says, reaching over to pinch her cheek for once, but getting her hair instead, giving it a yank.

"I'm awake, I'm awake! What is it with boys and pulling hair? Russ used to do that all the time."

"It's a** vestige** remaining from our cave-dwelling days."

"That and the knuckles dragging on the ground …"

"Well, there's that, too. And the obsession with breasts …"

… TO BE CONTINUED


	92. The Final Twenty Minutes

Chapter 92 The Final Twenty Minutes

"Are you this way in bed?"

"What do you mean?"

"Clinical. Detached?" He shoots a challenging stare in her direction. Faking a female voice, he says, "Oh, Adult male with whom I am engaging in coitus, please agitate my epidermis below my oxypotilimious bone!"

"Of course not. That's absurd."

"Well?"

"I'm actually fairly quiet during intercourse," she says.

"Oh, I don't believe that for a minute."

"I am!"

"Well, I'd like to see that," he says.

Since they both remain silent after that comment, the last comment hangs in the air like a neon sign flashing, "I wonder when that will be?"

They both stare forward, turning several shades of crimson, thankful that it's too dark to see each other blushing. They both look out their respective side windows, smiling, at their own titillating thoughts.

"Dr. Gordon Gordon Wyatt says people use clinical language to insulate themselves from others, from intimacy. Personally, I think people use it as a mechanism for keeping others from discovering how they feel," says Booth, looking toward Bones as he continues to drive.

"To talk about sex … I mean, what more intimate topic is there?" he asks. "… Talking about making love in clinical terms is like wrapping yourself up in that pink fiberglass R-13 stuff. It discourages intimacy, Bones. Nobody wants to get near fiberglass unless they absolutely have to. But here's the problem, if you wrap yourself in fiberglass - YOU get those tiny shards of glass in your skin too, metaphorically speaking."

Bones says nothing, picturing the metaphor in her head.

"It's just not healthy," he says, eventually. "That kind of language is like putting up a stop sign. "Stop. Go no further. Danger lies ahead."

"I am a doctor and a scientist, Booth. It comes with the territory."

"Bones, a man wants to make love to a woman, not a text book."

Again, Bones is thinking it over. Just when Booth thinks she might have shut down or fallen asleep, she has something to say.

"Gordon Gordon is probably right," she says, resigned, but willing to defer to Gordon's logic. "So how can I ask the question in a less clinical way?" she says.

"What question? What are we talking about now?"

"When you changed me into my pajamas … were you feeling amorous? No, that's not at all right. And it feels weird - suggests something emotional going on - not just a normal physiological result of stimulus."

"See, there you go again!"

"Right. Sorry, sorry. Okay," she says, "Maybe …" She pauses to try something else out in her head. Were you aroused by changing me into my pajamas? Did you feel aroused by the visual and tactile stimulation …. Agh! Do I arouse you? Crap!

"What have you come up with?"

"I think I have a word, but I can't say it, Booth. I just can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't," she looks out her door window, her facial veins dilating and the tingling sensation returning to her cheeks. "It's too … I don' t know … personal? It feels … " she can't describe it.

"Intimate? Does it feel intimate?"

"I don't know. What does intimacy feel like?"

"Wow. Maybe that's the real issue … intimacy makes you uncomfortable … because you aren't sure what it is. Wonder what Gordon would say about that?" The last question was really to himself.

"What?"

"Intimacy feels like being in the middle of a tornado, in a way. It can be dangerous … and amazing, potentially destructive, thrilling, embarrassing …"

"That's it, Booth," she says so quickly he almost jumps in his seat. "It feels embarrassing to say it."

"You mean, YOU feel embarrassed to say it?"

She shrugs her shoulders to indicate yes. She looks at him apologetically. All of the sudden she looks about seventeen years old, and Booth's heart goes out to her.

"Bones," he says in almost a whisper, "I've never seen you embarrassed before. I didn't know you ever got embarrassed about anything."

"I didn't either," she says, almost shamefully, looking at her fingernails and deciding to chew on one.

"And you never chew your fingernails …" he comments. "Wow."

He notices she's become uncharacteristically quiet and self-conscious all of a sudden. He gives her some space for a moment.

"Hey, it's oh-kay," he says.

"I don't know, Booth. This is a very odd sensation." She sniffs a barely audible sniff. "Not at all pleasant." One meagre tear runs down the side of her nose, drips onto her lip, is caught by her tongue, and quickly taken into her mouth. She looks out the door window, trying to hide. "Oh this is so weird … and uncomfortable," she says, almost inaudibly, closing her eyes.

Booth pulls the SUV over on the shoulder of the road and gets out of the car. Bones watches as he passes in front of the SUV and is partially illuminated by the headlights. Before she has a chance to do or say anything, he opens the passenger side door. Her door.

"Hey. Are you okay?" he asks, bending down to see her face, which is currently covered by her hands. He gently takes her hands from her face, but she doesn't quite look at him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah - I'm okay, Booth," she says, and she sounds mostly fine, but he can tell something was going on behind those hands and eyes. "I'm just not used to this."

"To what?"

"To feeling … embarrassed. I just don't do that. I don't GET embarrassed," she says, confused and frustrated. "However, the only words I could come up with to describe … what we were talking about … I felt strange even thinking them. They felt too … personal. I couldn't say them."

"Hmm. Interesting," he says. "That's called intimacy, Bones. They felt intimate, right?"

"Okay …"

"Do you see why I don't want to answer a clinical question about something I consider to be intimate - at least when it relates to … you and me?"

She shrugs and looks at him, again as a seventeen year old. "It's a bit embarrassing to even hear you put it that way…"

He's having a feeling he's not sure what it is … surprise? Pride? Compassion? Relief?

"Bones, you are going to be fine, okay?" he says, putting his arms around her and giving her a quick squeeze. "Being in touch with this uncomfortable stuff - it's the beginning of discovering intimacy." He smiles at her as if she were a child successfully taking her first bike ride without training wheels. Even though she may have fallen off that bike and skinned her knee. He's still proud. He releases her and steps back, leaning his arm on the top of her car door, his other arm on his hip.

"And you know what, Bones?"

"What, Booth," she says, having regained some of her composure, crossing her arms across her chest.

"You should be proud of yourself. Yeah, you should be proud."

"You're silly, Booth," she says, laughing a bit, trying to change the feeling in the air, shrug off the intimacy of it.

"Seriously, Bones," he says, matter-of-factly. "I'm proud of you."

"Great," she says, half-heartedly rolling her eyes. "Then get back in the car and let's get back to the hotel. We both need our sleep!"


	93. The Final, But Important, Ten

**Chapter 93 The Final, But Important, Last Ten Minutes**

"Bones, a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, and he certainly doesn't, ya know …, talk about it later unless …"

"Well, you **are** a gentleman," she interrupts him, "that's for sure." Now she's the one who doesn't want to continue this conversation, doesn't want to risk feeling embarrassed again.

"You say that like it's a bad thing, Bones," says Booth, not liking how she's made it sound.

"No," she says. "It's not a bad thing … necessarily," she says, but there's a hesitation which belies what she's just said. "Especially in today's world where people are jumping all over each other and putting drugs in unsuspecting people's drinks. Not to mention all the crimes committed against people in the name of … whatever. Being a gentleman is a rare quality – it's a good thing."

"Then why the tone, then, Bones?"

"Well, I think there are times when even a gentleman could be a little more aggressive," I wish you'd kiss me, she wants to say.

"So you're telling me, that if you woke up this morning …

"Wow, was that just this morning? Is it June 20-21st, the longest day of the year?" she says over him.

"It's not, Bones. Focus - I know it's late… But listen, I want to know … if you woke up this morning …and found me there beside you … in bed, that would have been okay with you?

"Well, it's not like we haven't slept in the same bed …" I wish you had kissed me then. I wanted you to kiss me then.

"Come on, Bones, this is different.

"Okay! You are making sense. In the abstract, it is not appropriate to assume a person of the opposite sex would approve of … I wasn't conscious to make a choice. I can see how that would create a moral dilemma for you."

"Not only that, Bones. There are small children in that house. They know we are not married. It would not be appropriate for them to think we had … slept together."

"Is that Seeley Booth speaking or Pope John the millionth, talking?"

"There you go, insulting my beliefs again. Geez!" He runs his right hand through his hair, almost pulling it.

"Children should **not** be lead to believe that the world is perfect, Booth. The world is **not** perfect and people **don't** wait to be married to engage in sexual inter - love-making - or what ever intimate terminology you want to use for it - it's still sex. Santa doesn't exist, Mom and Dad don't always get along, and no one is guaranteed there will ever be a time when they feel truly happy." She takes a breath and realizes she's gone somewhere she hadn't intended to go. "Booth, I respect your beliefs …"

"You do? Because I gotta tell you - it's not really sounding like you do," he says, looking over at her. A full two minutes tick by without any sound except the wheels making contact with the highway.

"Bones, there is such a thing as respect and … integrity … you know, the quality of being honest and having strong moral principles. Children watch everything adults do. Everything. Especially their parents and their parent's close friends. That's how they figure out what is true, not just what we say, but what we do - that's what makes the greatest impression on them …" he alternates between the road and looking sideways at her. She's staring forward, but he can tell by how she's cocked her head that she is listening and fully engaged. She looks at him briefly as he's turned back to the road.

"Bones, I can't explain to a five year old that I believe people should be in a committed, long-term relationship before they sleep together - or, that the reason why is partially because that kind of relationship is more likely to provide a long term safe environment, a cohesive family unit, for children to thrive in. I can't tell a five year old that. But I **can** refrain from behavior that, in their simple young minds, contradicts what I want them to know I value."

"It's not how the real world is."

"Maybe, but I think they deserve to make their own decisions about what they believe and who they are when they are mature enough to do it. If I present to them that this is how it is - people shacking up all over the place …

"Which they really do …"

"Whatever … then they won't even think twice about casual sex. They'll just do it. And the opportunity for a better quality of life may allude them for the rest of their lives."

"Like what?"

"Like the joy of being with someone because they are in love with them … not just because all those sex chemicals are clouding their judgement."

"You did **not** just bring chemistry into the conversation, Booth. That's my job," she says, incredulous. And besides, you make it sound like anyone who has premarital sex is doomed to a lousy life. That is simply not true."

"Bones, have you ever met someone who is happily married or in a committed relationship who said, 'Gee, I wish I had slept around a lot more before I fell in love with you?" He pauses as if waiting for an answer. "Because I haven't. As adults we can look back at stupid things we did and see where we could have done better - but kids are having sex at a very young age - too young to understand the potential impact it can have on their lives. If they can hold off - and make adult choices when they are adults ... then I think they have a better shot at being happy with their choices - long term."

"Good luck selling that to the hormonally intoxicated youth of America."

"You know what I mean. What if you hadn't left me on the sidewalk that night after I fired you - what if you hadn't ridden off in that taxi?"

"We'd have had some mind-blowing sex, if that kiss was any indication," she says, feeling those capillaries expanding again. She puts her hand up to her cheek to feel the heat. She has relived that kiss more times than she could count. It's part of what kept her around him, the dream, even if it was scary, that some day there would be another one, or another eighty. That and the fantastically exciting work they do together.

"Right. Thanks for the compliment, by the way," he says, remembering that kiss and feeling a little warm himself. He's figured out now that when she puts her hand to her cheek, like she is doing now, it's most likely because she's flushed at the thoughts of … whatever she's thinking. He continues, "We probably would have had sex, we would have been on fire for a couple of weeks, then maybe it would have died out - and maybe we never would have ended up working so well together like we are now."

"And we have a great thing going, right? Is that what you are going to say next?" she asks.

"Exactly. And as for our future together outside work - well - there are possibilities there that never would have been otherwise, right?"

"Um, right," she says, yanking on her blouse and fanning her face. "Is this air conditioner working?"

"I want stuff like this to be possible for Parker. That's all I'm saying."

"Seriously, Booth. Could you turn the air conditioner on?" The heat has moved down her neck and she's feeling like another attack is coming on - the hyperventilating kind. But now that she has an idea what is behind it … maybe she can compartmentalize and stop it from happening.

"It's almost eleven o'clock at night, Bones! Why do we need the air conditioner on?" He knows full well why, he just enjoys giving her crap. Plus, he's trying to play dumb, hoping it will lessen her embarrassment … sort of.

Bones glares at him.

"What?" he says, laughing, and turning the vents on full blast.

"Ahhh, thank you," she says, leaning toward the vents in front of her with a sigh. Deep breath in. Cleansing breath out. Deep breath in. Cleansing breath out. Hey, this is working!

"I was just commenting, Booth, before you jumped up on your tall pony, that perhaps where I am detached, and clinical, you, in your gentlemanly way, could be perceived as passive and modest."

"What, now you're questioning my manhood? And it's 'up on my high horse,' by the way."

"Well, maybe that's why Hannah wouldn't marry you."

"Ouch! That's where you want to go from here?"

She knows she's hit a nerve and she wishes she hadn't. Crud.

"What happened between Hannah and me ... " he begins, not sure how much he wants to tell her. When it comes to Hannah, Bones has a great deal of curiosity already. He does **not** want to encourage that. He doesn't realize he hasn't finished the sentence.

"Go on …" says Bones.

"What Gordon Gordon said is that Hannah … was not a mistake. That she was necessary. She was necessary for some kind of growth or something equally psychological …"

"Hum," she says. "Have you been concerned your relationship was a mistake?"

"You know what? That's between me and my shrink," he says, trying to cut off this line of inquiry.

"That's interesting. So you've been thinking about her and talking about her with Gordon?" Bones asks.

"How else was I supposed to get over this whole mess?"

"You are making sense." She's dying to ask about what was going on the morning she saw him and Hanna at the coffee shop. But she doesn't.

A moment passes, both lost in thought. Booth is the one who breaks the silence.

"After Hannah and I split up, I was miserable, Bones."

"I know," she smiles gently at him, though he probably can't see it.

"I was pissed off at everyone. I felt lost. I couldn't see what my future in my mind's eye anymore. I'd always thought that I'd have a house, and a riding mower, 2.5 kids, and a mortgage by now."

"And a wife."

"Yeah, and a wife. Who adores me. Someone to share my everything with. And those things just haven't turned out like I thought they would. It was depressing place, Bones. For me."

After a moment, Bones says, "So, how does that make Hannah necessary? How does that work?"

"Well, that relationship pushed me to look seriously at where I am and what I want. But also to realize I can't force that to happen. I can't make that happen - with just anyone."

"Hm," is all she says. "That's interesting." I wonder where I fit in all this, she thinks.

Booth does a little drum roll on the steering wheel. Should I tell her about what I learned from Hannah this week?

"Guess what, Bones?" he says, I'm gonna do it. No, I'm not. We are almost to the hotel.

"Something has happened recently … and I don't feel so angry anymore," he says. I'll say that much at least.

"Really?"

"Yeah," he says, nodding his head and pursing his lips.

"Like what? What do you mean?" Please don't tell me you are reconciling with Hannah. Please don't tell me you are reconciling with Hannah.

"I think, actually," he tries to make light of it, not inviting THE SERIOUS CONVERSATION - which he doesn't want to have right now. Besides, he hasn't quite finished composing what he wants to say when that time comes.

"I have to say I think I've got a lot of that stuff worked out now," he says, adjusting himself in his seat, and drumming out a beat with his hands on the steering wheel again. "And you know what, Bones?"

"What?" Please don't.

"I think I am ready to move on." He gives her a meaningful look across the console. Hoping she understands what he means, he decides to leave it at that.

Bones is quiet. Black tingles going down her spine. Is this it? Is this when he tells me - the reason why he won't touch me? She's paralyzed. Usually she is impervious to such strong feelings of apprehension. Usually, though, she's not easily embarrassed. She's usually NEVER embarrassed. She remains mute in a state of indecision about where to go from here.

Booth sneaks a look toward Bones, trying to determine if what he has said has had **any** impact on her. He can't tell. She's not saying anything.

Finally, she says, "Well that would explain it."

"Explain what?" he says.

"Well, ever since Monday, you've been happy, more energetic, more talkative, more fun to be around. The last number of months with with you have been … a little of a challenge."

"Are you saying I've been a grouch?" This is not what he was expecting her to say.

"I wouldn't use that word."

"What word would you use?"

"Hmm, let's see. **Disgruntled, pained, humorless, intolerant."**

"Listen," he says, feeling a little picked-on. "If you had just gone through what I had gone through … cut me a little slack here, Bones," he says. Then starts up again, "Geez, you know, people usually get to go through their own dramas, and deal with it like a normal human being. A normal human being would do **exactly** what I did, and they wouldn't be scrutinized by those closest to them."

"Sweets says that the people closest to us sometimes irritate us the most. And that that's a good sign."

"Why? A good sign of what - that we have irritating friends?" says Booth, clueless as to where this might be leading.

"What it means, Booth, is that if we have people who are close enough to us to truly irritate us, we should consider ourselves fortunate. It means we have people in our lives who love us. Care about us. Sweets says having people who irritate us is something to aspire to."

She just looks at him.

"Did I irritate you, Bones?" he says.

"Repeatedly," she says, looking him straight in the eyes, dead serious. "Did I, do I, irritate you?"

"On a very regular basis. I set my watch by it," he says, equally as seriously, looking right at her.

This is not an emotional moment, it is a truth moment. A truth they both can stand on. Indisputably.

Finally, she smiles. "I'm glad, Booth."

"Me too," he says.

"Now can we move on from this conversation? I've just realized the reason my phone has not been ringing is that it's set to silent," she says, a confused expression on her face. She never sets it to silent. She scrolls down the display menu.

"I have eight messages!" says Bones.

"Whoa. Who are they from?"

Looking at all the IDs, she says, "Two from Mr. Bray. Three from Cam - she's gonna kill me. One from … Hodgens. Two from Officer Benton," she shakes her head, furrowing her brow. She depresses Cam's number and waits listening to it ringing.

"Bones," says Booth, figuring that Cam hasn't answered yet.

Bones holds up her index finger, signaling for him to wait. "Cam, this is Dr. Brennan. We've interviewed the victim's family and two of the girls who last saw her alive. We have two possible suspects. Call me when you have a moment."

She scrolls down a small list of messages and presses the one with Wendell's name on it.

"Bones?"

She holds up her index finger again, scrambling to grab her bag and the file on Aleesha Grimes, a pen. "Should we send Mr. Bray home? I think he's done everything here we need him to do?"

"We still have to find the rest of that second body."

"Oh, right. How fast do you think we can get the cadaver dogs over to the college? Or maybe we can get the equipment we used to locate the bodies under the fountain last year. Think the HPD has one?"

"No, but the PDP will have a couple. Too late to get them now. We'll have to call them first thing in the morning. I wonder where Officer Benton is right now? We have some interviews to set up for tomorrow. I'll put him in charge of rounding those people up."

"Hodgens' message says he received the remains and the soil samples. Tomorrow should be a very interesting day," she says, her phone to her ear, she looks at Booth as she listens to the next message. "Angela has already scanned every bone into the Angelator and is creating a three dimensional image, identifying which bones belong to Aleesha Grimes, and which are from our second victim. Once she gets the mass spectrometer results from Hodgens' millimeter bone drill samples tomorrow, she'll be able to create a mock-up of the height and size of the second victim."

Booth whistles. "She never ceases to amaze me with what she can do with that Angelator," he says.

"Your phone has been quiet this evening," she says.

"It's usually like this for a little while at this point in the case. In a couple hours, it will be bringing off the wall."

As if the crime-solving gods were listening in on the conversation, Booth's phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket. "It's Enri."

They exchange a glance.

"Booth." He listens for a moment, then, "Yes, it is Aleesha Grimes, Enri. Did you know her … uh huh … uh huh … well calm down … you don't need a lawyer unless you are guilty of something, Enri … Yes … tell Carmen not to worry … yes, the authorities will want to talk to her too … well, I don't want to get into that right now, Enri. Why don't you meet me down at the station first thing tomorrow morning and we can talk … just come by yourself … they will call Carmen when, and if, they do want to talk with her … how about," he looks a question at Bones.

"Eight is fine," she says.

"Eight o'clock, Enri … okay … and listen … you are on the side of truth … you have nothing to worry about … I know … I know … okay … eight o'clock … yeah … g'night."

"He okay?" asks Bones.

"No, he's not okay. Carmen's a mess, he said. Apparently, she babysat for them a couple of times," reports Booth.

"Do you think she could have killed Aleesha?"

"If there's another victim, which it sounds like there is if the squints say all the bones aren't from the same person, then this is less likely a crime of passion - it was something planned. Carmen might have reason for wanting Aleesha dead - but I just don't like her for a multiple homicide."

"I agree," she says, chewing on her bottom lip, energized by the facts of the case even though it is late and it's been a very long day.

"What were you going to ask me?" Bones asks Booth.

"What? When?"

"While I was leaving a message for Cam."

"Oh, right," he says, trying to remember. Bones is more adept at switching between topics and back again than Booth is. he remembers he had a question, but he doesn't think it was about the case. "Oh!"

"There it is!" she says, knowing he's figured it out. This happens a lot between them. "Out with it, partner."

"Do you really think I would be passive and modest in the realm of romantic … activity?"

She laughs at his search for 'non-initimate' verbiage. She scrolls down her menu of calls and decides to phone Hodgens next. She depresses his number and waits for the ring.

Still laughing, she answers Booth's question. "No, Booth. I think you are probably quite skilled," she begins, "and appropriately … assertive, in the art of … making love." She gives him a candid smile, as he pulls into the parking lot of the Bryn Mawr Guest Suites. He smiles back at her and they sit in companionable silence for a moment.

"Hodgens! Dr. Brennan," she says putting the phone back up to her mouth. "Tell me what you know …."


	94. The Woman Who Transformed Anthropology

Note to reviewers: Thank you for taking the time to review The When and the How: A Bone to Pick. If you haven't received a personal thank you message from me, but you'd like to, change your review status so that your reviews are no longer ananymous. Enjoy this next, very brief chapter!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 94 The Woman Who Transformed Anthropology<strong>

"Here, give me your room key," Booth says to Bones as they walk onto their hotel floor. She's on the phone with Cam, giving her the updates from her team.

"Cam, Booth has suggested that if there are two sets of remains it is more likely that this was not personal. That could clear our current suspects, but then again, one of our current suspects could be a serial killer. We don't know anything until we have more facts. What I do find interesting is that these bones have been completely cleared of all matter except the bones, yet the skeleton was arranged exactly as it would have been if Aleesha Grimes has been buried there whole, and then decomposed."

She puts her bag on the floor and singlehandedly searches for her keycard, finds it, and hands it to Booth, while listening to Cam on the other end of the line. Booth unlocks her door as his own phone rings. It's Andrew. He answers and gives the same update to him while turning on the lights in Bones' room. Bones has disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door. Booth unlocks the adjoining door between their rooms and props hers open as he finishes up with Andrew.

Leaving her room, Booth unlocks his room door, flips on all his lights, unlocks the adjoining door between their rooms, props it open, and heads to his own bathroom.

Ten minutes later, as Booth is hanging up the phone after talking to Angela, Bones comes into his room, phone to her ear, in a pair of jogging shorts and a large tee shirt that has her own face screen printed across the left breast pocket. Under her face is printed in a curlique font:

**_Dr. Temperance Brennan  
><em>**_The Woman Who Transformed Anthropology_

Across the back of the tee shirt is screen printed:

**_International Conference of Alternative  
><em>****_Perspectives in the Humanities and the  
><em>****_Social Sciences: Development and Conflict_**

**_Kanchanaburi, Thailand  
><em>_(October 1-5, 2010)_**

"You have GOT to be kidding," says Booth. He then decides that as soon as they get back to D.C. he's going to tape his own photo to his breast pocket and write underneath it in black permanent marker:

**FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth**

**The Standard by Which All Other Aspiring **  
><strong>Sexy FBI Agents are Measured<strong>

He can't decide what will be written on the back, but it will be excellent, even if he has to pay someone to figure out what that will be.


	95. The Rockefeller Schemata

**Chapter 95 The Rockefeller Schemata**

"Okay," says Booth, snapping out of his reverie about his new tee shirt design. "Anything new?"

"Cam says she has never seen remains cleaned like these except when used institutionally. We've already learned that no medical schools, museums, or private organizations are missing a set of remains - or were missing one, much less two, within the last 6 years. At least not in the surrounding area"

"If this is a double homicide, I think we can rule out the possibility of homicide for profit," says Booth.

"Why?"

"Because, if the murderer was taking the bodies to sell the organs, why clean the bones? And why leave the skull with the remains, making identification easy," says Booth, scratching the back of his head. "Why bury them on a college campus? Why not chop them up in a wood chipper and spread them over the petunias?" he says, sounding a bit exasperated. "No," he shakes his head, "the location of the burial was intentional. Hopefully the second set of remains is going to narrow the focus rather than adding a lot more variables.

"I am curious to learn which of the current remains belong to Aleesha and which belong to our second victim …" says Bones.

"If there is no connection between victims one and two, this is not an act of passion, most likely. Once we get the details on the second murder ..." Booth stops, thinking to himself.

"I don't know how you guys do this - all the speculation. I like facts. They are linear and irrefutable. Constant. Much neater."

"Listen - if the first 24 hours of this case are any indication of what the rest is going to be, it's going to get crazy. Once a second victim enters the scene, the possibilities USUALLY multiply exponentially."

"Booth, are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?"

"You got it, Pajama Pants. We go by the facts until we have a significant amount …"

"A preponderance of puzzle pieces …" she says, smiling and nodding.

"Right … good word by the way, preponderance, … and let's keep the speculating to a minimum."

"This is my favorite way to do a case," says Bones, excited to be working a case based almost exclusively on the facts - at least in the beginning. "I'll start putting together the Rockefeller schemata. Two columns?"

**The Rockefeller Schemata** is a tool they developed in their third year as a team. The Rockefeller case involved multiple victims and multiple murderers, all intertwined. Keeping the details and the characters straight was a nightmare until Bones had a brainstorm about how to organize the information, and Booth suggested they formalize their process. Throughout the years they've modified it as they've discovered shortcuts, adding useful components when necessary. For the last two years, Cam has been encouraging them to publish an article on their process.

"Who has the time?" they tell her, usually in unison. In reality, they know they can make the time, but they like having their own private way of doing things, frequently referring to the Rockefeller Schemata as their secret weapon.

"Let the other crack crime-solving teams come up with their **own** magic," Booth comments to Bones after Cam leaves the room every single time she mentions publishing. He usually follows it up in a mock-female voice, "It would be good publicity for the Jeffersonian, and it would show the suits with the wallets that science and law enforcement **CAN** work together to solve crime."

Bones never says anything, but torpedoes a look at Booth that says, "Grow up!" while laughing along with him. Once, as they were both cracking up after such a Cam visit, they heard her yell back to them,** "I HEARD THAT."** Of course, this made them laugh even harder.

This is how Bones would describe the T**he Rockefeller Schemata**: The lists are created in ink - nothing is ever erased. A statement or elimination made today could be refuted tomorrow with the arrival of new evidence. As propositions or suspects do get eliminated, they get crossed off in pencil - which CAN be erased later if necessary. Once an item is heavily substantiated, it is highlighted in green. By the end of the case, the lists are several pages long, and the critical pieces pop out of the detritus like a score card for the game of Clue.

Bones manages the facts; Booth, the cast of characters. Both lists are kept together in a separate folder from the official FBI file. This is their brain on paper. Once the case is completed, they each create a clean copy of the pertinent information from their respective perspectives. Science vs. investigative process.

Bones' file contains scientific reports, photos, drawings, and reference numbers for anthropological articles about processes used, and their reliability. Each document is numbered and ordered with two identifiers at the top of each item. The first number, printed in blue, indicates the temporal order in which the information was obtained, or the research conducted. The second number, printed in red, suggests an effective order, in Bones' opinion, for reviewing the information while building the case for litigation.

Booth's file contains, primarily, the names, photos and police records of the cast of characters, as well as copies of progress reports submitted throughout the duration of the investigation. In the file after that are subpoenas, court orders, crime scene photos, statements, copies of gun licenses and car rental agreements, flight manifests, employee rosters … the list goes on. His file is just as thick as hers - sometimes thicker.

When they come together after the conclusion of a case, each has composed a one page abstract outlining each of their findings. Bones' is very orderly and factual. Booth's report contains facts mixed with the soft data - motivations, betrayals, vendettas.

Finally, they collaborate to create a combined abstract, wrapping the case up in 1,000 words or less. This abstract, and their two files, they turn over to Caroline at the conclusion of the case.


	96. The Plot Twists and Thickens

**Chapter 96 The Plot Twists and Thickens**

"I'll create the cast of characters," says Booth, reaching for the white pad of paper Bones holds out to him." Two columns. Make that three: what they said, what they did, what we think it means, what unanswered questions it raises."

"That's four. Four columns. Our rule is no less then two, no more than three."

"Right. Okay - 1. Name. 2. What they said and did."

"Succinct, Booth. Good job," says Bones.

"Glad you think so, partner …"

"Okay - my list: 1. The scientific facts. 2. What the facts tell us."

They both look at their columns for a moment and begin to fill them in. The silence is broken by what sounds like a baby dinosaur being born. They both look at each other, eyes wide. It's Booth's stomach.

"I ordered some room service, by the way. Did we even eat dinner? I'm starving."

"Thanks! My stomach has been growling as well. I don't think we did eat. Eating wastes time. It's a necessary evil, in my opinion."

Booth just stares at her. He knows better than to get in the way when she's pontificating about lifestyle choices:. Eating, sleeping, exercise, wardrobe choices. If Bones could work 24 hours a day, eating only ice cream, and then only if it is brought to her in a big bowl, she's do it in a heart beat.

Pontificating, thinks Booth, meaning expressing one's opinions in a way considered annoyingly pompous and dogmatic. Good word. Fits.

He lets her wind down, then, "Aren't you going to ask me what I ordered?"

"Nope," she tosses off as she turns to head back into her room for something. "I trust you. You know what I like."

"Huh," he says to himself. "I … am **awesome**," he says, as he stands up doing a fist pump that looks like he's pulling the starter cord on a lawn mower. He continues by jamming on his air guitar as he looks for his suitcase to find more comfortable clothes for the night.

"Wish I already had my Seeley Booth tee shirt made," he says. He then adopts a announcer's voice and says with a flourish, _"Introducing … FBI SPECIAL AGENT SEELEY JOSEPH BOOTH … The STANDARD by Which ALL … OTHER …. ASPIRING SEXY FBI AGENTS are MEASURED!"_ On that last word, he slides into a riff Eddie Van Halen would be impressed by. As he swings the neck of his guitar around, he's met by Bones, who is leaning against their adjoining doorway, arms crossed. Her face is smirking, but her eyes are laughing her ass off. She slowly shakes her head. "There are no words …" she says.

* * *

><p>"Woah, I have a voice mail. How'd I miss that?" says Booth, now sitting on the edge of the bed and dialing his own number. Bones watches as he listens, sitting down in the chair beside the dresserdesk that holds a lamp and a table tent advertising room service until 2AM. She pulls out her laptop, locates Hodgens' email from earlier in the day, and reviews his research into how the bones could have been cleaned. When Booth hangs up, she looks up, expectantly.

"Who was it?" she asks. Booth is looking straight forward and thinking, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed. "Here, listen for yourself," he says, redialing his voice mail and punching the option for speaker phone.

_"Special Agent Booth, sir, this is Officer Benton. When you told me there might be another victim, I got a little excited and called my friend Rosie over at the kennel. Our cadaver dogs stay with her when the Chief is out of town. Rosie brought Petunia over and we took a thorough walk around campus together. Now, Petunia is very good at what she does. She sniffed everywhere, came up clean. If there is a second body, I'll bet you a nickel it ain't here."_ Booth looks at Bones.

"Okay …" says Bones.

"Shh," Booth puts his hand up to quiet her. "There's more."

Booth turns up the volume on the phone, as Benton continues his message.

_"If this thing cuts me off - just call me - anytime,"_ he says, speaking more quickly. Benton is not used to leaving messages on voice mail systems that will record up to a five minute message. He continues, more rapidly still, fearing he will get cut off any moment.

_"Also, sir, got some other information for you. Bob Grimes called. Said to tell the cowboy, I assume that's you, that Babs, his wife did some more looking around in Aleesha's room and found a diary with Aleesha's last boyfriend's name and phone number in it. Also - some indecent photos of the couple … if you know … never mind, that don't matter - okay …"_ Benton pauses, most likely consulting a list.

_"Oh, right! Also, Officer Kenney took over the case from Officer Jezzi Bonzai because she passed away of cancer that fall. What I DON'T understand, sir, is why they would put Officer Kenney, who was a brand new graduate from the academy, on a case like this? There was A LOT of publicity surrounding this case. I remember people complaining HPD was slipping. Well, that explains why protocol wasn't followed about the change in primary. I got Officer Angelus Scarpetti headed out to Laurel first thing in the morning to pick up a … Slade Burup. He's got a record, by the way - but nothing that suggests harming another person. He'll be here in the morning, sir."_

The voice mail clicks off as Benton is giving his phone number.

"Interesting," says Bones.

"Yeah," says Booth. "Why would a high profile case be given to a junior officer?"

Booth looks over at Bones, who raises her eyebrows and shrugs.

"Hodgens has been busy too," she says, looking at her laptop screen. "He's already run the first pass with the mass spectrometer and determined that the patelae match all the other bones Mr. Bray sent, except the femur and the tibia - and, I'm predicting, our extra phalange."

"If we can confirm that we have the right dental records, we can safely say that we have located Aleesha Grimes," says Bones. "However, the femur and tibia are most definitely from someone else. They come from someone who resides closer to the West Coast. Hodgens suggests Oregon, Montana, Washington, Idaho. The mass spectrometer identified geographical markers that indicate a level of arsenic greater than 100 parts per million. Booth, our second victim is from Washington State, the site contaminated by the Antagano Smelting and Refining plant. I testified for a case up there a number of years ago. It has to be the same place."

"Hm. That … is very interesting. Any word on how the bones were cleaned?"

"Ugh - yeah," she says. "According to Hodgens, we can eliminate boiling. Boiling would have left behind traces of chemicals used by the water treatment plant servicing his water source."

"Okay … no boiling. What's the other option?"

Bones looks up at Booth. "It appears the flesh and viscera were eaten … "


	97. We're Finally Getting Somewhere … All of

**Chapter 97 We're Finally Getting Somewhere … All of Us**

_"Did you say eaten?_ Please tell me you didn't say eaten," says Booth, a disgusted expression on his face, his hand to his stomach.

"I wish I could, but this does make sense, Booth," she says, reading through the rest of Hodgens' last email. "He says here that there are minute but distinctive chemical traces of Dermestes maculatus larvae which match the endemism and phenology related to the death of Aleesha Grimes. That means the geography and season when the death occurred," she paraphrases for Booth.

"Okay …"

"However, the femur and tibia have traces of a different type of Dermestidae larvae. This indicates a different geographical area source. This further substantiates the theory that these four bones - the two femora and two tibias with osteoarthritis - come from the northern part of the West Coast," she says, perusing the rest of his email. "Oh, and he says here that it is most likely that the death occurred around June or July five years ago."

"How long does it take dermetitus beetles to completely clean a skeleton?" asks Booth, making a face like he just threw up a little bit in his mouth.

"Hodgens will know the answer to that question. I do know that the life cycle of Dermestes maculatus from egg to larvae to pupae to adult is about 30 to 45 days."

"So how can this be, if we've already determined that these bones were interred within a weak of death?"

"We will have to ask Hodgens about that. He seems certain in his conclusion. What time is it?"

"It's late. It can wait until tomorrow. I wonder how Angela is doing."

"I was just wondering that myself. Didn't you just talk to her on the phone?"

"We were rushed - she was trying to get out the door. She seemed distracted or irritated. I wasn't sure which…"

"She is carrying around a mass greater than a bowling ball in her abdominal cavity, not to mention the gallons of extra blood, the pressure on her bladder, and have you seen what she's been eating lately? The sheer volume …"

"I can imagine. I've been through a pregnancy, remember?"

"I know you're a father of an 8 or 9 year old, Booth, but I just can't picture you in a rocking chair in the middle of the night, cradling a squirmy bundle with little protruding arms and legs - a bottle in one hand and a burp cloth across your shoulder."

"I did it all, Bones," says Booth, getting up to check the contents of the hotel room refrigerator. "They want six bucks for a bottle of water! That's highway robbery!" he shouts.

"I know you did it all, Booth. You've told me about it. Here, I have water in the fridge from our last pit stop," she goes into her room and returns with two 20 oz. bottles of cold water.

"It's not that I CAN'T picture it, Booth," she explains, handing him one of the bottles. "It just gives me an uncomfortable sensation … right here," she says indicating her lungs as she stands in front of him. He's now sitting at the foot of the bed, across from the desk/table. "Or is it here?" she palpatates her abdomen like she's giving herself a medical exam. "This has to be chemical … it's just so odd."

"Hm. I've heard of this, what you're describing … " he says, standing up and placing his fingers in a semi-circle, as if he's holding an invisible orange. He pushes his fingertips into her manubrium, directly below the jugular notch, or the dip at the top of her chest bones. "Does it feel odd here?" he says.

"Yes," she answers, surprised, looking at him like he's a pet that just opened his mouth and said, "Hello, stranger."

He walks behind her and does it again. "Does it feel strange here," he asks, pressing his fingers into her trapezius muscle immediately behind her left shoulder, then her right.

"Yes," she's even more surprised.

"And here, in the area of the deltoids?" he asks, this time pressing his fingers into each deltoid.

"Yes! What the hell is it, Booth?"

"Hmmm. Well …"

"Jesus, Booth, you're worrying me. What_ is_ it?" She's got a pained look on her face.

"Bones, it is possible that you just might be suffering from …" he hesitates. "Wait, did you say it occurred when you were picturing me in a rocking chair holding Parker when he was a baby?"

"Yeah - and I've had it before, this sensation."

"Bones," he says, coming back around to stand in front of her. He links his hands behind her head, resting his forearms on her clavicles and trapezii. He shakes her slightly as he says, "I believe you are experiencing the kind of feeling a person usually experiences when they think they are looking at something they shouldn't." He raises his eyebrows at her, a question. Does she get it?

"You mean … embarrassment? Good lord, not again!"

"Well, let's see. What am I wearing in that image inside your head?"

"Oops," she says, blushing, her hand flies to cover her mouth.

"Okay," he says, raising his head and looking down at her through slitted eyes.

"Well, I didn't realize this before, really … but you're shirtless."

"I would suggest that, on some level, you _were_ aware of it … and it started an involuntary chain reaction, starting in your brain."

"I am aware of it NOW," she says, a fierce blush spreading across her face. "And now I AM embarrassed. Why is that? What's the big deal about a man rocking his child to sleep, even if he is shirtless?"

Booth disengages his arms from around her neck and sits back down on the bed, leaving her still standing, confused.

"Well, it sounds like a very private moment to me," he says, shrugging, and looking up at her.

"God," she says, dropping her forehead into her hand and closing her eyes. What's wrong with me? Am I a voyeur?"

"Why would you be a voyeur?" he asks, with a chuckle.

"Like you said, it's a private moment - even though it's an_ imagined_ one. AGH!"

"Earlier tonight we went through this. Remember what I told you?"

"No?"

"It's called intimacy. You are having an intimate thought - and your brain is sending chemicals into your body as a result, adrenaline or en-dolfins, or whatever they're called, right? You taught me that."

"But Booth, this isn't a **sexual** image …"

"But it** is** an intimate one …"

"Fine," she says, chuckling at herself. "Do you See how hot my face is? I must be completely flushed," she says, turing to look in the mirror hanging over the dresser/desk. "Wow. Look at me!"

"Yes, Bones," he says smiling at her as she turns back to face him. "Look at you," he finishes, leaning back on his arms, smiling at her and holding her gaze for a moment.

"Well … I think we both need to get some sleep before our busy day tomorrow," she says, suddenly feeling nervous, or embarrassed, she's not sure which.

"Right," he says, nodding. He hasn't moved from his position on the bed, nor has he stopped looking at her, smiling.

**"Stop it, Booth!"**

"What? I'm not doing anything," he says, innocently.

"Yes, you are!" she says. "You're staring at me. You are enjoying the unfortunate discomfort resulting from my apparent … embarrassment! Maybe I am having an intimate moment with myself and you should just mind your own business," she suggests, chuckling and hiding her face. "This is ridiculous," she says once again, gathering her notes and walking briskly to her room without looking back.

"Good night!" he shouts to her.

"Good night, yourself!" he hears her shout, still laughing, as she closes the door adjoining their rooms. He hears the lock turn as she bolts the door.

Booth lays back on his bed, sighs one of those big Booth sighs, and smiles. "I am in so much trouble with This One," he says, shaking his head. He closes his eyes, interlocking his fingers across his chest, enjoying the relaxation that only shared humor brings. After a moment, he opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, deep in thought. "She's gettin' there," he says to the empty room, and closes his eyes once again, this time with a serene expression on his face. "She's gettin' there."

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes later, Bones is cleaned and brushed, slipping into the cool, clean sheets of the queen size hotel room bed. She hasn't been able to stop thinking about that odd sensation she had earlier, and how Booth knew exactly where it was … and how to get her to acknowledge what it was. "How does he do that?" she says out loud. How can it be both frightening … and okay? Frightening to experience the sensation, but safe to experience it as long as he's there with her? She realizes that she's barely had any "panic attacks" since they've been together here in Philadelphia. The attacks have mostly been when they are apart. How is it, she asks herself, that he has both a thrilling <em>and<em> a soothing affect on her? How is that? And what does it mean?

"Booth," she whispers into her phone, as if that would make the ringing on his end quieter. He answers almost before the first ring is complete.

"Bones?"

"Yes, of course," she whispers.

"Okay. Why re you whispering?"

"So I won't wake you if you were already asleep."

"Did you hear what you just said?"

" .. I have no excuse," she continues to whisper.

"It would be easier to hear you if you spoke in at a normal volume …"

She clears her throat, "Okay."

"So what's up?"

"We should probably call the officer who is going to Laurel in the morning to pick up Slade. Have him stop by the Grimes' house and get the journal from Cowboy Bob."

"Right. Got it on my list already." he says, sitting up and looking at the clock.

"I was just thinking about how you make me feel safe … even when I'm having these … episodes … of embarrassment," she says, not intending this to be an emotional call, but feeling … something heavy, in her chest. "How do you do that?" she asks, genuinely curious.

"Let's just say," he says slowly. "Let's just say … I'm highly motivated," he says, his gentle smile transmitting over the cell line.

"Oh my." No one said goodbye, they both just hung up quietly, then fell asleep in neighboring hotel rooms.


	98. A Domestic Scene

**Chapter 98 A Domestic Little Scene Before A Really Big Day**

Booth gets out of bed and ducks into the bathroom for his morning constitutional. He hears Bones opening the adjoining door, apparently on the phone, because she's talking rapidly, and pausing between breaths to hear whatever is going on at the other end.

"Don't you ever knock?" he shouts as he kicks the bathroom door closed while still perched on the throne. Luckily, this is one of those hotel bathrooms where the door is opposite the toilet, the sink to one side, the bath/shower to the other.

Looking down, he realizes all he's got on are boxers, which are currently around his ankles. **"Great,"** he says to himself, looking around the bathroom for anything he can use to shield himself from Bones' constant, and sometimes annoying, attention to detail. It wouldn't be such a big deal, except that she has no qualms about evaluating or commenting on whatever she might see. Usually in clinical terms - which have a tendency to come off as unflattering or condescending.

Booth doesn't feel like being a specimen under a microscope this morning, or defending anything he should be able to do in the privacy of his own hotel room. On the flip side of the coin, he's also not interested in putting out any fires this morning except the ones pertaining to the murder case. So - it is best that he find something to de-sexualize his lack of clothing before going back into his room. Like a towel. Or a bath mat. Or, if absolutely necessary, a shower curtain ripped off its rings. He's got nothing. The towels are on a shelf outside the bathroom. The bath is fitted with a sliding door. The floor mat is piled on top of the towels on the shelf outside the door. What he does have, is a face cloth. "Fat lot of good that will do me," he says to his disappointing surroundings.

He stops looking around and pauses to think. Hearing Bones' voice grow louder, he looks at the door knob and realizes that it isn't locked. He panics. **"Copulating donkey turds!"** he says under his breath, kicking his leg up and bracing his foot against the door. Bones has been known to walk in on him in the bathroom before. At least then he was sitting in a tub full of water - not on the throne with his junk dangling in the wind.

"Booth?" she says, her voice getting louder, "Are you in the bathroom?" Speaking into the phone at a slightly lower volume, she says, "Hold on a minute, Angela. I'm trying to find Booth … Yes, I'm in his hotel room, but I don't see him," she says, pausing.

"No!" he yells. "I've gone down to the lobby to get the newspaper - **WHERE DO YOU THINK I AM?"** He pushes harder against the door, hoping he can maintain the brace from a sitting position.

"Ange, can I call you back? I think I found him … Kay … Bye." She hangs up and turns to look at Booth's bathroom door. "Are you okay in there?" She knocks on the door. "Booth?"

"Jesus, Bones! Can't a guy have a little privacy to do his business first thing in the morning?" he shouts at her. Not how he wanted to start his day, held hostage on the toilet.

"Oh, sorry. Want me to wait out here?"

**"NO!"**

"Wha - are you naked in there, Booth?"

"You could say I'm _in flagrante delicto_, Bones, and I'd like to get out of my own bathroom into my own hotel room to collect my own clothes without being observed by my partner who has her own room twenty feet away!"

"Booth?"

**"WHAT?"**

"I don't think that Midieval Latin phrase means what you think it means," she says, referring to _in flagrante delicto_ "Because I don't think you would have used it if you knew …"

"Whatever, Bones. Can I just have a moment of privacy?"

"Should I go back to my room? I'm already dressed and ready to go for the day - but I can step out, if you …"

"YES! That's a fabulous idea," he says, rolling his eyes. **"JUST …. GO!"**

"Okay, I'm going," she says. He hears her volume diminishing as she walks away from his door. "This is me leaving … and closing the door behind me …." he hears the door click shut. Then it clicks open again. "Booth?"

He's bent over now, elbows on his knees, forehead resting on one hand, eyes closed. "For crying out loud, **WHAT?**"

"It's just … how much time do you think you need?"

"I don't know - give me at least fifteen."

"Okay, Booth. It's just … " He doesn't hear the rest of what she says because whatever it is is too quiet and blocked out by the sound of her closing the door once more.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Booth finishes his paper work and shoots out of the bathroom toward the adjoining door, locking it. Fifteen minutes later, to the second, as he's buckling his belt after tying his tie, he hears a knock on the door. He crosses the room to the adjoining door, unlocks it and notices that Bones is sitting across the room on the phone. She waves at him, looks at her watch, and gets up. Continuing her conversation - he figures out that it's Angela again - Bones walks toward and past him into his room. He follows, hearing the knocking once again. He swings around toward the other door, the entrance to his room, and says, "Oh, someone's at the real door."

Bones looks up at him from the foot of his bed where she's now sitting. She shrugs an apology at him, whispers, "It's Angela. She's really upset!" Then she continues the 'I'm-listening-but-I'm-not-really-paying-attention-to-this-conversation-anymore' dance. "Um hum. Yeah. I see your point. Um hum," as she nods into the phone. She nods to Booth and points to the door, mouthing, "Get the door, Booth."

Booth opens the door to find two of the hotel staff, a round table with both ends collapsed, and a rolling cart with what appears to be a hot breakfast under several silver warming domes.

"Good morning, Mr. Booth," they both say. The older of the two says, "May we?" as he gestures toward the interior of the room.

"Sure," says Booth, moving out of the way. The two staff members roll in the table and the cart. They raise and secure the table ends, cover the table with a white tablecloth, and begin laying out a breakfast made for champions. _Crime-solving champions._

"Mr. Booth," the older man says.

"Yes?" says Booth, realizing that he's been standing there watching what they are doing without saying or doing anything.

"Mr. Booth, Mrs. Booth took the liberty of ordering for you." Booth's eye brows shoot up, but the gentleman doesn't notice. Booth, hands on hips, turns to look behind him where Bones is still sitting on the bed. She's deep in conversation and oblivious to what is going on between him and the hotel staff. He turns back to face the gentlemen, relaxes, his left hand resting under his right elbow, his right hand up to his lips, pulling on the bottom one, and covering his delighted smile.

"Here we have …." the gentleman proceeds to uncover several hot plates and a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar. The perfect breakfast. The gentleman takes the last two plates, and looks to Booth. "Mrs. Booth will sit here?" he indicates the place directly across from where he's arranged Booth's meal.

"Sure, " says Booth, not moving, still smiling. The second gentleman has collected the room chairs and brought them to the table. As both gentlemen move back from the table, Booth can't help but think how domestic this all looks. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a twenty dollar bill and places it in the hand of the elder gentleman as they shake hands before they leave.

Bones is still on the phone, so Booth walks over to her and points to table set behind him. She smiles up at him as she nods into the phone. "Okay, Angela. Don't worry about it …"

Booth gently takes the cell phone from Bones' hand, says "Goodbye Angela," and punches the end button. Bones looks up at him, trying to look disturbed, but failing, and follows him to the table, where he pulls out her chair. She sits.

* * *

><p>A couple of states away, Angela realizes she's been hung-up on. By <em>Booth.<em> She has a pretty good idea how that must have played out between Bones and Booth. She fans herself with both hands, trying to cool the oncoming blush. "Wow," she says, smiling, _"that was HOT!"_

Next, she calls Harmonia, hoping to God she's wrong about what she just shared with Bren. Bren didn't seem that upset. Bren hasn't been sharing as much lately about what has gone on between her and Booth ... despite their last couple of conversations. It is clear to Angela that Bren hasn't been completely honest about the night she spent in Booth's bed the night of Vincent's death. But, that's Bren for you.

Angela lights a little candle and sends up a prayer to the universe that a protective bubble be constructed around her best friend and Booth. No one deserves happiness in love like these two, she thinks to herself. Besides, since the last five months of pregnancy have rendered her practically celibate, Angela needs SOMEONE to live vicariously through!

* * *

><p>"Wow - look at this!" Bones says.<p>

"Breakfast for royalty," he says, then pauses. "Mrs. Booth?" he asks, emphasis on "Mrs."

"Is that what they said?" she asks, mortified. "Did they say I said that? Because I did not tell them I was …" she is blushing, feeling caught with her hand in the cookie jar, even though she's truly innocent.

Booth chuckles. "It's okay, Bones. Simmer down." He beams a million watts at her. "Let's eat!"

She thrusts out a heavy sigh, relieved. "Did you see the bacon? I ordered A LOT of bacon for you …" she asks, excited.

"I saw the bacon. I saw A LOT of bacon. You should see the size of the strips - they must be from a mutant pig," he laughs. "I'd like to be _alone_ with this bacon," he says, grinning and raising the silver dome covering the obscene display of cured meat.

"Well," she says, pleased with how it all turned out. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day." She notices he's just looking at her. Not eating, just looking at her.

"What?" she says.

He shakes his head. "Nothing," he says, smiling. Still not eating.

"Stop it and eat," she says, pleased that he's so pleased. "EAT!"


	99. Bones Predicts the Future

**Chapter 99 Bones Predicts the Future**

"Is it at all possible that the femurs and tibias that don't belong to Aleesha Grimes could be bones from an older person?" Booth and Bones are in the Steel Green Metal Chevy Suburban SUV 2WD 1500 LTZ with 326 horses under the hood, heading toward the police station where Enri will be waiting for them. Up at 6AM, they are leaving the hotel at 7:15 and are discussing the plan for the day.

"Anything is possible, Booth. Besides, unless Aleesha Grimes and this other victim were born on the same day at the same hour, minute and second, one of them will technically be older than the other."

"I get that, Bones, but what I'm wondering is if those bones could be from someone, say, anywhere between fifty and eighty years old? From the very beginning you said the osteoarthritis is not common for a person in their twenties. You even said that the arthritis is somewhat advanced. How long does it take osteoarthritis to become advanced?"

"It varies. It is not unreasonable to expect that a person in their twenties could have quite advanced osteoarthritis. Sometimes it takes years to cause pain, sometimes it takes only months. Are you thinking about the description you want to give Washington State?"

"Right."

"Again we will have to wait for confirmation from Hodgens, but it appeared to me that the nutrient foramen of the tibias and the shafts of both femora were consistent with what you would expect to see in comparable bones of someone Aleesha's age. By the age of twenty, bones stop growing and have reached their peak mass. As we get older, they go through changes in morphology and volume. Starting at 35, our bones begin to lose density. These bones - all of them - had not yet begun that process. So at the least, we can assume the other contributor was between the ages of twenty and thirty-five."

"Couldn't you have skipped that whole thing and just told me that?"

"You might want to get your bones checked, Booth. You are getting old," she says, sounding serious.

"What? I'm not **that** old. My bones are fine. You make it sound like I'm heading for the wheel chair!"

"You know what is also possible?"

"What? That my hair is going to start falling out any day now? Actually, I have noticed a little …"

"Focus, Booth. We're talking about the case here. We do not know for sure if the femora and tibias were from a male or female. Hodgens should have that info this morning. His email from last night said that the phenology, which signifies the season during which the Dermestes maculatus were in the larva stage, suggests June or July, early to mid summer, and your hair is fine. Based on your scalp formations, Pops' full head of hair, and your general health, you should have a full crown at least until you're, say, ninety years old."

"Really?" says Booth, pleasantly surprised.

"Uh hum."

Booth makes an impressed and proud face, nodding. "Okay … so, we're looking for a male or female, twenty to thirty-five years old, most likely with osteoarthritis, missing in 2006?"

"Exactly. We are assuming this person was living in Washington at the time of his or her disappearance. Based upon the levels of arsenic present in the bones, the victim was most likely still living, or only very recently transferred from the area of if she was a student at Haverford as well, Booth?" she says, turning to him, alarmed.

"We can't dig up the whole west side of Philadelphia, Bones! We've already had the cadaver dogs out snooping all over the mall where Aleesha was found. I'm having Benton look into getting us a Ground-penetrating Radar for confirmation."

"Well, you may want to look into getting your own GPR. Maybe the FBI could buy you one. Hey, I could write a letter," she says, getting excited, "I could explain to them how useful it would be to have one available to us all the time. Remember how it helped us find the victims of the Harbingers of the New Day scam?"

"Yeah, the GPR and Miss Harmonia. Have you seen her lately?"

"I have," says Bones, smiling out the passenger window. "Angela and I had lunch with her two weeks ago."

"How is she?"

"She seems to be doing fine … still reading Tarot and giving advice."

"That's interesting," says Booth, grimacing and nodding, scratching the five o'clock shadow on his jaw.

"What? That I had lunch with Miss Harmonia? Though I don't subscribe to her brand of … research … I can still enjoy her company. You have to admit we were able to substantiate just about everything she shared with us …"

"Bones - this is an incredible leap for you. I never thought I'd see the day when you would be supporting the dark arts."

"What? I didn't say I believe in Tarot, but I can respect the person," she says, looking back to her notes. Looking up again, she has more to say on the matter. "Booth, It still is just a game. A scientist could tell the future based upon historical and statistical research and careful observation."

"You think so, huh? What's my future?" he challenges her.

"Okay. Based upon research of men your age, in your condition, with your lifestyle, I feel confident making the following** predictions**: You will continue in good health for the next thirty to forty years, though you have a 30% chance of developing some kind of cancer, most likely prostate, in your late sixties or seventies, depending upon your body's enzymes' propensity for converting testosterone into dihydrotestosterone at an unhealthy rate, However, with the newly-developed pharmaceutical support, frequent ejaculation, and continued affinity for sea food, you could put that off until much later."

"Professionally, your income and prestige will increase substantially as you receive recognition for your astounding work, which you will continue to perform with the world's best forensic anthropologist at your side. If you so choose, you will have several opportunities to move up the food chain at the FBI. Personally, well, at your age, you will most likely find a satisfying sexual relationship, eventually, and potentially father another child, depending upon the age of your partner. I mean … your SEXUAL partner. Men statistically have a higher mortality rate as they age, resulting in less competition, so your sexual partner options will increase with time, and you will have the option of choosing a much younger mate. As far as anything else goes … how good are you at the game of Craps?" she asks looking over at him.

"Are you saying the rest is a Crap shoot?"

"Bingo, baby," she says, flipping the file open once again, attempting to appear as if she were highly interested in what is written there.

Booth notices that the file she is staring at is actually up-side down, so he knows she's faking her interest in it.

"Harmonia told you something, didn't she?" he says, looking sideways and goading her.

"What? No!"

"You had your cards read, and she told you something. About your future. Come on, what did she tell you?" he says, teasing her. "Huh?"

Bones smiles and puts him off. "That's none of your business, Booth. Now let's get back to work," she says, feeling the beginnings of expanding capillaries in her cheeks. She goes back to looking at her file, realizes it's upside-down and turns it right side up. Harmonia had predicted that she'd conceive a child within the next twelve months, but she wasn't sharing that with Booth.

"What do you plan to say to Enri?" she asks.

"I'll do what I always do - ask him a lot of questions about the nature of his relationship with Aleesha," he says, sighing, "why he didn't want her accompanying him on that last trip, where he was the day she went missing …"

"Booth, I know you really like Enri. Do you want me to conduct this interview?"

"Let's just see how it goes …"

"Okay. It's your call."

"I know it is," he says, looking over to her, grimacing, and adjusting himself in his seat. He isn't looking forward to this interview.


	100. It's A Girl!

**Chapter 100 It's a Girl!**

"Congratulations, it's a girl!" says Hodgens into the phone. "The femora and radius, at least, are from a girl. I also found substantial concentrations of cadmium and lead contamination in the bones. I looked into arsenic concentrations in Oregon, Montana, Washington, and Idaho. The only location with greater than 100 parts per million of arsenic, PLUS substantial concentrations of cadmium and lead contamination is Washington State, particularly the counties of King, Pierce, Thurston, and Kitsap. Most specifically, Maury Island and South Vashon Island. Apparently, both water and air-born contaminants were found at the highest levels on those islands and anyone living in the area would have very high concentrations of all three of those if they lived there for almost any amount of time."

"Great work, Hodgens."

"It gets even better, Dr. Brennan. I found this information on the King County Health Services website

"_Since 1999, soil samples have been taken at different kinds of locations throughout King County, including forests and beaches, and schools, parks, and childcare centers. Soil contamination varies widely from city to city, neighborhood to neighborhood and even from one side of a property to another." _

"The site also includes reports of the levels of toxins should be able to narrow down where this girl lived or worked almost to the street address."

"Hodgens, have Angela run a check … never mind, I will call her myself. Please inform Cam," she says, pausing to think. "I spent two months one summer during grad school working with a forensic anthropologist In Washington. We were testifying on behalf of the plantiff, who was suing Antagano Smelting and Refining Company for wrongful death. There had been several clusters of cancer in and around that area."

"Who won the case, Dr. Brennan?"

"The company bought off the families and promised to clean up their act, but the damage had already been done. A couple years later, another suit was brought against ASRC with three times the number of plaintiffs."

"Did you testify again?"

"The research and results we had previously conducted were used to close ASRC down for good. I didn't even have to appear. Turns out the top executives and board of directors for ASRC knew all along that they were pumping toxins into the water and air. As long as the buy-offs didn't substantially threaten the profitability of the company, they just didn't care."

"That's big business," says Hodgens. "buying out the little guy who's paying for it with his life. The government was most likely involved. Did you know the government is one of biggest consumers of copper and sdsdsds?"

"I was unaware of that, Hodgens. I'll mention that to Booth."

"It's a conspiracy, I'm tellin' you, man!"

Bones says nothing. "Anything else for me, Hodgens?"

"Yes - La pièce de résistance - It just so happens that King and Kitsap counties are the perfect breeding ground for Dermestidae Plovokitimis, especially in the Spring and Summer months. And you know what that makes me?"

"What?"

"King of the lab."

"Not for that last tidbit of information, Hodgens," she says. "I would hardly say it merits the nomiker "La pièce de résistance."

"What about the geographical findings. Surely those earn me the title for this case?"

"Hodgens, I am impressed with your geographical findings. And for that you may claim this fictional title …"

Raising his free arm and pumping his fist, Hodgens shouts, **"KING OF THE LAB!"**

"I am on my way into an interrogation," begins Brennan, "but after that I'm meeting with Mr. Bray to look at the anomalies he's found: most especially, the extra phalange. We're also getting dental records to confirm that the ones we have are irrefutably Aleesha Grimes'. Once I've looked at this phalange, and the other remains we still have here in Philadelphia, I am having them couriered to you immediately. I want a millimeter drill sample done on this phalange. Let's see what we can learn about where It came from. Hopefully it belongs to our second victim."

"Nice work, Hodgens. enjoy your title, I have a feeling every one of us will have the chance to steal it from you before this case is solved."

"Not a chance, Dr. Brennan. I rule now and I will continue to rule. All you other Lab Monkeys can just kiss my ass …. except you, of course, Dr. Brennan," he says at the last minute, cringing as he realizes he pretty much told his boss to kiss his ass.


	101. The Second Victim

**Chapter 101 The Second Victim: "Banty Solicious" of Washington State**

"Booth, our other victim is a girl," says Bones, covering the mouthpiece of her phone.

"I'm on it," he answers as he pulls into the parking lot of the Township of Haverford Police Department. He calls King County Sheriff's Department and gets Sheriff Sharon Restovich.

"Morning Sheriff Restovich, this is Special Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI, D.C. office. How are you this morning?"

"Good morning, I am doing well, thanks for asking, Special Agent Booth. How may I be of assistance to you today?" She's all business.

"Sheriff, I'm investigating a double homicide that may involve a resident of King County. My partner, forensic anthropolgist, Dr. Temperance Brennan, has identified that some of the remains found here in Philadelphia may be related to a death five or so years ago."

"Is that the same Temperance Brennan who writes the Kathy Reich's novels?" she asks, sounding a little too excited, or stalkery, as Angela would say.

"The very same, Sheriff. I have some details for you. Are you ready to receive?" Booth adopts an authoritative tone. This is not a social call.

"Here's what we are looking for: victim is female, 20-35 years old, missing on or around June of 2006, suffered of osteoarthritis …"

"That's [b]Banty Solicious[/b]," interrupts Sheriff Restovich. "She was a very sad case. The whole state was shaken. She went missing on June 17, 2006. Only child. We found her in a shallow grave at Island Center Forest. She was only three feet down. Sad, sad case. Strange, too …" she says.

"Strange how?"

"The bones had been cleaned - the only was we could identify her was through her dental records."

"Sheriff, that is consistent with what we have found here in Philadelphia. No clothing, artifacts, or soft tissue found with the remains?"

"None," she says, shaken.

"Sheriff, can you send me a copy of the final report? And who was the coroner - I'll need the name and contact information. We may be making a trip up to your corner of the woods."

"I'll do anything I can to be of help, Agent Booth. I assume mom's the word until we are 100% sure?"

"It would be greatly appreciated. Dr. Brennan and I would like to interview family and friends without prior warning."

"I will make it so, sir. I'll have the coroner send you his report ASAP as well."


	102. Who Doesn't Love Donuts?

**Chapter 102 Who Doesn't Love Doughnuts?**

"What is with the people in this case? What the hell kind of name is Banty Solicious? Like Slade and Chica weren't strange enough!" says Booth as they head toward the building.

"Booth, you're just anxious because you have to interrogate your friend," she says, soothingly.

"Bones, this is not an interrogation! This is a conversation, right? We have no probable cause to believe that Enri killed Aleesha. Everything up till now has been hearsay, got that?" Booth snaps at her.

Bones just nods her head and purses her lips, preceding him into the building while he holds the door open for her. She knows from experience that this is not a time for banter, or consolation.

"Enri is over there in the lobby. I'll go get us some coffee and leave you two alone for a little while," says Bones.

Booth, one hand on a hip, the other rubbing his forehead, looks like he's giving himself a pep talk. He takes a deep breath and advances toward the lobby and Dr. Larrinaga.

"Enri," he says, a dire expression on his face.

"Seal," Larrinaga responds. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

"Sure." Booth has made arrangements to have the use of two interrogation rooms, but he leads Enri out the door to the front of the building and into the parking lot.

"Get in," he tells Enri, as he beeps the SUV doors unlocked. Once inside, Booth starts the engine, and sits there. He's looking through the front windshield, thinking about several things at once. Predominantly, how does he break this news to his friend? The news that he has been named as a boyfriend of the deceased, a potential suspect?

Booth backs up and drives out of the parking lot to a Dunkin' Donuts lot across the street. He puts the car in park, but leaves the motor running.

"Here's how it works, Enri," he begins, turning to look him in the eye. "During a murder investigation, we interview everyone we can. We collect as much information as we are absolutely able. We attempt to create a picture of exactly what happened, who the players were, and what role they played in the crime. We look for motivation, proof, and a weapon …"

"I watch San Francisco Crime Investigatos, Seal," says Enri quietly, interrupting him. "I kinda know how this works," Larrinaga continues. "I also know that being pulled into the FBI agent's SUV and getting a chance to talk privately is not part of the drill …" Enri is looking Booth in the eyes. Booth senses no fear in this mans demeanor. He's ready to answer any question, provide witnesses and alibis, place his life under the scrutiny of the FBI, even though it may mean he might lose a new friend in the process.

Booth appreciates the respect Enri is giving him in acknowledging the exception Booth's making by talking to him privately first.

"Look," says Booth, taking the keys out of the ignition and placing them on the console, "I'm not going to lie to you and tell you this is just routine, Enri. You are going to hear some disturbing things this morning." Booth looks out through the front windshield for a moment, reaches in his pocket and pulls out his lucky pair of dice. Rubbing them against each other helps him maintain his calm when he feels … well … not calm.

"The victim was a student of yours," Booth says.

"She was a student of Drs. Hubbard and Bing as well …" interrupts Larrinaga.

"And we are looking into that," says Booth, looking at Larrinaga.

"She was buried next to your telescope - the one you do most of the work with." Booth holds Larrinaga's gaze for a moment. "My advice to you, Enri, is to tell us everything you know. Even what appears to be insignificant. Sometimes it's the minutest details that make a case."

"Thanks, Seal, but I have nothing to hide. My life is an open book …" he says, shaking his head. Booth hopes there is nothing incriminating to be found about Enri. He's heard people make the very same statement, and then, when faced with something damning, heard them say, "Oh, yeah. I forgot about THAT."

"Enri, I cannot lead you during this interrogation. I will not smile. You may not like me very much in the role I have to play here," he warns. "There is a father and a mother out there whose little girl … their baby … their princess - is in pieces. There's not even much left for them to bury, now that she's finally been found. If I seem harsh or rude or anything distasteful - which I may have to, know that I would do the same thing if that was your little Anna whose murder we were trying to solve."

"I get it," says Larrinaga." Am I really a suspect?" asks Larrinaga, looking at Booth's profile. Booth clenches his jaw a couple times. He doesn't look angry … he looks regretful. Booth knew this question was going to come up. He takes a deep breath before answering.

"Yes, you are. My hope is that an hour from now you won't be any longer." They sit in silence for a moment.

"Do I need a lawyer, Seal?"

Booth looks down at his lucky dice before saying anything. "How familiar are you with the legal process, the legal system?"

"Not very, but I'm a fast learner," he says. "Will I look guilty if I get a lawyer?" asks Larrinaga, flatly.

"Not necessarily." Booth looks up at Larrinaga. "If nothing else, a lawyer can explain what is happening and advise you on your rights and due process."

"But if I am innocent, and I have nothing to hide. What then?" asks Larrinaga, shrugging his shoulders, concerned.

"Innocent men get locked up more often than we'd like to admit, Enri, and guilty men are set free. My job is to see that the guilty are charged and taken off the streets."

"So, you're saying I should Lawyer-up?"

Booth holds Larrinaga's gaze. That is all the answer Larrinaga needs.

"Do I need one … today?" Larrinaga asks.

"You'll know when. And if you don't," Booth says, nodding, "I'll tell you."

"You're a good man, Seal." Booth closes his eyes. Please, Lord, prove me right to believe in this guy, he says in prayer.

"I believe you are too, Enri," he says.

They both sit, lost in their own thoughts for a moment.

"We'll most likely be interviewing Carmen later today," says Booth. "Is there somewhere we can reach her?"

"She's going to be home all day," answers Larrinaga. "She;s afraid to leave the house right now. She wants to be there to get any news."

"Okay. Well, Enri, you've heard this before, but I'm going to say it anyway: This is not personal. It really isn't."

"Of course it's not, Seal. You have to do your job."

"And, while this investigation is ongoing, we will not be able to socialize until there is no question that you are no longer a suspect." Why do I feel like I'm breaking up with a girlfriend, Booth asks himself. This sucks.

"I understand."

"I was hoping we'd get a chance to go to another game … or Bones and I could take you and Carmen out to dinner …"

"I was too. When this is all over, Seal, dinner is on you," he says with a hint of a smile. Booth nods.

They sit in silence for a couple more moments. Then Booth looks over at Larrinaga and says, "Do you like doughnuts?"

"Who doesn't like doughnuts?" replies Larrinaga, a half smile on his face.

"Right. Let's get a doughnut."

Five minutes later, they exit Dunkin' Donuts, each with a half-wrapped piece of heaven with a hole in the middle of it. This is their second doughnut each. The first one for each of them as inhaled before the cashier rung up their sale. Booth has a third doughnut nestled inside a little white paper bag with the Dunkin' Donuts logo printed on the front.

"Snack for later?" asks Larrinaga.

"This here is for Bones," says Booth, holding the bag up as he beeps the SUV doors unlocked. "It's her favorite," he says, as a little smile floats across his face. Larrinaga nods in response as they both climb into the SUV.

"You love her, don't you, Seal?" says Larrinaga as he buckles his seat belt. It's a statement more than a question.

Booth looks up at him for a moment, puts the key into the ignition slot without turning it, then he looks back at Enri and says, "I do," and smiles. After a pause, he says it again, "I do."

Enri nods. No expression on his face. "It's mutual, in case there was any doubt …"

"There isn't," replies Booth, giving Larrinaga an appreciative glance.

"Don't wait too long," says Larrinaga.

"I don't plan to," says Booth, smiling a real smile at his friend for the first time in this whole conversation. Booth turns the key, the car starts, and he backs out of the parking slot, exits the lot, and crosses the street into the police department lot. As they walk up the sidewalk toward the front door of the HPD, Booth looks back across the street for a moment and says,"Dnkin' Donuts. Across the street from the police department."

"Kinda cliché, isn't it?" answers Larrinaga, and they both chuckle halfheartedly.

Booth opens the glass door and allows Larrinaga to pass through before him. Bones is waiting in the lobby. She hangs up the phone as they advance toward her.

"Enri," she says calmly, with a somber nod.

"Dr. Brennan. Temp," he nods back.

Bones leads the two men down a hall and into a smallish room with a table and three chairs. There is a window in the wooden door of the room, but no observation mirror. The three pull out chairs and sit down.

"Okay," says Bones. "Let's get started …"


	103. Ballscratching, Gamewatching

**Chapter 103 Ball-scratching, Game-watching, Beer-swilling, Light-your-own-farts-on-fire He-Man Companionship**

While Booth and Larrinaga were talking out in the parking lot, Brennan took the opportunity to call Angela.

"Ange, we have a potential ID on our second victim. King County in Washington State is a direct match based upon Hodgens' toxicology report. Booth's talked to a Sheriff Sharon Restovich out there who believes it could be a young woman who went missing in June of 2006."

"Isn't that pretty much exactly when Aleesha Grimes went missing?," says Angela astonished.

"It is. Actually, they went missing two days apart."

"Shut … up!"

"How could the murderer kill, clean, and bury one person, all within about 24 hours, then appear across the country to repeat it a day later?" Brennan says. "I should suggest to Booth that it's possible we have a team of killers. Boy this case keeps getting more and more complicated."

"Hm. That would make sense - two murderers. Ew, how awful to think there might be TWO of these monsters out there skulking around. It gives me the Heebie Geebies," says Angela with a shudder.

"Is that a real thing, Ange? The Heebie Geebies?"

"No, sweetie. It just means the idea totally grosses me out."

"Oh, okay," says Brennan, nodding her head even though Angela can't see her doing it. "I understand you've scanned all of the bones Mr. Bray sent to the Jeffersonian?"

"Yes, I did. Using the bones we DO have for Aleesha Grimes, I've been able to create a 3D facsimile of her missing femora and tibias. We can then compare these to the real femora and tibias, provided we find them, which we will, because we kick wild, wicked gluteus maximus," she says, laughing.

That is a correct assessment of what we do, Angela, though the squints and I kick mostly innominates, the pelvis bones, but I will concede to your colorful assertion."

"Well, thank you, Bren. So I will continue … I've taken the osteoarthritic bones that we DO have, used an algorithm to estimate the remainder of the dimensions of bachelorette number two, and created a 3D of her as well."

"Good work, Angela. Today is going to be very busy for us here. Is today Thursday?"

"Yes, Bren, today is Thursday.

"Okay - It is my hope to be on a plane back to D.C. tomorrow or Saturday. We have a number of interviews today, including Booth's new friend, Dr. Enrique Larrinaga."

"Ouch, that's gotta hurt. From what you told me, it sounded like those two men bonded a bit."

"I think they really did, Ange."

"You know, Booth needs a good friend …"

"I am a very good friend for Booth, Ange. Why would he need another friend?"

"I'm talking about male camaraderie, Sweetie. You know, fellow ball-scratching, game-watching, beer-swilling, light-your-own-farts-on-fire type of He-Man companionship."

"Well, Ange," says Brennan, taken aback. **"I** drink beer, and I would even be willing to watch a couple of games with Booth if he explains how they are played. However, I **do** have to draw the line at lighting my own farts on fire. That's just not safe … or healthy. And I don't see how it could be fun."

"I noticed you didn't say anything about ball-scratching, Bren," Angela says salaciously.

"Wha … Ange … I guess … that would be negotiable depending on where our relationship is at the time," says Brennan, feeling a little warm in the cheek. "And if you ever tell Booth I said that, I will deny it vehemently!"

"I can just see myself revealing it during my toast at your wedding," she says, knowing Brennan will object to the whole concept of marriage … once again.

"Then I guess you won't be invited to make a toast," threatens Brennan, laughing.

"Who **ARE** you?" demands Angela. "The Bren I know and love would never let a comment about marriage slip by without jumping up on her soapbox and lecturing everyone within ear shot about the inequities of …... Oh, bleh, I've lost interest in my own train of thought. These hormones are really taking a toll on my attention span!" says Angela, waddling over to her couch and trying to lay down comfortably. "No worries. Your ball-scratching secret is safe with me, sweetie."

"Angela - I've been thinking about what you said about Hannah this morning. I still think you are wrong, but your predictions are worrying me."

"Are you going to say anything about it to Booth?"

"If Booth wants to talk about Hannah again, he will in his own time."

"What do you mean, again? Have you guys talked about her recently?"

"We have. That's partly why I don't think you are correct about your suspicions … at least I hope you are not …"

"Sweetie, we can talk about it when you get back. Until then, just enjoy your time out there together."

"Ange, we aren't on vacation - far from it! We are working non-stop from morning till the early hours of the next morning …"

"Sounds romantic," says Angela, grinning ear to ear.

"You are incorrigible, Miss Montenegro!"

"That's why you keep me around, Sweetie Pie!"

After they hung up the phone, Brennan couldn't help but think about the frantic call from Angela this morning. Back at the Jeffersonian, Angela's imagination was working over time. At least, that's what Brennan HOPED was going on. Hannah had visited the lab three more times looking for her. Angela was on the verge of taking out a restraining order on Hannah.

"What is that all about?" Brennan asks herself. "Why is she looking for me? With her out of Booth's life, there is really no good reason Brennan can think of for Hannah to be in contact. Maybe there is some merit to what Angela suspects. After all, who has more experience with these kinds of things? Certainly not me!


	104. Baby Hodgens Isn't Tired

**Chapter 104 Baby Hodgens Isn't Tired At All**

Very early this same morning, Angela can't sleep. This baby is doing calisthenics all over her ribcage and nothing Angela does can calm the baby down. She sits up, disoriented from lack of sleep, and irritated at her progeny. She wished she could simply rip up the baby's rental agreement and evict him or her. Or maybe she can file a complaint with the DCPD for domestic abuse? Somehow she doesn't think the DCPD will have as liberal a sense of humor as her gorgeous, sexy, wonderful, romantic, well-formed and muscled, generous, and oh-my-God fabulous looking in nothing but a towel, she-needs-to-rip-her-own-clothes-off-and-jump-all-over-him, husband, Jack Hodgens.

"I want, I want, I need need need sex!" she says, dropping her forehead into her hands and mock crying. "Or sleep! I don't know which - owwwww - how awful to desperately need both and not be able to chose either! Gal Darn Blasted Copulating Hormones!" She drops backward beside Hodgens and lies there in bed, wide awake, for another half hour, just thinking.

At 4:45 AM, she can't take it anymore. She gets out of bed, showers her swollen body - the parts she can reach, at least - and puts on a bra that looks like something you'd carry two bowling balls around in. Just looking in her closet for something to wear on the bottom half of her body is depressing. "It doesn't really matter what I wear on my bottom half," she says, "I'm not going to be able to see myself in it all day at the Jeffersonian - except in the mirror - and we don't have a mirror at the Jeffersonian big enough to reflect my whole body anyway!"

She drops down onto their king size bed, and watches as Jack's body bounces on the other side from the impact of her weight. She stands up, and sits down forcefully on the bed again, watching Jack closely. Again, he bounces, but doesn't awaken. One more time. She stands up, uses the headboard as a brace, and carefully, clumsily, crawls up onto the bed, then into a standing position. She begins bouncing up and down, without her feet leaving the mattress. When that does nothing to awaken Jack, she jumps up and lands, almost tossing him out of the bed this time.

**"Lord Almighty God and All the Saints Above, grab the jib and mind the port-side, if we don't get this thing upright, she's going under and we'll all drown in this watery grave like our pirate ancestors before us!" screams Jack, in a thick Irish brogue*.**

Angela recognizes that Jack is in the throes of one of his dreams about being a pirate on the open sea. Fortunately for him, he sits up and comes to, right before she splashes a cup of freezing cold water into his face - which is usually how these scenarios end for them. Anything to get this man conscious is fair game. At least, that's Angela's philosophy.

"What? Wha?" he looks around and spies his lovely, succulent, wife, heavy with his child in her belly, sitting on the bed next to him, a dejected and pained expression on her face. He quickly notices that she's wearing a bra and shirt, but absolutely nothing else. This is not the first time this has happened since the baby has gotten this big. Angela hasn't been able to get herself completely dressed without assistance for over a month now, and it's getting old - for her. As far as he's concerned, he would dress her everyday for the rest of her life if it would make that life easier for her.

"Oh, babe, sweetie. What are we wearing today?" he says, standing up and walking toward the wall-length closet filled with fabrics of all colors and textures. He rubs his face vigorously with both hands and looks back toward his wife who is still sitting on their bed. This is the same bed, he muses, the same bed they made this wonderful baby in - or was that the four poster in the Egyptian exhibit, or the broom closet down the hall from Angela's office, or the storage area in the basement of the Jeffersonian Institute between the prehistoric mammal and the Mayan architecture lockers, or maybe it was in that little hidden cove of trees at their favorite picnic spot at the park. Who knows? All that matters is that they made this wonderful baby who is right now making his wife uncomfortable and unhappy.

Noticing that Angela is not stirring from her dejected position, slumped on his side of the bed, he returns and sits down beside her, takes her hand, brings it to his mouth, and kisses it sweetly. He waits for her to say something.

Without even opening her sad eyes, she says, "Oh Jack, I am just … so … tired. I don't even have the energy to cry. And look at my feet!" She sticks a foot out.

"What about them, love," he says, looking at her with adoring, compassionate eyes.

"I don't know WHAT about them because I haven't seen them is so long …." she says, a sob in her voice.

"Oh baby, oh baby, he says pulling her considerable weight over to lean on him. "This will all be over soon and we will be the happiest two people in the whole wide world, present, past or future. Hang in there - you know I would do this for you if I could." He rubs her cheek, the one not leaning on his shoulder, then lifts her face to give her a very warm, very soft, very loving kiss on the lips, then the forehead.

"Jack, what did I ever do to deserve a dear man like you?" she says, smiling, at least.

"Baby - all you had to do was smile the first time, and the world wanted to give you everything. How you got stuck with me, I'll never know," he says, chuckling.

"Oh, Jack," she says, returning the smile and looking into his eyes with love. "Honey, could you just help me get into my panties and leggings? I need to get moving or I will lose my mind!"

"Sure, beautiful woman whom I adore … what's on the menu for today?" he asks looking back toward the closet.

"Oh, I don't even care," she says. "Not like I'm ever going to see it anyway." She makes sad eyes at him again. Jack flips on the music softly. Her favorite song lately seems to calm her so Jack has recorded it twice on a cd and put it on a continuous loop. The song is "Make You Feel My Love" by Adele.

Angela closes her eyes slowly and lets the melody float over her body, relaxing her. Jack takes a look at what Angela's already wearing, and looks for a pair of stretch pants that match one of the deeper jewel tones.

"When the evening shadows and the stars appear

And there is no one there to dry your tears

I could hold you for a million years

To make you feel my love ..."

From the bottom of the bed, Jack lifts one of her feet and slips her clothing onto her ankles. As Angela relaxes with her eyes closed, mouthing the words and smiling gently.

"Ohhhhh, Jack. You know exactly what I need to help me feel better," she says, weakly.

Jack smiles, promising the universe for the millionth time, that he will make it his life's work to ensure that whenever she needs it, he will move mountains to make her feel better.

I'd go hungry, I'd go black and blue

I'd go crawling down the avenue

No, there's nothing that I wouldn't do

To make you feel my love ...

Finally fully dressed, Jack's sneakers tied onto her feet, and most of her breakfast gurgling in the space left available in her stomach, despite her greedy uterus and it's contents, Angela grabs her keys and locks the door. The cool, quiet breeze of the early D.C. morning is feels refreshing on her face and seeping into the clothing lying limply against her hot, swollen body. Once inside her car, she puts the key in the ignition, and realizes for the first time as the dashboard lights flicker on - that it's 5:30 in the morning.

"AGH!" escaped from somewhere inside her. Grabbing the steering wheel, she lays her head on the top of it, rocking it back and forth. Slumping back against her seat, she turns the key and puts the air conditioner on full blast as she backs out of their five car garage and down the winding driveway toward the highway, on the way to the Jeffersonian.

* Brogue - noun [usu. in sing. ] a marked accent, esp. Irish or Scottish, when speaking English : ORIGIN early 18th cent.: perhaps allusively from brogue 1 , referring to the rough footwear of Irish peasants.


	105. Angela Outs Hannah

_A/N Nothing gets past Angela. She's been around the track a couple of times, around the beauty salon many more times. She has an idea of what Hannah might be up to. Let's see ... Enjoy! ~MoxieGirl MoxieGirl44 on Twitter ... check it out!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 105 Angela Outs Hannah<strong>

Once the clock on her desk reflects an hour she feels is reasonable enough, Angela punches speed dial number two, and waits as Brennan's phone rings on the other end.

"Good morning, Angela!" greets her after one and a half rings.

"Is it morning yet, Sweetie?" she says, a drag in her voice.

"Of course it is - you haven't been working all night have you, Angela? You need your rest!"

"Tell this monster eating my insides out!" Angela replies. "He … or she … isn't convinced."

"Up before the sunrise again, Ange? I've only been up half an hour already, but I'm showered, dressed, and ready for a full day of … whatever we'll encounter today."

"Yep," she answers, heaving a heavy sigh. "I been up with the bats and owls," she says, pausing to yawn. "Anyway … Bren … I've been holding off on this because I know you two are busy out there … but I have an update for you on the Hannah situation."

"There's a Hannah situation?" asks Brennan, unsure what Angela is talking about.

"Yes, sweetie! Don't you remember? Booth and Hannah were cuddling at the diner Monday morning. You saw them!"

"Oh, Angela - that was days ago. I can't even remember how many. Besides, Hannah is not my problem."

"But you do realize she's a problem, don't you? I swear she wants to get between you and Booth again."

"What makes you say that, Angela?"

"She has been here THREE TIMES in the last two days. It's like she's on a warpath!"

"Angela, you do understand the meaning of that word, don't you? A warpath is a hostile mood in which a person goes to war against another person," explains Brennan.

"That is EXACTLY what I mean, Bren. How can you be so blind?"

"Angela, you know my limitations when it comes to matters of the heart - and feelings - and human behavior. If I could change that, I would."

"Sweetie, you need a babel fish,*" says Angela, rolling her eyes.

"I know what that is, Angela!' says Brennan excitedly. "I've been reading this book on pop culture and learning quite a few very interesting things. The babel fish is a fictitious creature created by Douglass Adams for his comedic series titled "The Hitchhikers Guide To The Universe." The babel fish is a universal translator!If I had one, Angela, it would instantaneously translate for me what I currently lack, which is a highly developed sense of emotional intelligence."

"Emotional what?" asks Angela, shaking her head and grimacing.

"Emotional intelligence, Angela," says Brennan. "Commonly referred to in the vernacular as 'EI.' It means "The ability to perceive emotion, integrate emotion to facilitate thought, understand emotions, and to regulate emotions to promote personal growth."

"Oh," says Angela, deciding not to go there. "It sounds like you just said something scientific - but I think I got it. EI is people smarts, right?"

"Bingo, baby," replies Brennan, quite pleased with her ability to make herself clear without having to revert to metaphor or colloquial epithets.

"Right," says Angela, but it comes out with a tone that sounds more like, "You are so strange!"

"So what's up, Angela? You said there's a Hannah situation?"

"Well, I've been concerned about …" begins Angela. She can hear what sounds like Brennan walking around on the other side.

"Hold on a minute, Angela. I'm trying to find Booth." Angela listens as Brennan says something, but not to her. "Booth?" she hears Brennan call out. "Are you in the bathroom?"

"Where _ARE_ you?" says Angela. "Are you in Booth's hotel room this early in the morning?" she asks with wonder and great interest, her eyes widening and a smile spreading across her face.

"Yes, I'm in his hotel room, but I don't see him," she says, pausing.

Then Angela hears Booth's muffled voice, sounding strained or stressed. "No! I've gone down to the lobby to get the newspaper - WHERE DO YOU THINK I AM?"

Then she hears what sounds like a loud door knock. Later, much later, Brennan will explain to her that what she heard was Booth bracing the bathroom door closed with his foot to keep her out.

"Ange, can I call you back? I think I found him …"

"Sure, sweetie, I'll be right here. I have no where else to go …"

"Kay … Bye."

* * *

><p>Four minutes later, Angela's phone rings. She sets down her bowl of chocolate ice ream with Heath Bar crunchies and butterscotch syrup poured over the top, and answers the phone before the first ring stops sounding.<p>

"Okay, Angela. There has to be an important reason why you called me this early in the morning. Do I really want to know about this 'Hannah Situation?" she asks, skeptically.

"A smart woman would," is Angela's reply. "A word of advice, Bren, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer."

"I don't think I know what that means, Ange."

"Trust me, you want to know about the Hannah Situation," stated Angela sagely, raising a heaping spoonful of ice cream to her mouth and closing her eyes as she closes her lips over it.

"Okay … better tell me what's going on," says Brennan, resigned to the inevitable.

"Sit down, Sweetie and just let me spill …"

"Okay," says Brennan, "But be warned, I only have about fifteen minutes until Booth is going to be ready."

"No sweat, sweetheart," replies Angela, as she launches into her theory about Hannah's frequent, frantic visits to the Jeffersonian, looking for Brennan. "I'm tellin' you, Bren, she wants to lay claim on Booth. It's a common ploy among the more devious of our fairer sex."

"Um, okay - what do you mean?"

"When a woman, meaning Hannah, who's had a previous claim on a man, meaning Booth, feels intimidated by another woman, meaning you, who is currently enjoying her ex's attention - even if the deal hasn't been sealed yet, if you know what I mean …" says Angela, salaciously, "She can go a little psycho."

"Yes, if by the deal not yet being sealed you mean that this new woman, meaning me, has not yet had sexual intercourse with the other woman's, meaning Hannah, ex lover, meaning Booth …. than, yes, I do know what you mean."

"Good job. Stay with me here."

"I'll do my best …" says Brennan, sitting down on the chair by the desk in her hotel room.

"Okay - the old girlfriend, Hannah …"

"I know who you mean now, Ange. You don't need to clarify any longer."

"Thanks, I was starting to confuse myself," says Angela, holding her bowl up to her lips and spilling the final syrupy tablespoonful of melted ice cream into her mouth. She grabs a Kleenex and wipes her chin and lips, ready to hunker down and tell all to her dear, uninformed friend.

"Okay - here's my theory - I'll use all the correct names whenever possible. That will be easier."

"GET ON WITH IT!"

"Okay - don't get cranky with me, I'm just the messenger!"

"Sorry - guess I'm getting a little concerned …"

"Kay - Hannah has gone into competitive mode. She wants to plant doubt in your mind. You are the competition, as far as she's concerned. I think she wants to talk with you to let it SLIP that she and Booth have been getting together lately - whether that's true or not - and that their relationship is back on track."

"Sometimes a desperate ex girlfriend may even feign concern for who she sees as the interloper** - that's you."

"What do you mean, 'feign concern'?" asks Brennan, very suspiciously.

"Oh, she might say something like -_ "Booth is just being nice to you because he knows you have feelings for him - and you were once very close - but don't interpret his feelings as anything more than platonic because we are very much together … Booth would never tell you this - he wouldn't want to hurt your feelings. But as your friend, I thought you should know. I'd hate to see you getting hurt all over again … "_

Angela caps it off with a "bla bla bla … gag me with a spoon. Got it?"

"Holy manipulating, copulating, butt-sniffing tallywanker!" Brennan slaps a hand over her mouth, mortified that she actually said that out loud. She looks toward the adjoining hotel room door, praying Booth didn't hear her. She breaks out in a sweat, takes a deep breath, and forcibly regains her calm.

It is clear to Angela that she finally has Brennan's full attention, so she continues, "The whole point of this exercise is to create doubt in YOUR mind and FRICTION between you and the subject of both of your and her affections, meaning Booth, of course."

"What? Why?" she says, disgusted. "What makes her think this will work?" asks Brennan.

"What makes her think it will work is the simple fact that is usually does! That's why I am TELLING you all this - do you think I ENJOY watching you being played like a cheap piano?"

"Angela, you are such a drama queen and I'M nobody's piano."

"Okay. Just listen to me and think about it. It's best to be prepared during wartime."

Angela imagines Brennan rolling her eyes at her war metaphor, but she trudges right a long.

"Hannah's hope is that you will then begin acting strange toward the Booth – perhaps even angry – or better yet, you just disappear out of his reach without saying why. The man, Booth, is always clueless at this point, so he makes up his own story about why you're wigging out. This is when the viper*** makes her move. The viper is Hannah."

"I figured that, Ange."

"Right. The viper puts herself conveniently in the presence of the man, and acts as an interpreter for him, explaining your bizarre behavior, professing to have some kind of secret female insight that "everyone knows."

"Yowsa."

"You got it, baby …"

"Woman are wiley and vicious. I had no idea they could be this calculating in anything other than academic pursuit or competition for grant money."

"Riiiiiiight," says Angela, continuing. "So, once the competitor distances herself - meaning you, the viper is there to comfort the masculine object of her affections, rebuild his self-esteem – and – why not? It is easy to fall back into old patterns. The guy sometimes succumbs to her feminine wiles, and she finesses herself back into his bed, swearing to herself that she will do anything within her power to maintain her position there."

"How does the man not figure this all out?" asks Brennan.

"Because in matters of the heart, men usually think with an organ way further down the anatomy. Think about it, Bren, in the face of getting the cold shoulder from his new love interest, a man can begin to lose confidence. Sometimes the last thing he wants is to confront her and invite painful confirmation from this new woman. He doesn't want to hear that she's just isn't that in to him," she says, pausing to take a breath. "What's sad is that the new woman, you, is usually totally into him!"

"Dang."

"Yeah," says Angela, "And what's worse, rarely does she ever go to him with what the viper told her."

"That's absurd. That is the first place this new woman should go … that's what I would do…"

Angela says nothing - letting Brennan actually HEAR what she herself just said.

"But what if what the viper, I mean Hannah. what if what Hannah says is true? How do you know if she's lying?" she asks.

"You don't for sure. You gotta go with your gut. Unless you confront – in which case, again , you're inviting pain and heartache if she had been telling the truth."

"I'd rather have the pain and heartache and get on with my life then abandon someone I love based on hearsay …"

"Well, that's the other side of the coin. What is most likely, Brennan, is that Hannah's full of crap and there is no substance to what she's told you. She's basically described to you what she WISHES were true …"

"Holy blistering monkey balls, Angela. That's just absurd. If this is what being perceptive and vulnerable and intuitive, I see no real value – actually I find that I want nothing to do with it."

"Well, honey, if she's coming to deliver the death blow, I wanted you to be prepared. You can't run away from her forever."

"I'm NOT running away from her – I am out of town working. With Booth. Besides, you know me well enough to know that I don't run away from before I kick her gleuteous maximus. I need to do some research first. I need evidence."

Booth opens their adjoining door. He's dressed and looking very fine in his suit and tie. When she looks at him, she wonders if any of this could possibly be true. Booth has ALWAYS been straight with her … in his actions as well as with his words. His actions and words since Monday appear to be the complete opposite of what she would expect if Angela was right._ I AM SO CONFUSED!_she shouts to herself.

"What are you thinking, Bren?" asks Angela.

"Um hum. Yeah. I see your point. Um hum," says Brennan, nodding into the phone. She nods to Booth and points to the door, mouthing, "Get the door, Booth."

Brennan is lost in thought as Angela rambles on about something unimportant. This is a lot to think about, thinks Brennan. Thank God I can compartmentalize. This nasty information is getting locked away until we get home. I am not letting unsubstantiated theory get in the way of our relationship until I have proof and can ask Booth about it.

And here is Booth, standing in front of her, a beautiful breakfast laid out behind him. She wants him. She wants to not have to ask him about this Hannah crap … so she won't. Not now.

"Go get 'em tiger," she says smiling as she brings the ice cream bowl back up to her mouth and licks the inside of the bowl. "Oh, and beware, Bren, … remember that the viper will pretend to be your friend …

"Goodbye Angela," Booth interrupts Angela mid-sentence as he takes the phone out of Bones' hand and punches the end button. Bones looks up at him, trying to look disturbed, but failing, and follows him to the table, where he pulls out her chair. She sits.

Angela realizes she's been hung-up on. By Booth. She hopes with all she's got that Brennan talks to Booth and he tells her Hannah is a lying sack of hot buffalo manure.

Thinking of Booth taking the phone out of Brennan's hands and hanging up the phone for her puts a wicked little smile on Angela's face. She fans herself with both hands, trying to cool the oncoming blush. "Wow," she says, smiling, "that was HOT!"

* * *

><p>* The Babel fish is small, yellow, leech-like, and probably the oddest thing in the universe. It feeds on brain wave energy, absorbing all unconscious frequencies and then excreting telepathically a translation of whatever language it comes into contact with. If you stick one in your ear, you can instantly understand anything said to you in any form of language. Whether or not it can translate human behavior for Brennan is debatable, but wouldn't it be great if it could? I got most of this definition from Wikipedia.<br>** Interloper - noun  
>a person who becomes involved in a place or situation where they are not wanted or are considered not to belong.<p>

*** Viper - noun  
>a seemingly harmless little snake that is particularly venomous, with large hinged fangs.<p>

* * *

><p>So, how about that? have you ever seen this dynamic between women? What did you think of this chapter? Let me know! Thanks!<p> 


	106. A Doofus, A Journal, A Person of Interes

**Chapter 106 A Doofus, A Journal, and A Person of Interest**

Enri enters the interview room first. Bones, following Booth into the room, tugs on his arm to indicate that she has to talk to him for a moment before he goes in there.

"Booth – a moment?"

"What's up?" he asks looking back at her. Seeing the look on her face, he leans back into the room and says to Larrinaga, "We'll be just a moment."

Booth follows Bones out the door and they walk ten feet down the hallway.

"Man, I just want to get this over with," he says to her, shaking his head and kicking something on the floor with the tip of his shoe.

"I know, I know," she says. She looks at him for a moment. Her arms across her chest, her head tilted to the side, she stands very close to him, but at a 45 degree angle, taking Sweet's advice about giving a vulnerable man his space. He's still looking at his shoes.

"While you and Enri were having your talk in the parking lot, Officer Benton called with an update."

"What'd he say?" he says without taking his eyes off his shoe.

"They have Slade in custody," she speaks quietly and without emotion. "Apparently he made a run for it, but the arresting Officer got him as he was trying to get over the fence surrounding the apartment complex."

"Doofus. Did they actually arrest him? We just wanted to question him."

"Suspicion of stolen property. His apartment was FULL of brand new equipment. Looked like Computer City in there. Benton said not to expect to see Slade until later this afternoon. Scarlati is making Slade sort through a room full of files to come up with proof of ownership for all his stuff.

"Okay - what about the journal?"

"Officer Scarlati stopped over at Cowboy Bob's house before visiting Slade. He picked up Aleesha's journal," she says, opening her bag.

"Wait a minute, did you say Officer Scarlati?" he says, his foot now still, he looks up at her.

"That's what Benton said. Why?" she says, curious, stopping her search of the bag.

"I know that name," says Booth, playing with his bottom lip, thinking. He closes his eyes for a moment, then looks up at her, a look of recognition in his eyes. "I DO know Officer Scarlati. He's a friend of Enri's. He and Enri picked me up at the airport after I got stopped by security …"

Bones, looks up at him, then down at his lapel, thinking … "Does that compromise the evidence, anything retrieved from the Grimes'?"

"It could. We'll have to wait and see. Wonder how many people know they are friends?" he says.

"That's a rhetorical question question, right?" Booth nods, playing with his lip again, then scratching his jawline.

"Call Bob and Babs. Get a run down on how the pick up went. Doesn't matter which one you talk to … tell them it's usual procedure, protocol, checks and balances, that kind of thing. Bob will respect that."

"Okay," says Bones, making mental notes.

"Find out exactly what they turned over - have them describe it. Color, size, approximate number of pages. Had any pages been ripped out? Was there anything stuffed between the pages - notes, photos, string, anything. What condition was it in? Was it water damaged - anything you can think of ..."

"Booth, I have it right here," she says, pulling her hand out of her bag and showing him the six inch square, purple gingham covered notebook. The evidence bag containing it crinkles. Booth stares at it.

"I thought you said Scarlati was still with Slade in Laurel?"

"He is. When Slade took off, Scarlati called for back up. Once Slade was in custody, Scarlati gave the Grimes' items to one of the backup officers and told him to turn on his cherries and get this back to Benton at Haverford. He was adamant that the guy not pass any GO signs or stop at the bank to pick up two hundred dollars … what ever that means.

"Monopoly talk," says Booth, absentmindedly. "It means, go directly - no detours, except to urinate, and you better be standing for that."

"Hm. Fascinating," she says, looking at him for a moment and nodding slowly. "Take a look at this, Booth," she says, refocusing and removing the journal from the bag and offering it to him opened to a page half-way through. He notices for the first time that she has a latex glove on her right hand, the hand turning the pages. She rests the journal on the evidence bag without touching the fabric cover.

Booth looks at Bones. The look expresses his thoughts: Do I really want to see this? Do I REALLY want to see this? As in – tell me this isn't going to be upsetting.

Bones gives a 'go ahead' nod. She hands the book to him, pulls a latex glove form her bag, and drops it on the opened book he's balancing in one hand. She then occupies herself looking at her own shoes for a moment.

Booth flips through a couple of pages. It looks like any teenage girl's diary. In fact, the first entry must have been made when Aleesha was twelve or thirteen. And there it is - the first journal entry date in the upper right hand corner of the first page: January 26th, 1998.

"How much you wanna bet her birthday was January 25th or 26th?" asks Booth.

"What makes you say that?"

"Look at the date of the first entry - the journal was a birthday gift …. yeah - says so right here." The first half of the journal has entries every few days and is written in large colorful penmanship with drawings and doodles. From the middle to the end, the entries are months and then years apart, and the writing becomes increasingly smaller, more controlled, written almost exclusively in blue ink. The last thirty or so pages contain entries spaced a month or two apart for a couple of years. The final entry date is June 10, 2006.

"There's also this …" she says, as if she'd almost forgotten. From her bag she pulls a much smaller evidence bag containing something small and gold, and two more identical evidence bags, each containing a flat, 4x6" piece of paper. Booth, looks at her, his eyebrows raised. He takes the three evidence bags and puts them in his breast pocket.

While Booth gets lost in the journal, Bones opens the door to the room where Enri is waiting and enters, closing the door quietly behind herself.


	107. A Little Stresses, Are We?

**Chapter 107 A Little Stressed, Are We?**

Larrinaga looks up as Brennan quietly enters the room. His face looks like that of a man awaiting the biopsy results from a suspicious growth found on his prostate. While he's been alone in this little room, the worst possible scenario has been bouncing around in his head, causing his palms to sweat, and his bowels to decide there's no time like the present to make a quick messy evacuation.

Already he is concluding from Booth and Bones' demeanor, that this is not going to be pretty or easy. He hopes he can get through it without freaking out or losing his temper. He's already starting to feel defensive. Gall-darned-poke-you-in-the-butt-till-you-scream-like-a-fat-pig government! I just know they are going to flap this up. An upstanding, middle class man doesn't stand a chance – no matter what the truth is! Wouldn't you know it, some baby-kissing, dick-yanking, extramaritally copulating politician will have to make some ridiculous example … or some butt hole CEO with an ax to grind will throw integrity and decency to the dogs to save his company's stock value … AND some frightened skank of a teenager will lie to the police in order to hide her infidelity from a boyfriend. Somehow, the pooch is going to get screwed in all this - and I'M the scrotum-kicking, poop-flinging, tallywanking idiot POOCH in this ridiculous scenario.

For 42 years I have kept my nose clean … for what? What will happen to Carmen and the kids? Will they believe in my innocence? Will they stand by me? Will I lose everything in a legal battle trying to keep myself out of jail? I saw the _The Fugitive_ and _The Negotiator_. I read Turow's Presumed Innocent! I know how this shit goes down.

I'm going to need a really good lawyer.

"Are you okay, Dr. Larrinaga?" says, Brennan. Larrinaga looks like he's losing a battle with his breakfast.

"Am I okay?" he says. "Am I OKAY? No - I'm decidedly NOT okay, Dr. Brennan. My former student, former research assistant - what's left of her at least - has been dug up in the back yard of my observatory on the eve of what should have been a very exciting day for me. My wife has loaded a Pez Dispenser with Valium, and called her parents, her PARENTS, to come stay with us for an indeterminate amount of time. The doughnuts I ate just moments ago have already putrified in my gut, and what hasn't already exited my system in the form of gaseous flatulence is threatening to soil my drawers if I don't get to the can in the next three minutes. Oh, and I'm worried about what it will do to my sense of dignity to become some tattooed, sweaty, fat bald guy's B$#% in a maximum security prison on some God forsaken island somewhere! NO, DR. BRENNAN. I AM NOT OKAY!"

"Can I offer you some water, or maybe some coffee?"

Larrinaga's right eye lid begins to twitch uncontrollably as he stares at her. "HOW ABOUT YOU ESCORT ME TO THE FRICKIN' CAN, LADY?"

"Okey Dokey, then," she says, waving her hand in front of her face. The green haze from his irritable bowel has made it across the table to her. "Let's see if we can get you to the restroom."

She turns back toward the door and yells, "BOOTH!"


	108. HazMat At Your Service

**Chapter 108 HazMat, At Your Service**

After Booth escorts Larrinaga to the bathroom, he finds Bones in the lobby.

"We're moving our interrogation to that second room they have reserved for us," she says, hanging up her phone. "And Benton is putting all of your requests into action as we speak."

"Thanks. You're awesome," he says smiling at her. "Why are there two guys in HazMat suits coming out of our interview room?"

"Don't ask," she says, but changes her mind when she sees his concerned expression. "Okay. Let's just say those doughnuts you guys had this morning … they didn't agree with Enri's digestive system …"

"Well, he's under an extraordinary amount of stress … That'll do it to a person."

"Yeah, but I may never go into a Dunkin' Donuts again …" she says, chuckling.

"Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, will ever get between me and Dunkin' Donuts," says Booth, laughing now, too.

"Then you better stay away from interview room two for a couple hours …" she says.

* * *

><p>Standing outside their new interview room, Booth gets quiet. Serious. Bones puts her hand ontop of his when he reaches for the doorknob and looks at his face, grimacing. It's the "How are you doing" look. They lock eyes for about fifty seconds. Booth is grimacing too; Bones is nodding ever so slightly. They've been together so long they don't have to say it anymore. Their exchange is a mixture of these messages:<p>

_1. This is what our job is_  
><em>2. We're just looking for the truth<em>  
><em>3. No one is immune<em>  
><em>4. You never know what even the best people will do out of desperation<em>  
><em>5. The world is not safe until the murderer is caught, no matter who it is<em>  
><em>6. This will be over soon.<em>  
><em>7. I believe in you<em>

He smiles gratitude at her, leans over and kisses her quickly on the lips without removing his hand from the doorknob. "I needed that," he says, then looks forward and opens the door. He doesn't hear her when she quietly says, "Glad to be of service," behind his back as she follows him into the room, glad he isn't looking at her, because she has turned a lovely shade of crimson.


	109. The Nature in the Relationship

**Chapter 109 The Nature In The Relationship**

"Enri," says Booth, sitting across from him in the new, pristine room, "What is … was the nature of your relationship with Aleesha Grimes?"

"Well, I met her when she was a freshman in one of my physics classes - a one hundred level lecture course. The next year she chose physics as a minor and asked me to be her advisor for that."

"That was in 2004, that she asked you to be her advisor?" confirms Booth.

"Yes. The 2004-2005 school year. She didn't act like a very bright kid, but she had the guns when it came to math, science and technology," he says. "Every year I use a portion of my grant budget to fund one or two student assistants. I hired Aleesha as one of my student assistants in February of 2005. At that point our relationship became more employer-employee, on top of being her advisor."

"What kind of work did she perform for you?"

"I had her reduce data collected with a radio telescope. Easy stuff for a person of her ability."

Booth and Bones exchange a glance.

"Do we even want to ask what that means, Enri?"

"No," he says. "Boring stuff for Muggles like yourselves, if you'll pardon the Harry Potter reference. Reducing data is basically crunching numbers … rounding nubmers, plotting numbers. Boring stuff even to most astronomers. The results were part of my doctoral thesis which I continue to update."

"Did that require a lot of one on one time?" asks Booth, thankful that more of an explanation of her work was not necessary.

"No. I was always in my office or class, and she was down the hall in the computer lab. Occasionally she'd come to my office with results or a question. We did a lot of emailing. Some days I didn't see her at all. She was a fast worker. I was happy to have her. Bright kid."

"Was that the extent of your relationship?" asks Bones.

"Well, once she'd done quite a bit of the reducing, and I felt confident she was ready for more challenging work, I had her edit a poster I was presenting at the Alliance for Astronomical Analysis, the Triple A, that Spring. She also accompanied me along with another student worker to that conference later that same spring."

"Where was that conference held, Enri?"

"Germany. Berlin."

Booth's eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. "That's pretty far to take a student."

"It is. I was fortunate to take two students that year. It's a good opportunity for our brighter students to meet other professors … other students. If you want the name of my other student worker that went with us, I can get all of that for you."

"We will need that later, Enri. Do you still have all the emails that passed between you and Aleesha?"

"I back everything up. Professors can't be too careful when it comes to proper conduct with students of the opposite sex. We attend an inservice every fall about how to protect ourselves against potential accusations of sexual impropriety."

"Is it possible for a person with your technical expertise to doctor historical files of, say, emails, text messages …"

"Seal, it is possible to do anything with enough determination, patience, and time. Could I do it? Yeah. Would I do it? No. Why would I?"

"To cover up a clandestine relationship between yourself and a student," suggests Bones.

Booth shoots her a harsh look. She shrugs her shoulders back at him.

"Look, like I said, anyone could do it. To avoid getting caught you just have to be smarter than the person trying to figure out if you did it or not," he says with a wink and a smile.

This guy is almost too willing to provide information, thinks Booth. I'm not sure yet which way this is going to go … maybe he is a psychopath - a very good one. Remember Zach Addy … ? I'll have to bounce this off Bones later …

"So is THAT the extent of your relationship with Aleesha?" Bones again.

"Well, to be truthful, there were two other trips she went on with me for research or to attend Triple A over the next year and a half. AND - she babysat Anna and Jack for us a couple times."

"Is that unusal for a student and a teacher to have a relationship that that includes babysitting, work study, and exotic trips?"

"These were hardly exotic trips …"

"Where else were they?"

"Let's see … Puerto Rico, Arizona … hot, high altitude places."

"Hm," both Bones and Booth grunt at once.

"Look, in a department as small as ours, in a school as small as ours, it is not unlikely that students and teachers mix on a number of levels. That is part of the benefit of paying exorbitant amounts of money to send your kids to a more exclusive college. They get a lot of exposure and great experience."

"I have to say, I had similar experiences and relationships with the professors at both my undergraduate and doctoral institutions, Booth," says Bones.

"Yeah - Dr. Michael Stires - your old anthropology advisor - and we all know how well that turned out," says Booth under his breath."

"This is true," says Bones. "Enri, did you ever have sexual intercourse with Aleesha Grimes?"

"What?" Larrinaga answers, an unbelieving look on his face.

"Bones! Way to be subtle," Booth looks at her - she glares back at him.

"Sex. Did you have sex with Aleesha Grimes. It's an easy question," she says, staring him in the eyes.

"Of course not!"

"Even the kind of non-sex that ruined Clinton's reputation?" she continues.

"Not any kind of sex! With Aleesha Grimes or any other student! And the jury is still out about whether or not Bill Clinton's reputation was ruined by his dicking around. We'll have to wait until our children's history books are published to figure that one out …"

"If you say so …" says Booth. "Moving right along. Anything else we should know about your interactions with Aleesha?"

"Well, she attended all student-faculty picnics - we have those twice yearly - and she frequently accompanied me and one or two other students to the observatory on Paylor Mountain about 45 minutes from campus."

"Did you all drive together out to Paylor Mountain?"

"Yes, I'd reserve the college minivan and we'd go together. I'd pick the students up and we'd carpool."

"You drove all the way out to Laurel to get her?"

"No - they all lived here on campus."

"Was there ever a time when the two of you were completely alone, Enri?"

"Sure - out observing in Arizona and Puerto Rico. There are always other people around, but you can be sitting alone for hours. Our work is done during the night - when our objects are observable in the sky. The observatories are fairly quiet then.

"What do you do when you are observing?"

"Lots of setting up the telescope to capture data, then waiting a while, then setting it up again, checking what you got, waiting again. While we're sitting around waiting we talk, play cards, mostly talk. Sometimes I skype with Carmen,if it's not too late."

"Do you recall ever having a suggestive conversation with Aleesha, Enri?"

Larrinaga thinks for a moment. "What do you mean by suggestive?" he says, "Never mind - I can tell you that there was never anything that could in ANY way be considered suggestive. Of anything."

"Do you recall ever touching Aleesha, hugging her?"

"No. You can ask my wife, I'm not a real touchy guy. Except with my own wife and kids …"

"Did you ever give her any gifts? Write her any letters?"

"We are strictly forbidden to give gifts or anything that could be misconstrued as one. That includes letters, as far as I am concerned."

The questions continue for another half hour while Booth lulls Larrinaga into a false sense of security before he hits him with the more provocative questions - except for the bomb Bones already dropped about sex. After a brief break, and a call to Wendell, the three start up again.

"Enri, as far as you are aware, did Aleesha have a boyfriend at any time while you were associated with her?"

"From what I recall …" he starts then pauses. "From what I remember, she had two while she was my student. The first was that first year we knew each other. There was some guy she was hung up on, but it must have ended badly because she was pessimistic and depressed for quite a while after they stopped seeing each other. Then I think she must have had a dry spell for a while because she she started hanging around our department and eventually declared physics as her minor. Sometimes she'd show up at my office with a picnic lunch packed and invite me to go sit on the mall with her. Or she'd bring her lunch and eat it in my office while I worked. I felt kind of sorry for her …"

"Would you say that you spent more time with her than any of your other students?"

"Sure, I guess you could say that," Enri admits, an apologetic expression on his face.

"Enri," begins Booth, "did anyone ever comment, even as a joke, that there was something going on between the two of you that was less than professional?"

"Jesus, not that I'm aware of," he answers, like he's never thought of this before.

"And you never touched her?" asks Bones.

"No! I already said that! What have you heard?"

That was an interesting response, Bones' eyes tell Booth when he looks in her direction.

"What do you think we might have heard?" asks Booth, turning the question around on him.

Larrinaga shakes his head, throws his hands up in the air in an exaggerated shrug, and drops them on the table in front of himself.

"Okay," says Booth, looking at his own hands and pretending to study a fingernail. "Would it surprise you to know that Aleesha's girfriends and parents were under the impression that you were her boyfriend?"

The blood draining from is face, Enri whispers, "What?"

"And, in fact, that your little trips out of town were for the purposes of 'research,' but not the kind that gets published in academic journals."

"Agent Booth means that you planned these trips in order to have uninterrupted sexual intercourse without being observed by anyone who knows either of you."

Booth slowly turns his head toward Bones and gives her a hard stare, shaking his head resignedly. He turns and faces Larrinaga once again, closely watching Larrinaga's reaction.

Larrinaga swallows audibly. "This is a joke, right? This has to be a joke …" Larrinaga's face was so devoid of blood at this point that he was practically fluorescent blue.


	110. Is That Your Story?

**Chapter 110 Is That Your Story?**

"Aleesha's parents gave us the journal Aleesha kept during her last couple of years," states Booth. "On May 12th, 2005, she writes,

_ "Had picnic with EL again today. We spread a blanket under the tree  
><em>_ on the mall and had strawberries, grapes, salad, wine …"_

"Do you know what she's referring to here?"

"Yeah - she brought all that stuff and set it up. I had no idea until she showed up at my office. SHE had wine - I never drink anything except diet Coke and Mountain Dew during the day!"

"Has she ever been to your house?"

"Just to babysit."

"And how did that come about?"

"As usual, I placed an ad in the college paper and she saw it, and offered to do it for us. She'd already met Carmen by then. Carmen visits me at school a lot, she and the kids. We only had Jack when Carmen asked Aleesha to sit for us the first time. We had her over at least once before Anna was born. Aleesha was our backup until Carmen's mom could get here the day Anna was born. That's why we were looking for a sitter in the first place."

"How well did Carmen know Aleesha before she started babysitting for you?"

"Carmen likes to show up unannounced at my office. She's met most of my students that way. She comes with lunch, or at the end of the day and we walk home together. She had plenty of opportunities to see Aleesha well before we hired her. Once we ran into Aleesha while we were out on a walk getting ice cream. While I took Jack to the restroom to clean up the ice cream all over his face and hands, carmen and Aleesha had about a twenty minute conversation out on the sidewalk. They seemed to get along pretty well …"

"Interesting …"

"Carmen is a fairly accomplished woman in her own right. It hasn't been an easy transition for her to be home full time with the kids. I think that's why she likes to get out and visit my office a lot. She's always straightening the photos on my desk … the photos on the shelves behind my desk. Always bringing new photos … leaving me little love notes on my desk …" he says, fondly. "She engages my students in conversation … she's even stopped into my lectures. A couple of times she's opened the lecture hall door and thrust the kids into the aisle. She knows when they see me they'll come running to the front squealing. The students do get a kick out of seeing them, but I think they like a break from the lecture even more."

"Enri," says Booth, leaning back in his chair, "Would you describe Carmen as the jealous type?"

Larrinaga gets an introspective look on his face. "Like I said, Seal, she has a master's degree. She's accomplished in her own right. And you've seen her, she's beautiful … well, she is to me, anyway. Why would she be jealous? What on earth would she be jealous of?"

"The question isn't whether or not she's accomplished or beautiful, Enri. The question was, is she the jealous type? Jealousy doesn't have to be logical. It seldom is," says Booth, leaning forward again.

Larrinaga starts to say something, but stops himself. Then shakes his head, furrowing his brow and looking from Booth to Bones, then back to Booth.

"What? What is it, Enri? What were you going to say? We can only help you if you tell us everything …" says Booth.

"Seal, it doesn't make sense to me, but Carmen has teased me about our wedding picture before."

"What do you mean?"

"I keep a portrait of Carmen on my desk. She's in her wedding dress and veil. She's leaning against a tree with the breeze blowing her hair back. She's in the middle of a wonderful laugh. I love that photo …" says Larrinaga, smiling and relaxing. "Anyway, Carmen always tells me I should have that photo facing toward the guest chairs across the desk from me so that my female students can see what a happily married man I am. I always tell her that the photo is for ME, not my students," he says. "I don't know what the big deal is …"

"Hm," grunts Booth, looking over at Bones, then back to Larrinaga.

"Enri, do you own any cuff links?"

"Huh?"

"Cuff links. For the cuffs of a tux or expensive suit."

"Oh, yeah. One pair. I got them for our wedding."

"Do you know where they are?"

"Um. They used to be in a mug on the top of my dresser. I haven't seen them in a while, but then I haven't looked for them either."

"Can you describe them for me?"

"Well, they are gold-plated. Square or rectangular, with a bevel, like on a plaque."

"Anything unique or remarkable about them?"

"Like … oh! They are engraved with our monogram. You know, small capital 'E', large capital 'L', small capital 'C'. A monogram for the two of us. It stands for Enrique and Carmen Larrinaga. Like I said, they were for our wedding."

"Enri, have you ever been the victim of a robbery, a home invasion?"

"Geez, no - at least not that I am aware of … this is going all over the board, Seal. What are you getting at?"

"When was the last time you saw those cuff links?"

"I have no idea. I don't have much of a use for them in my line of work. Why?"

Booth reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out the smallest evidence bag, puts it on the table, and slides it over in front of Larrinaga. "Do these look familiar?"

"Those are them! Did Carmen give these to you? What does this have to do with anything?"

"Do you know what Dermestes Maculatus beetles are used for?"

"Dermestes? I think for cleaning the skulls of animals. Biology has a colony of them. I'm from the midwest - hunting country. Lots of people out in the country have their own colonies."

"Do you know how a person could get a colony of Dermestes Maculatus ?"

"I don't know - get some from a friend - or a pet store. Or the same place people get everything else these days - off the internet!"

"Have you ever used them for anything?"

"Not professionally, if that's what you mean. I don't hunt myself. Susan in biology did let me put a half-eaten hot dog in there one day to see what would happen."

"What happened?"

"I thought it would be like a swarm of Piranhas, but they wouldn't touch it until it dried out. That took about a day. Once it was almost beef jerky, they devoured it within a couple of hours."

Booth leans over to Bones and whispers in her ear. She has to ask him to repeat his request twice because the first time, his breath sends a shiver down her neck, ruining her concentration. "Go call Carmen and set up a time for us to visit her this afternoon. I'll meet you in the lobby in about twenty."

Bones nods, gets up to go make the call. Feeling devilish, she decides to get him back for the distracting kiss earlier and the whispering in her ear which felt more like a nuzzle - or was that her imagination? She needs something to whisper back into his ear, to give him a taste of his own medicine. She turns around and returns to the table, puts her hand on his left shoulder, leaning her breast into his right shoulder, and lays her right hand on his right bicep, which she feels him flex in response. She whispers onto his neck more than into his ear, something that sounds like _"I think I forgot my panties."_

**"WHAT?"** he says, turing beat red and whipping around to face her. "What did you just say?" he says, an alarmed expression on his confused face. He attempts to regain his composure by coughing and playing with his tie.

She smiles, knowing this is terrible to do to him in the middle of an interview - but what the hell? She leans back down, gripping his bicep even more firmly, and whispers behind his ear, "If we have time, let's eat at Granny's," referring to the cafe down the street from the police department. Squeezing his arm, and receiving a responding flex, she straightens up and leaves the room without looking back. "Gotcha," she says under her breath.

* * *

><p>"You haven't said why you have my cuff links yet," says Larrinaga.<p>

"Aleesha's parents found these in her bedroom along with her journal ... and these," says Booth as he retrieves the two remaining evidence bags from his breast pocket. These each contain a photo. The first is of a group of five people - two of which are Aleesha and Larrinaga. It appears to be a social event at a bar or a restaurant. In the photo, Aleesha has her arm thrown over Larrinaga's neck and she's chewing on his ear. Larrinaga is laughing with his mouth open and his head leaning into her as she nuzzles him. The second photo - showing just the two of them - is of them dancing nose to nose on a dance floor surrounded by colorful hanging paper lanterns ... somewhere tropical.

Larrinaga is speechless. And very guilty-looking. Or confused.

"Have you ever been to Laurel, MD, Enri?"

"No," he says, without looking up. He has to say it twice because the first time it comes out like a dry heave.

"How about Washington state? Have you ever been to the Puget Sound area?"

Looking up, Larrinaga pauses, his face now beet red, along with his neck. "Yes, I have."

"Do you recall when?"

"Um. June 2006."

"Interesting," says Booth. "You're gonna want to get that lawyer now."


	111. Panty Raid

**Chapter 111 Panty Raid**

"Seal, these are … I don't know how …" he's shaking his head slowly, looking between the photos and Booth, then back.

"Are you going to try to tell me that's not you?"

"No - that's me," he says, "But I never did those things … I don't know how you got these photos." Shaking his head, he looks up at Booth. "Can I call Carmen?"

"You're going to be here for a while. We'd like to talk to her first, then you can call her," Booth says, pushing himself back from the table and rising. "I hope this all shakes out, Enri. I hope there's a good reason for all this. But I gotta tell you, it ain't looking real good at this point."

"Seal," he begins, shaking his head and standing, "None of this means anything. Is there any kind of proof that I had anything … ANYTHING … to do with Aleesha's death?"

Taking the FBI file from where Bones had left it sitting on the seat of her chair, he pulls out several glossy 8X10 crime scene photos, tosses them in front of Larrinaga so they spread out in a lop-sided, macabre fan across the table.

"Aleesha's death? This is what is left … of Aleesha Grimes, Enri. Perhaps you've seen the pictures in the paper? There's not a scrap of flesh left on her. Someone … removed everything but the white from her bones, Enri. They even stole several of her bones and scattered them across the United States. Her parents can't even bury her properly. Can you imagine what this must be like for Bob and Barbara Grimes?"

* * *

><p>"Hey, slow down!" says Booth to Bones on their way to Granny's for lunch.<p>

"AGH! What are you doing?" Yelps Bones as she feels the back of her blouse being yanked up out of her pants and replaced by something warm and soft, but firm. She turns around quickly, almost knocking Booth over, and finds herself wrapped in the arm attached to the wandering fingers which are now flat against the bare skin of her lower back, below the waistband of her slacks. Saying nothing, but maintaining eye contact, he pulls her closer and slides his fingers down further toward the rise of her Gluteus Maximus. "Booth - what the hell?" she says excited and blushing, alarmed.

"Just checking for something," he says, finding what he is looking for and giving it a tug, enough for her to feel it where it counts.

"Oh! Hey!" she says, nervously, but not objecting or trying to get away. She feels the rush of hot adrenaline that being this close to him creates in her blood stream, to say nothing of the warm sensation in the location he just applied friction to by tugging on her panties.

His hand no longer searching, it's also no longer moving. But it is, without a doubt, generating some heat. As Bones takes a labored breath in and her chest rises, they are belly to belly, breast to chest, but a centimeter apart, not touching. She wonders if she may be in way over her head. Her revenge is backfiring. Then again … isn't this what she has been wanting all along? Wanting and nervous about at the same time? Maybe this is what it takes to get the fire started. I think I am going to faint or explode, she thinks.

His hand still not moving, but with enough purchase that he can do with her what he intends, he quickly squeezes her to him, just firmly enough for her to feel the length of his warm body against hers as he whispers into her hair, "You're way out of your league, sister."

This sounds like a challenge. A red flag in the face of a raging bull.

As his lips are still breathing out his last word into her hair, she says, as calmly as he did, "We'll see about that,"

Booth releases her, and continues to walk down the sidewalk toward Grannies. She follows, one step behind him, until he slows so they are walking side-by-side.

She definitely didn't forget her panties, and now she won't be able to think of anything else, he thinks to himself, a satisfied smile worming it's way across his face.

"Smirk all you want, MISTER," she says. "You have no idea what you are getting yourself into …" No gauntlet in her possession, she'd like to slap him across the face with those same panties he only moments ago confirmed she was wearing.


	112. A Table for Two At Granny

**Chapter 112 A Table for Two at Granny's**

Seated at a small table on the patio of Granny's Homestyle Good Cookin', Booth and Bones sit adjacent to each other, him at her left side, their faces hiding behind menus that are half the size of the cafe table in front of them.

"What did Enri have to say about the photos?" asks Bones, not looking away from the choices on the salad page of the menu.

"Hm?" says Booth, looking up from the 'Steak 'N Fixins" page.

"Booth … " she looks at him with a sly grin. "Are you having a hard time focusing?"

"Not at all," he says, trying unsuccessfully to hide his own sly grin, but still not looking away from the menu. "Look at this, they have Ambrosia Burgers!"

"The photos? Of Larrinaga?" she says, looking back at her own menu. I can play it cool, too, she thinks.

"Is that really what you want to talk about?"

"What else would I want to talk about?"

"Oh, I don't know, your future modeling career … perhaps?" he says, flicking a look up at her then back down, the grin finally breaking completely free and displaying itself across his face.

Bones looks confused, then remembers the panties she was wearing the night he put her in her pajamas. A laugh erupts from her throat as a flash fire climbs up both cheeks. Without even thinking, she leans the top of her menu against her forehead to hide her embarrassment. The flush creeping up her neck is more from enjoyment of this Cat And Mouse game than true embarrassment. Hm, she thinks, maybe embarrassment and pleasure are two sides of the same coin.

"Interesting," she says, thoughtfully, out loud, and begins fanning herself with the enormous menu.

"What's that?" says Booth, finally closing his menu and placing it on the table, leaning back in his chair, and looking around the restaurant for the first time. He's trying not to look directly at her for fear of what she might say next, and what that might do to his concentration.

"I was just thinking," she says, laying her menu down, "that perhaps embarrassment and pleasure are two sides of the same coin …" she says, leaning back and raising one eye brow, focusing her attention on him until he meets her gaze. When he does, she winks at him, and smiles, hoping it curls his toes or, better yet, messes with his circulation.

"Eooooh. You're good," he says, putting his sunglasses on and chuckling, pulling on the knees of his pants so he can sit more comfortably.

"Hey!" she says, "That's cheating!"

Booth, lowers his sunglasses a half inch for a moment and looks at her. "Feel free to put on your own sunglasses, if you don't want me reading your every thought …"

That brings up images of Hannah for both of them and both cool down a couple of degrees. Hannah still has Bones' sun glasses.

"Booth, you just ruined a perfectly titillating flirtation," she says, somewhat disgusted.

"Sorry - it was out of my mouth before I realized that Hannah has your sunglasses." And there go a couple more degrees. Why did I have to say her name out loud? he asks himself.

Bones sighs. "Oh well." She picks up her menu and opens it to the salad page, then lays it back on the table. "You don't really think you can read my mind, do you?" she asks. "Because that is a biological impossibility. Thoughts are not like a soup of sentences swimming around in our brains. And it is anatomically impossible to see inside someone's brain through their eyes - without a PET scan - and then it's not really through their eyes …"

"Ah, but I know you well enough …" he says, standing up and dragging his chair even closer to hers so they are practically bumping elbows. He sits back down and begins again. "After working with you for six years, learning your habits, your quirks, putting up with your anthropology lessons …" his voice gets quieter so she has to lean in to hear what he's saying. "… holding you when you are overwhelmed, protecting you from harm, being protected by you … " he leans even closer to her and looks straight in her eyes. Their faces only inches from each other now, and he knows that she's hanging on his every word. Moving only his eyes, he looks down at her lips, then to her jawline, then up at her forehead, her eye brows and back to her eyes, which are as beautiful and as clear as the blue waters of Bermuda. He takes all of her in and sighs. "Knowing you, Bones, as well as I do … better than I know any other person in this world … I think I can tell what you are thinking … right now" he says, his voice is barely above a whisper, as he looks again at her lips, then slowly back up to her eyes.

Bones can barely breathe. The tension is so thick that the air is probably crackling around them. She looks into his beautiful, warm eyes, then down to his bottom lip that she can't wait to sink her teeth into. She leans her head slightly to the left and appreciates his nearly perfect zygomatic process, sphenoid, and temporal bones, in other words, his cheek bones. She looks back up into his eyes, which haven't stopped looking at her, as she is looking at him.

"Then … what … am … I … thinking … right … now?" she mouths more than whispers, because she can hardly make a sound.

"You …" he starts, considering her, "are thinking that you'd like me to kiss you …" he says, his eyes smiling into hers.

"Yes," she says, almost inaudibly.

With his left hand, Booth sinks his fingers into the hair behind her right ear, his palm pinning the top half of her ear against her head. As he leans in, closing the two inch gap between them, she closes her eyes, and waits while time stands still. At the very last second, he veers to the right and presses his lips against her cheek long enough for her to lean her face onto his. Cheek to hot cheek, cheek bone to soft cheek bone, she can't lift her head because it weighs a ton and she feels like crying. Her eyes still closed, she rubs her cheek against his. The grazing of his five o'clock shadow against her cheek intoxicates her even more. Her eyes never opening, she whispers toward his ear, "You are killing me, Seeley Booth."

Booth, who hasn't yet opened his eyes and is struggling with his own impulse to pick her up and run for the closest hotel, or hell, the closest broom closet, whispers back to her, "I told you you were out of your league." After a moment more of simply enjoying the feeling of her skin on his, he pulls away a tiny bit, and kisses her again on the cheek, closer to her ear this time.

"I think it's time we had that relationship talk," he says, putting his sun glasses back on.

Bones sits still, dazed. She still feels like crying. It must be the overdose of adrenaline in my bloodstream, she thinks, not even listening to her own thoughts. She swallows.

"Really?" she says, no expression on her face. She clears her throat and comes around, realizing what he just said. She turns to Booth and gently takes the sunglasses from his face. His arms are crossed in front of himself, his elbows resting on the menu in front of him. He rests his chin on his shoulder and leans toward her, a gentle smile in his eyes.

"Really," he says, without breaking eye contact. "Really. However, for right now, today, I'm going to have to invoke the Footie Note. We really need to get these interviews done and get back home."

"The Footie Note?" she says, a confused expression on her face.

"The note you left me inside those wonderful fuzzy blue footies you gave me at the airport when I left to fly out here."

"OOOoooh," she says, nodding. "You got that, huh?"

He nods. "Uh huh." He smiles sitting up again.

She blushes all over again. It took a lot for her to give him that note. She looks down.

"I can't tell you how much that meant to me, Bones," he says.

"I … I'm glad," she smiles, shyly. "I've never done anything like that before. It felt a little foolish. But …" Sweets thought it was a good idea and a very good exercise in trust, she thinks, but decides not to say. She doesn't want to invite anyone else into this conversation, this private conversation between her and Booth.

"It wasn't foolish at all, Bones," says Booth, leaning back in his chair.

"Okay," she says taking a deep breath. Then, "Booth, please don't take this the wrong way, but I have lost my appetite and I'd really like to get back to the station and make some calls before we head out to see Carmen."

"Okay," he says, not surprised. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I am. I really am. I just don't think I can eat now. Do you mind?"

"If you don't mind if I stay here and eat - nothing ruins my appetite."

"No. You stay here - I'll see you back at the station in …" she looks at her watch, "say … 45?"

"Perfect."

"Thank you," she says, smiling at him a smile that lets him know she really is okay. "Really, thank you. For everything. It was a wonderful lunch," she says. He knows she's not joking.

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes after she leaves the table, the waiter approaches Booth with a manilla folder in his hands.<p>

"Sir?" says the waiter.

"Yes?"

"Your lady friend asked me to give this to you before you leave," he says, handing over one of the Aleesha Grimes files. Booth notices that it doesn't lie flat on the table. Curious, he peeks inside the folder and finds a silky, pink pair of panties matching the pair Bones had been wearing when he put her in her pajamas. But this pair says,

_"Give an Anthropologist a Bone,_  
><em>and she'll know exactly what to do with it."<em>

Booth chokes on his Ambrosia Burger and decides he's finished with lunch. "Check please!"


	113. Dark Chocolate, Practically a Health Foo

**Chapter 113 Dark Chocolate, It's Practically a Health Food**

As he's fast walking back to the station, Bones' voice sings out from Booth's pants pocket.

_"Girls Just wanna have fu-un!"_

Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he pulls out the panties and the phone under them. Silky pink panties with delicate ruffles around the waist and leg holes being made for slide-ability, not traction, do not allow for successful grippage of small electronic devices. The phone goes flying out of Booth's panty-covered hand and flips vertically to an impressive height, and long enough for Booth to shove the panties into his other pocket and grab the phone out of the air with his lightening quick reflexes. As fast as a flea, he thinks to himself. Thank God I didn't have that thing on vibrate or the contents of may pocket might have ignited, things in that area already being

"Bones!" he says, answering.

"Yes, it's me. Don't you still use my Cyndi Lauper phone ring?"

"I do - but I almost didn't catch the phone. It went sliding out of my hand as I …. never mind - what's up?"

"Mr. Bray came by and we conferred over the bones we've kept here in Philadelphia. I find that I'm troubles by this extra phalange. Upon close inspection, I noticed that this bone, unlike all the others, is more brittle, is lacking in mass and sheen. I predict the tensile of this bone is not what it should be for a person in their early 20s. A better preserved bone has a small amount of give. This one would snap in two if I tried to bend it."

"What does that mean?" says Booth looking both ways to cross the street still a block from the station.

"I don't know for sure - it could mean a number of things. One possibility is that it is, in fact, the bone from a person in their early 20's, but it has been subjected to the elements. Unprotected bones will blanch and deteriorate much more quickly than those which have been protected either by conventional burial, or, as in the case of Aleesha Grimes, protected within a moist, dark, compacted environment. Her remains were buried five to six feet under the ground, deeply enough that surface impact did not speed deterioration."

"Surface impact, what do you mean by that?"

"If the remains had been only a foot down, activity on the surface such as people walking around, bandstands being erected, grounds maintenance machinery … one foot of soil wouldn't insulate their remains enough for them to remain as pristine and whole as they are."

"Okay - say, I'm almost to the station … "

"That was fast - is speed eating one of your new super powers?" asks Bones chuckling.

"No - though some days that would be helpful. No, Bones. I got distracted, thanks to you," he says trying to sound irritated, but ending up smiling sheepishly, kicking something on the sidewalk and thrusting his hand into his pocket without thinking. "Oh Geez!" he says, his hand coming into contact with a pocket full of silky thick polyester. He jams the fabric to the bottom of his pocket, hoping that will keep it from falling out at an inopportune moment.

"As I was saying," he says, continuing, "While I'm out here, do you want me to pick you up something at the deli? I believe they have salads. Oh! Looks like they might have those portobello mushroom sandwiches you like."

"Mm. That does sound good. I'm starting to get my appetite back, I think. See if they can put some provolone, red peppers, arugula, and a balsamic vinaigrette on it. And can I have it on focaccia bread?"

"I'm not sure if they take custom orders, but I'll check," says Booth.

"And see if they have chocolate. Of any kind. Dark if possible - dark has the most antioxidants. Did you know they are trying to prove that dark chocolate has many of the same benefits as dark vegetables?"

"Hold on. Hold on, Bones, you want dark chocolate on this mushroom sandwich? That's not gonna …"

"No, no, no. Don't be absurd, Booth. By itself. Like as dessert. It's also a very good palate cleanser. And it can lower your blood pressure. You should eat more dark chocolate, Booth."

"What? You worried about my blood pressure now?"

"I'd be concerned about the heart health of anyone I care about who has a high stress profession, not just you."

"Okay thanks, Bones. Way to make me feel special," he says, teasing her.

"Wha ..? Can we just focus please?"

"That's usually my line …"

"Well, you've obviously lost your focus for the time being … someone's gotta keep us on track!"

"Okay, okay, okay," he says, distracted because it's his turn to order. He details Bones' request for the vendor, and is surprised when he tells him he can give her everything she wants. Wish life were that simple, he thinks to himself. "Whole wheat," Bones hears him say to the man. "And do you by chance have any dark chocolate? … Oh - great! You just made me a hero for the day!" she hears him tell the vendor.

Okay, Bones. Go ahead. He's making you everything you wanted, heh. Where were we?" he says stepping away from the vendor's counter and resuming their conversation.

"Um. Oh, also, Aleesha's bones were close enough to the surface at just five to six feet that the received the benefit of moisture slowly seeping down through the soil. Another ten feet and we could have had a different story."

"So what do you make of this?"

"Like I said, I do not know. As soon as Hodgens …"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah …" Booth says, cutting her off. "As soon as Hodgens can use his special thermometer thing-a-mabob on it - we'll know more."

"Precisely - but it's called a mass spectrometer, Booth."

"Whatever. What else have you discovered?"

"Nothing else on the bones front. Mr. Bray is taking the 3 o'clock flight out and will have the bones to Hodgens by 6PM."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. I just saw Slade Burup being brought in by an officer - probably Officer Scarpeti. He's being put in interview room two."

"Great. When do we see Carmen?" he asks, adding a second dark chocolate bar to his order and paying the vendor. "Keep the change, buddy," he says walking away.

"She's having the neighbor take the kids at one o'clock. She can see us then or anytime after."

"Let's go see her first. That turd, Slade," he drags the name out to emphasize the silliness of it, "with the stolen property record, can sweat it out for a while. I'll bring the SUV up to the door. Anything to drink?"

"Already got it covered, but thanks."

"Sure. I should be at the door in three."

"One more thing," she says, detaining him.

"Yeah?"

"Officer Benton was here - said everything checked out over a the grimes' house. Everything about the Scarpeti journal pick-up checks out. No tampering by Scarpeti. Officer Benton said Scarpeti is a stand-up guy. Though I don't know why he had to mention that. I am sure the guy can stand up, I saw him walking with my own two eyes only moments before Benton made the comment."

"Stand-up guy', Bones, means he's trustworthy."

"Ah hah. Okay," she says, sounding impressed and enlightened.

"Benton is wondering if we have come up with the cause of death yet, by the way," she says distractedly, as she gathers her bag, the remaining files, the Rockefeller Schemata.

"That's your department. I'm in the car."

"Well, these things can't be rushed. Many non bone-related causes of death are possible. After a cursory examination of the remains, and a review of Mr. Bray's notes, I have yet to form a hypothesis, and you know I don't form opinions …" she says.

"About things anthropological, at least," says Booth sarcastically.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing! I'm pulling up. Where are you?"

"I'm on my way. Cam is running a toxicology screen as we speak. That will be quite helpful in ruling some causes of death out, at the very least. Are you saying I'm opinionated, Booth."

"Look, it's part of the human condition …" he says. "I'm hanging up now" he says in a sing-song voice and pushes the End button.

Seeing her on the sidewalk, he can't help noticing that the prospect of just being near her makes everything a little better in his world. He smiles, looking forward to … whatever's gonna happen next.


	114. Hell Hath No Fury

**Chapter 114 Hell Hath No Fury**

"So what's the other possibility?" asks Booth as Bones buckles her seat belt.

"You know what's scary?" she asks back, picking up and opening the white paper lunch bag sitting on the console between them. "Ummm. This smells heavenly."

"What?" he says, pulling away from the curb and weaving his way into the left lane of the street so he can make a left turn at the intersection ahead. "What's scary?"

"What's scary is that I know exactly what you're talking about. It's like the conversation on the phone is still going on."

"It IS still going on. Hey, could you try not to let that drip on the … what are you doing?" he yelps as she shoves the sandwich in his direction. "I can't hold this portobello focaccia sandwich … which is dripping all over the place … and drive at the same time."

Bones is digging in the bag for some napkins. "They forgot to put napkins in the bag! They **forgot** napkins." she lifts the bag up, looking under it, then rifles through the bag once more as if doing so would make the napkins appear. "You can't sell someone a delicious, juicy portobello sandwich on focaccia - which is porous and riddled with pockets of air waiting to be saturated with … **AGH!** … and **not** give them napkins …" she's still looking.

"Bones, if they are not there - they are **not** there. What do you have in your purse? You have to have something in there you can wipe this stuff off with?"

She looks. "Nothing." she stares forward, thinking. She wiggles around in her seat, pulls her pants at the knees trying to get comfortable in the seat … then remembers the panties.

Closing her eyes, defeated, and asks, "Do you still have my underwear?"

"Whoooooh no!" he says shaking his head left to right.

"What? You don't have them? Those were a gift from Angela!"

"Oh … " now he's nodding, the cat that ate the canary. "Oh, I still have them." he says, grinning ear to ear.

"Give them to me so I can wipe this stuff up!" she says, "Come on, Booth. Hand them over!"

"Ho ho ho ho No! **Those … Are …. Mine**," he says, proudly and with great joy, jutting out his lower jaw and basking in the sweetness of this small win.

"Booth!" she says, desperate. "Surely you don't intend to keep them? Do you?" She's practically whining at this point.

"Hey, baby, those silky, soft, baby pink panties with the clever quote on the a$$ were a gift … and you ain't getting them back any time soon."

She just stares at him for about three minutes, her mouth hanging open. He looks over at her several times, shaking his head and chuckling. That cat ate a HUGE canary and there are feathers - big, fluffy, feathers all over his self-satisfied face. When he starts whistling, she starts yelling.

"Come on, Booth! What the hell are **you** going to do with them?" she stares a hole into the side of his face until he looks at her. At least he's stopped whistling the theme song to Baywatch … His only response to what he considers to be a … very … foolish … question … is to stare straight back at her, saying nothing, but definitely thinking something. Among other things, the look says, that is for me to know …

Bones pushes out an exasperated huff, and with great fanfare, sucks the balsamic vinaigrette off each of her fingers, one at a time. She turns the lunch bag upside down, dumping the chocolate bars onto her lap, grabs the sandwich out of Booth's hand, and wraps the bag around it. She then proceeds to eat it, ignoring his outstretched, balsamic vinaigrette-drenched right hand.

"What about this?" he says, waving his hand in her direction. "How am I supposed to drive with a hand full of oil?"

She slowly turns her head to look at him, giving him the evil eye. Her look quite effectively delivers her message: You should have thought of that when you refused me those panties. She laughs an evil laugh.

"Whose your daddy now?" she says, smugly.

Booth can't think of a single response to this. Except a really nasty swear word, which he uses freely and with great panache, until he feels better.

"Ohh ho," says Bones, in response to the colorful string of profanity issuing from his lips. "Want me to suck the balsamic vinaigrette off YOUR fingers too?" She says seductively and continues laughing. "Cuz I ain't doing it anytime soon …"

"Bite me, Bones," he says, putting each of his fingers into his mouth all the way up to the hilt. After a minute he says, "That was actually pretty good. Come to think of it, I don't think I ever finished my Ambrosia Burger …" He furrows his brow trying to remember. He draws a blank … a silky pink polyester-induced blank.

* * *

><p>"Ohhh-kay," says Bones, putting the last of the lip-smacking, finger-sucking portobello mushroom focaccia sandwich into her mouth and taking a swig from the bottle of water she bought from the vending machine at the station. "Where were we?"<p>

"The other possibilities," he says. Then he starts laughing.

"What? What's so funny?" she says, wanting in on the joke.

"Nothing."

"Come on. No secrets, right?"

"Right, okay," he says. "I was just thinking ... we sure do have some fun …" he says, laughing and smiling in her direction.

"We do, don't we," she says, returning the smile and laughing. She reaches out and pinches his cheek.

He almost says, "I love it when you do that," but decides to keep that thought to himself.

"Okay," he begins, adopting a mock extreme serious tone. "We have to get back to work, lady!"

"Ah hah," she laughs even more at his impression of a hard a$$. "Okay - no more fun till the work is done," she replies attempting to copy his serious tone. "Hey, that rhymed," she says.

"Seriously," he says, calming down for real. "You were just going to tell me what the other possibilities are."

"Right. Another possible explanation for why the extra phalange is in the condition it is in is that it really is from a different set of remains. Maybe it has nothing to do with this case at all. Maybe it is a totem .."

"You mean, booty, a keepsake from a previous … crime?"

"Yeah. Maybe it fell out of his pocket and he didn't realize it. Maybe it isn't even human. You know Several other mammals have phalanges that resemble human phalanges. I was fairly confident that it was human, but I can't be 100% certain without a spectral comparison," she says, talking to Booth's profile.

"Hm," he grunts.

They look at each other, and say at the same time, "Hodgens."

"Right - okay. So that is a dead end until tonight."

"Correct," she says, making a raspberry by pressing her lips together and blowing out through them.

"Well, here's something … I was thinking over our conversations with Chica and what's-her name?" he snaps his fingers three times.

"Bonita, the other girlfriend from high school?"

"Yes. Didn't Chick Pea say that Aleesha seemed just fine when she met them at Rita's? Just like her usual self?"

"Yes. I seem to recall that," answers Bones, looking at him. She can almost hear the gears turning inside his brain, though she knows, without a doubt, that there are not really gears inside the brain … but this is what she always thinks of when Booth churns some seemingly disjointed pieces of information, after which he ALWAYS comes up with a conclusion or hypothesis that she never would have expected.

"So - if she'd just had a raucous argument with Slade on the phone two nights previous, why was she back to her normal self the night she disappeared?"

"Maybe she'd gotten over it."

"Right. When was the last time you were really, I mean REALLY pissed at a guy?"

"Hm," says Bones, pensively. "I don't often get that angry. Not enough to scream blue-bloody-murder at someone …"

"Yes, you do. I've seen you," says Booth.

"When?" she asks, looking at him narrowing her eyes.

"Think back to the first case we worked together."

"Oh, the senator?"

"No, the senator wasn't personal. He was just a dick head. You screamed at me. And you slapped me across the face!"

"Ha ha. I did, didn't I?"

"Yep," he says, returning her acquiescent nod.

"You deserved it."

"Maybe. But the point is … how long did it take you to get over that?"

"Oh, I was pissed for months, remember?"

"Oh, ha, yes, I remember. It took me about nine months to get you to talk to me again, and I had to involve airport security to detain you and **MAKE** you!"

"I remember," she says, smiling at their shared past."Everyone at the Jeffersonian steered clear of me for weeks after that first case. They said I was on a warpath.," she recalls. "I'm pretty sure they were exaggerating, though."

"So - - - what does that tell you?"

"Why was Aleesha back to her normal self two days later?" she asks. "Maybe she and Slade had reconciled?"

"Nope. It sounded like that relationship was O-V-E-R. Maybe she found another man, huh?"

"Ohhhh. Her next Sugar Daddy," she says. "I could see that. But wait - the girls said she always took a couple of weeks between men. How do you explain that?"

"Okay. A methodical girl like Aleesha, she carefully targets a very specific profile, right?"

"Right."

"So - when is it easy for a woman like that to slip into another relationship without much forethought?"

"Ah, I see where you're going! If she'd … already done all that thinking ahead of time … like maybe she chose the next guy while she was still with Slade?"

"Keep going."

"Or maybe she'd dated this guy before? That's it, isn't it?"

"Well, it's a possibility. She has it out with Slade when she finds out he's a loser. Then she runs into an old boyfriend who just happens to be available. They hook up. She's never seen again. I'll bet the old flame is who she was going to watch San Francisco Crime Investigators with …"

"You are brilliant. But we still don't have any proof."

"I think we can get it when we grill Slade."

"Ah. I will look forward to that grilling then …"


	115. Hubbard, Bing, DiAngela

**Chapter 115 Hubbard, Bing, and DiAngela**

"So where are we, Booth? This doesn't **look** like our Shangri-La."

"You mean Carmen and Enri's house? No. I want to take a look at Enri's office."

"If we don't get a key, can I kick the door in?"

"You get way too much joy out of breaking other people's things," he replies, looking at her askance.* "I don't think that will be necessary, though. Enri did say he'd open his whole life to us for inspection. I'm taking that as permission."

"What do you hope to see in his office?"

"I don't know. I think I'll know it when I see it. He talked about the photos Carmen always likes to rearrange. I just want to take a quick look."

"Okay. Let's do it."

* * *

><p>*Askance: with an attitude or look of suspicion or disapproval. I LOVE this word!<p>

* * *

><p>"This isn't an office, it's a flippin' shrine!" says Booth after Dr. Hubbard unlocks the door and flips on the light of Larrinaga's office in Sharpless Hall on the Haverford campus.<p>

"Do you really think Enrique had something to do with Aleesha's death?" asks Dr. Hubbard as he steps out of the way and allows Booth and Bones to enter.

"Dr. Hubbard, we're not ruling anything out at this point."

"Well, if there's anything else I can do for you … I'll be in my office."

"We may need to talk to you for a couple of minutes. You gonna be around?"

"Second door on the left," he says, turning and walking in the direction he'd indicated.

* * *

><p>Larrinaga's desk faces the door. Two chairs, with their backs to the door, face the desk. Behind the desk is a credenza made of some cheap institution-issued light-colored wood. The only windows are small and high on the wall behind the credenza. At a right angle to the desk, along the wall, is a floor to ceiling bookshelf made of wood matching the credenza. Another book shelf, this one built-in, is on the wall behind the right-most guest chair. It faces Larrinaga's desk.<p>

No plants. Lots of little science toys, comic book action figures, on the desk. And many, many photos of Larrinaga's kids and wife. EVERYWHERE. On the walls, on the credenza, propped up against the spines of books on the book shelf. Booth takes a step toward the desk and picks up an 8X10 frame that faces Larrinaga's seat.

"Here it is," he says. "The wedding photo he told me about. Hm." He shows it to Bones. She takes it from him and looks closely at it.

"Huh," she grunts. "She looks much younger. She was really beautiful. Did you notice?"

"What? Bones, that photo is from more than a decade ago, so of course she's younger looking then."

"And more beautiful."

"Beauty is subjective, Bones. Maybe she doesn't have those golden numbers that you do - which are temporary, by the way - but all that is fake, made-up crap anyway, it doesn't mean anything to anyone but those scientists in their high towers and their own self-important friends."

"It's science, Booth, and math," she says, disagreeing.

"It's still crap," says Booth. "You people think you can break everything down to cells and fractions and soil samples and come up with something earth-shattering," he says, flipping through a text book sitting open on the desk. "I'll tell you what, though, the heart is what matters. The heart, Bones," he says looking over at her. She's still holding the framed photo of Carmen, but no longer looking at it.

Booth turns away from her and continues to look through the photos on Larrinaga's desk and wall.

"How do you explain, Little Miss Science," he starts, "that after 30, 40, 50 years of marriage … after the … **trauma** … of parenthood, and illness, and tragedy, and hair loss, sagging body parts and swollen joints, and bifocals … how do you explain that a couple can look at each other and still see … what they see? A beautiful person who still gives them a thrill, just by being close and holding their hand? Got any numbers for that? Bones?"

Bones is considering all this, looking at the photos on the wall, her brow furrowed, lips pursed.

"Nothin' to say now, hot stuff?" he says, back to her. She can tell by his voice that his eyebrows are raised and he's smirking. "Well, I have something to say. The science of Seeley Booth. It goes like this: Those people, when they look at each other, they don't see what we see. They don't see the same eyes, the same sagging fleshy neck, the same hips, the bald spot, that we see. They see, under everything that time and age have heaped onto a body … They see the body, the face, the sparkling eyes … the very same ones they saw when they first fell in love. They see who they have known that person to be, through all those years. And they don't mind all the rest, because they know that under the extra weight and the heavy glasses, a stunningly beautiful person is there. A physically stunning person …" he says, looking back at her again. "The eighteen or twenty-two or thirty-five year old goddess they married."

"You believe that?" she asks, seriously.

"I've seen it," he says.

"Hm. I need to get out more," she says, absently.

"Haven't you ever looked at a couple in a store. A couple who's maybe been together for a long time … and she's short and kinda round with frizzy hair - and he's got a pot belly, sagging shoulders, and a comb-over. Yet, they are still together. And, most likely, still hot for each other."

"You don't know that," she says, doubtful.

"What, you think only hot people, or young people, or skinny people have sex? That's seriously wrong."

"I guess I never thought about it …" she says, shrugging her shoulders.

"I sure intend to still be rocking the rafters well into my … nineties … if my back holds out," he says, chuckling.

"And your prostate," she replies.

Booth just shakes his head and walks around the desk, pulling out Larrinaga's ergonomically designed institution-issued chair and sitting in it.

Bones peruses the book titles on the shelves behind the guest chairs. Mostly texts and seminar binders. The framed photos are more interesting. Carmen in the hospital with Michael kneeling next to her on the bed, a baby Anna, sleeping, swaddled and asleep. Carmen is looking at the camera. Michael is looking at his new baby sister.

Another photo, this one of Enri holding a different baby, this one in a blue blanket. Larrinaga has fewer gray hairs than he does now - a lot fewer. This must be Michael, about three months old. Bones recognizes the pattern of the upholstery on the couch from their house. Enri looks very tired, but happy. From the angle, it's easy to deduce that Enri took this photo himself, holding the camera up in front of the two of them and clicking the button.

"The more important books are over here," says Booth, turning the chair toward the shelving unit to the left of Enri's chair. "Just like with music … the ones at eye level are the most important. In this case - it's eye level while sitting. Also, no photo frames on these two shelves - must be the most frequently used books."

"What do you learn by what you see there?" asks Bones.

"That this stuff is way over my head. Listen to these textbook titles: Physics Concepts and Connections, Introductory To Quantum Mechanics, Solid State Physics, Introduction to Plasma, Measured Tones: The Interplay of Physics & Music, The Framework of Plasma Physics, Introductory Astronomy & Astrophysics, Radiologic Science for Technologists. Jesus, my head hurts just looking at the spines of these books. And look how big they are!" He pulls one off the shelf and drops it on the desk with a thud. You could kill someone with one of these things." He looks a question at Bones.

"I suppose it's possible. Blunt force trauma to the cranium, the pharynx, larynx, or trachea …. but only the trauma to the cranium would be visible on the bones. The trachea is made up of cartilage, the pharynx is a fibromuscular tube extending from the base of the skull to the lower border of the cricoid cartilage. The larynx is a combination of muscle and cartilage. All which decompose, leaving no evidence of trauma on the bones. But what we might be able to look for is compaction of the cervical vertebra. This could be a possibility. I'll make a note in the Rockefeller file. Do you see anything that could be blood anywhere?"

"There's a whole shelving unity full of these huge texts. Did you bring your magic blood light?"

"I'll get it from the SUV." Bones leaves the room and returns moments later with her entire toolbox of forensic toys. She takes out her 450 to 475 nanometer blue light and two pairs of orange goggles.

"I really don't expect we'll find anything here," she says, "but it's worth a shot." They both look at the top edges of all the books from the bottom shelf all the way up to the ceiling.

"Look at all these photos!" exclaims Bones again, once they are finished with the text books. They both look through drawers, in the garbage can, the file cabinet.

"Anything from five years ago is most likely long gone by now. If we come up with any reason to look further, we'll send Benton's people down here later. Let's go."

"Do you want to talk to the other two professors?"

"Yes. I just have a feeling … I can't describe it," says Booth. Bones starts to roll her eyes, then stops herself. She has had to admit that Booth's gut is dead on more than not, despite the lack of scientific substantiation. "Maybe it's just irritable bowl syndrome," she suggests, chortling.

They leave Larrinaga's office and head down the hall toward Dr. Hubbard's office, the second door on the left from Larrinaga's.

* * *

><p>Dr. Hubbard's office is much larger than Larrinaga's and has windows all along the north side. Drs. Hubbard and Bing and a third guy are huddled around a card table at one end of the office.<p>

"Come on in, folks," says Dr. Hubbard in greeting. "You caught us on our lunch break. Wanna join us for a rousing game of poker?"

"Thanks, but no - we're expected somewhere else in about twenty minutes. Maybe another time," says Booth.

"Let me introduce you to my competitors here," says Hubbard, standing and extending a hand toward the youngest of the three men. "Dr. Temperance Brennan, Special Agent Seeley Booth, this is Dr. Clyde Bing, who you saw at the ground-breaking ceremony. Clyde is the baby of our group. He teaches the one and two hundred level physics and astronomy classes. Over here, about to get his butt handed to him by Clyde, is an old buddy of mine, Gary diAngelo. We graduated from high school together back in '75." He sits back down. "Guys, these two are from the FBI. **SPECIAL AGENT** Booth and his lovely assistant, Dr. Temperance Brennan."

"I'm not his assistant," she says. "I'm a forensic anthropologist from the Jeffersonian Institution in Washington, D.C., not the FBI."

"Shhhuh. I never had a doctor looked like you …" says DiAngela.

"I think I might a fever, what do you have in that little doctor bag of yours?" says Bing.

Bones, not sure how to respond, says, "thank you," and smiles shyly.

Booth just nods at them all. "Down, boys. Try not to choke on your tongues."

"So show us a real FBI badge, **SPECIAL AGENT** Booth!" says Bing.

Booth, familiar with the dynamics of a small group of men, and their fascination with what they consider to be James Bond impersonators, whips it out for show and tell. His badge, of course. Wouldn't this be a perfect time for those panties to make an appearance? he thinks, grateful that he keeps his badge in a different pocket. This is not the group you wanna flash panties in front of. He'd never hear the end of it.

"I'll be damned," says Hubbard, leaving the table and walking over to stand in front of Booth. "I don't think I got to see that thing the other day. Is it real?" Hubbard looks up at Booth and back to the badge. He touches the gold part, taps his fingernail on it.

"I assure you, sir. It is real," he says. Pushing back his suit coat and exposing his gun, he says, "This is real too." He smiles at the two older men, and they both lean backward to get further away from Booth.

"You can't be too sure these days. You used to be able to get those things out of a Cracker-Jacks Box. Member those, Gary?" he looks over to his buddy who's remained seated this entire time, still holding his poker hand.

"Woah," and, "Wow," they both say, impressed.

"You don't see too much of that around here," says diAngela. "You know how much attention I could get down at Dixie's with that badge and that firearm?" he says to Hubbard.

"Gary, you've got enough attention as it is. If anyone gets to take a turn around the block with that gear, it's gonna be me."

"Flynn," says Bing to Dr. Hubbard, "if you ever got any attention from a woman, you wouldn't know what to do with it … " Bing looks back at DiAngela and they both snicker.

"Hey," says Booth. "A little respect in front of the lady, fellas!"

"Eh," says DiAngela, throwing down his cards. "Looks like this game is over. I gotta get back to work." As he gets up, he nods at Booth, "**SPECIAL AGENT** Booth," and winks at Bones, looking her up and down and extending his hand. When she offers hers, he raises it to his lips and kisses it, then flashes a smile of perfectly white pearly capped teeth. "Charmed," he says.

"Hey, hands of my partner, mister! I don't care if you do have a PhD," warns Booth.

DiAngela raises both his hands, a gesture of surrender. "Don't shoot me, man. I'm just giving credit where credit is due." DiAngela walks around Booth and exits the office.

"Don't mind him, Agent Booth. Gary's always been a flirt of the worst variety. Anything in a skirt, I'm not kidding. You should see him at the singles' bar, Dixies. It should be illegal."

"No harm, no foul …" says Booth. "What can you tell me about Aleesha Grimes?"


	116. Science Tools

Chapter 116 Science Tools

"That you are aware of, was anything going on between Aleesha Grimes and Enrique Larrinaga?"

"I always thought Aleesha was kinda calculating. I think she was smarter about a lota stuff than she let on." says Bing.

But as far as Enrique and Aleesha? Are you kidding? Not with Carmen around all the time," says Hubbard.

"I always thought Aleesha had the hots for old "Ricky," says Bing, referring to Larrinaga.

"You were just pissed because she gave you the cold shoulder," says Hubbard, looking at his colleague and crossing his arms.

"What's this about Carmen being around all the time?" Asks Booth.

"Hey everybody loves Carmen. She's different than all our academic wives, for sure! But, man, she is territorial," says Hubbard.

"What do you mean, territorial," asks Booth.

"Booth, I think he means she was like a warrior protecting his land with a spear, always on the lookout for thieves," says Bones, touching his arm.

"I figured that, Bones, but I wanted to hear it from them," he tells her, giving her a slight glare.

"Lover's spat?" comments Bing.

Booth and Bones look at him in unison. Switching his gaze to Hubbard, Booth asks again, "Territorial?"

"Yeah - she wears bright lipstick, kisses him on the cheek, he's branded till his next trip to the can when he realizes it and cleans it off."

"Not very professional," comments Bones. Booth glances at her, thinking about the unprofessional panties in his left pocket, then back to Hubbard.

"You saw all the pictures in Enrique's office, right? It's a regular family circus in there. She's always in there messing with the photos. She might as well put up a neon sign, PRIVATE PROPERTY OF CARMEN LARRINAGA. TRESPASSERS WILL BE HUNG BY THEIR GENITALIA FROM THE COURTYARD FLAGPOLE."

"Yeah," chuffs Bing. "She did everything but pee on him." He and Hubbard share a glance and laugh. Bones laughs as well. Booth looks back at her, and she stops.

"What about this … Gary diAngela? Is he around here much," asks Bones.

"That was a non sequitur,* says Hubbard. "Uh, yeah, he's around a fair amount. When he's not working."

"What department is he from?"

"Oh, he's not a prof, he never even graduated from college. Barely made it out of high school. He's smart enough. Just not committed. Went to enough colleges, though. He's independently wealthy. Daddy's money. He's actually accumulated about twenty years of college - just never stuck with anything long enough. You don't have to if you don't need to get a job."

"But he said he had to get back to work …" prompts Bones.

"Oh, he works. But he does what he wants. I think he's teaching flight instruction right now - or rock climbing. I don't even ask anymore." Hubbard scratched his chin and makes a raspberry** as he thinks some more. "Gary and I went to high school together. Did I mention that?"

"Agent Booth, we were just talking about the case before you stopped in … you know, Old Ricky took that Aleesha on a lot of his "trips" when he's go to conferences or on observing runs."

"We all go on those trips, Nimrod, that doesn't make a person guilty of screwing a student."

"Ever take a student?" asks Booth, directing the question at Bing.

"Sure, all the time," he says, rocking back and forth on his feet, hands on hips.

"Right, if you can call it a business trip," says Hubbard, giving Bing a shaming glance.

Looking back and forth from Hubbard to Bing, and back, Bones asks, "What does that mean?"

"It means, Bones, that Bing here, gets business and pleasure confused, especially on those little … trips."

"Ah hah," she says, nodding her head in proud understanding. "Dr. Bing, you had sexual intercourse with your students on these tips?"

"That's how I met my wife," he says, smugly, wiggling his eyebrows at her. "She was hot! And smart. Still is on both counts."

Booth gives him a disgusted look.

"Hey, it gets boring and lonely up there on that mountain - or even the empty hotel room!" he says defensively, but not at all shamefully.

"She still alive? Your wife?" asks Booth.

"A-Live and kicking, if you know what I mean," he says and smirks, looking over at Hubbard, who rolls his eyes.

"Okay, moving on …" says Booth, pausing to gather his thoughts.

"Look, Aleesha was pretty good looking for a smart girl - present company excluded," he says, nodding toward Bones. "No disrespect."

"None taken," says Bones, restraining Booth by the arm, and continuing the conversation with Bing. "But you never dated her?"

"No … but I sure would have dated you …"

"Like that would ever happen," says Bones, under her breath, as Booth starts at exactly the same time: "Keep your telescope pointed at the sky, Nimrod, not my partner!" says Booth, scooting over and moving Bones further away from Bing.

"Look, man, I'm just giving the lady her props …"

"The hell you are! Down, periscope!" Booth has just about had it.

"You better shut up or he WILL shoot you, and I'm quite adept at kicking people, male people, in the testicles," she says to Bing, peeking out from behind Booth.

"And she never misses," says Booth.

"Neither does he," adds Bones.

"Well, I'll take that as my queue to exit stage left," says Bing, sauntering toward the door, hands in his pockets, in no hurry. "It was a pleasure …" he tips an invisible hat at Bones.

"It was't for me," she shouts after him as he starts to walk down the hall, after blowing her a kiss.

"Man, I had no idea colleges were hotbeds of … debauchery.*** What a tool!" says Booth.

"He is a tool. Always has been. If anyone was putting their telescope where it didn't belong, it's that one. His wife's not the faithful kind either."

"Really," says Booth.

"Intersting," says Bones.

"Yeah, she and Gary had a thing going for a while. It was really just a string of one-nighters, nothing to leave a marriage for, is what I heard," Hubbard finishes.

"Depends on your definition of marriage," says Booth, ready to leave all this grossness behind. "Where did you HEAR it?"

"Gary. He may have come off as a tool, but he's actually a genuinely charming guy. A good guy. Never cheats on anyone himself. Says if she wants to cheat to be with him, he's got no problem with it - her problem."

"Wow," says Booth, more than ready to leave.

"Well, thanks Dr. Hubbard. If you think of anything that might be pertinent to this case, please give me a call. Here's my card." Booth extends his card to Dr. Hubbard as he turns toward Bones, giving her that deer-in-the-headlights look. He would have let out a whistle of disbelief, if they'd been alone. He places his hand on the small of her back and propels her toward the door.

Once they are back in the car, they sit in silence for a moment, then give each other the "how screwed up was that?" look.

"I'm ready for Carmen. Maybe she's territorial, but at least she's somewhat normal," says Booth.

"Oh, I kinda like Dr. Sexy," answers Bones, picking up the Rockefeller file and making some notes, a smirk on her face.

Booth looks at her sideways as if she's crazy, and realizes she's joking. "You wanted him, didn't you?"

"Yes, as my own private boy toy, right there on the poker table," she says, smirk getting bigger. She glances up at Booth, and back, just to make sure he knows this is sarcasm. "I love sarcasm," she says, "but you have to be sure the person you use it with knows that you're using it, or it could result in some very uncomfortable misunderstandings," she says.

"Un huh," says Booth smiling to himself, and pulling out onto the narrow college road.

"Shangri La, here we come …" he says, with a sigh.

"Hey, did I tell you Hodgens has offered to take Parker fishing if we don't make it home?" asks Booth.

"But what about Angela? And Labor?"

"Oh, they are just going down to the creek. I was surprised he offered."

"It sounds perfectly natural to me. He needs to practice, you know, just in case he has a boy."

"I s'pose. Still wish it was me. We'll most likely be in the air tomorrow," he says.

"How's that go - that Jewish Mother thing you say? From your mouth to God's ears," she says, waving her arms about toward the front windshield."

"Exactly," says Booth. Smiling. "Okay - here's the strategy with Carmen …"

* * *

><p>*Non sequitur, noun: a conclusion or statement that does not logically follow from the previous argument or statement. Another one of my favorite words!<p>

** A sound and action made, usually by babies and children, or those entertaining children, by pressing the lips together and forcing air through them resulting in a farting noise. Not a favorite word, but fun to do …

*** You probably already know the definition for debauchery, but this one is fairly accurate, considering the events in this chapter: "Debauchery: excessive indulgence in sensual pleasures"


	117. May The Force Be With You

**Chapter 117 May the Force Be With You**

"So, there's a strategy for our conversation with Carmen?" asks Bones, as they drive over to LArrinaga's house.

"Yeah, there is no strategy," says Booth. "Let's just see what happens. She's pretty upset. That may work in our favor. She won't censor what she says as much - or maybe she'll censor more heavily. But she seems to be a fairly emotional, passionate person. She's probably going to spill like a neighborhood fire hydrant in the ghetto on a 103 degree day."

"How do you know that?"

"Which part? That she'll spew? Her core's been shaken," says Booth grimly. He pulls the SUV to the curb a block away from Larrinaga's house to talk for a minute. "Her husband is being questioned in a murder investigation. He probably left here close shortly before eight this morning. It's nearly two o'clock now. She hasn't been able to talk to him. She's in the house without the kids, so she's finally able to freak out unobserved."

"Hm. Makes sense. Do we have to show her the photos?"

"I've tried to figure out how to avoid it - but I just can't. The truth is the truth - even if it hurts or hurts someone we care about."

"Yep, should we go - or do you have something on our mind," she asks, making no move to get out of the car. She knows he does have something on his mind, and he's fidgeting again. Rolling the dice around. Then batting at the keys which are still in the ignition. Sometimes she feels like she can read him like a book … "Out with it partner," she says gently, but not crowding him, staring out the front windshield, waiting patiently.

Booth bites his lip, closes his eyes.

"You're agitated," she says.

He makes a sound - disagreement.

"I know you, Booth. You are agitated. Something's bothering you. Wanna talk about it? Get it out of the way before this interview, which could be rough anyway …"

He looks at her and smiles a weak smile. Punches the keys. They jangle.

"Seeing all those pictures in Larrinaga's office - they look like a happy family," he says shaking his head and readjusting himself in his seat. "Why does that have to be called territorial? Why does surrounding your husband with pictures of home have to be considered some psychotic gesture to ward away lascivious female students?"

"Lascivious, good word … overt or offensive sexual desire. I got you."

"Carmen's protecting what she's got, Bones. There is nothing wrong with that, in my book."

"Booth, you once told me that we see what we want to see, right? Hubbard is divorced and disillusioned. Bing is a cuckolded floozy," she says, shaking her head, then looking at him. "But you - you're a dreamer. A romantic. A family man … a good, good man. You see what you see, and they see what they see. That's all. What Larrinaga really is … doesn't matter."

Booth chuffs, looking down at the dice in his hand. "A cuckolded floozy, huh?"

She grins, laughs, too. "Right. Colorful, huh?"

"Not as colorful as $$ h+, but I'll take it."

"Wanker is a favorite of mine, but it sounds the best in an English accent."

"I know. Sounds kinda stupid when Americans say it."

"Yeah. Why is that?"

"Dunno … but speaking of wankers, what did you think about Bing, Hubbard or DiAngela?

"Regarding the case?" she asks, shaking her head, frowning. "I got nothin,' but I felt you were a little over- protective, or irritated, presumptive."

"You** felt**, huh?"

"I feel, Booth. I just don't make decisions based upon feelings. Now Bing, he's a tool, a douche, but Gary? DiAngela? I thought he was kinda sweet."

"You're joking, right?"

"Not really," she says, an innocent, sincere expression on her face. "Tell me one thing he said or did that was offensive."

"It was what the other guys said," argues Booth.

"But again, look who's talking. The divorcee and the cuckolded floozy," she points out. "DiAngela, he doesn't cheat on women."

"Yeah, but he sleeps with people who do …"

"Those women are adults. They make their own decisions."

"Have you ever slept with a married man?"

"No. Why would I? There are plenty of men out there willing to have sexua- … make love with me," she says, matter-of-factly.

Booth steps around that statement, used to her candid view of life by now.

"I just don't get why … if you can find someone who's willing to marry you … why would you risk that? Why would you risk losing that - and hurting everyone, the woman you love, your CHILDREN, yourself?"

"All people aren't like that, Booth. The media and television would have you believe that most men and a lot of woman cheat," she says, waving her arms about as if she's conducting a concerto. "They have us looking at our neighbors wondering who's doing it. But it's not as prevalent as they'd have you believe. I have the statistics, if you'd like to see them. But again, what kind of person is willing to participate in a study about that?"

Still stuck on his previous thought, Booth continues, "I mean … someone willing to marry you … that's a blessing. A gift," he says, looking at her in obvious frustration. "Someone whose willing to go through life with you … ups and downs, sickness and health and all that …" He's finally done. Now he's staring through the front windshield, wrists crossed and leaning on the top of the steering wheel.

"Maybe some people don't believe in, or value, marriage, and their partner, or long term, monogamous relationships, like you do," she says. "To you, it's sacred, inviolable. They obviously don't see it that way …"

She reaches over and puts her hand on his forearm. "You gotta stop taking things so personally, Booth," she says compassionately, realizing that he's thinking about his two failed proposals. Then she continues.

"You just need to find someone who feels and thinks and believes like you do - at least on this topic."

"Bones, the heart wants what the heart wants. You don't get to choose who you fall in love with," he says, resignedly. Bones takes her hand back and leans on the passenger side door with her elbow for a moment. Then she shifts in her seat so she's facing him directly.

She waits for him to meet her gaze. Tilting her head, looking into his pained, but healing eyes, she gently says, "First, I don't totally agree with that, I do think there is a strong element of choice, but that's a whole other conversation. But if … you … do … fall in love with someone who doesn't … espouse … what you believe and feel … and you think she's worth ALL you have to offer … and nothing else, no one else will make you happy … if she doesn't at first understand, then you should lock me in the closet and talk me through it until I do."

Booth is blown away. It took a lot of vulnerability to say what she just said. And he knows that isn't easy for her. He smiles weakly, and reaches out and puts his hand on top of hers.

"You know what Bones?" he says, sighing, cocking his head to the side, and feeling a lot lighter all of a sudden. "You don't always say the right thing - or at the best time …" He squeezes her hand, and feels her curl her fingers around his. She covers their hands with her other hand, squeezes back. "… But when you do, it can … it does … change everything around you, around us."

"Thank you, I think," She says. I find your … wisdom equally satisfying, assuring." They look in each other's eyes for another moment. At another time, this may have been the prelude to a kiss … but today, it's not a sexy exchange … it's a loving one, which, sometimes, is even better.

Taking his hand back, he looks over at her again and says, "I think I need to hug you now."

"You stay away from me," she says, grabbing the Grimes file and opening her car door. "We need to get in there and be with Carmen before she needs to be sedated. You can hug me later," she says and smiles. She gets out of the car as he's rounding the front of the SUV.

"Nope, the moment's gone," he says, with a sarcastic, "what a pity" expression on his face.

She laughs at him. "Spoil sport," she says, as they walk over to the sidewalk.

"Hey, where's the Larrinaga's house?" he says, turning around, looking up and down the street.

They both start laughing. "It's down another couple of blocks," she says.

They hop back into the car and he pulls out onto the road, driving down the very long, tree-lined block, and pulls into Larrinaga's leafy tree-shadowed driveway.

"Now, **this** is Shangri La," says Bones.

"Out here, maybe," says Booth. "But in there it's Pearl Harbor."

* * *

><p>Carmen answers the door. She's obviously been crying today, but she seems to have pulled herself together. The minute she sees Booth, she starts tearing up again. For a moment she doesn't even move to let them into the house. Booth has to ask.<p>

"Can we come in, Carmen?

"Why haven't I heard anything yet? Why hasn't he called me? I've called the station and they say he's still in interrogation. **Interrogation**, they called it!" She's hanging on as best as she can.

"Carmen - he's gonna be home soon," Booth says, following her into the living room and sitting down adjacent from her on the couch. Bones sits down on the other side of Booth, and waits, grimly, feeling uncomfortable. "We wanted to come see you first. There have been some developments."

"What? What developments? IS he okay? Is Enrique okay?"

"He's fine," says Booth. "Shaken, but fine. Or we hope he will be soon."

"Do you really think he's messed up in all this?" Carmen asks.

"We like to reserve judgement until all the facts are in," says Bones.

"What facts - what do you need?" She gestures around the living room. "Look at anything you want … anything you need. I'm sure Enrique will let you into his office, our car, anything."

"He already has," says Booth.

"So why is he being detained? Is he a suspect?"

"Lets do it this way, begins Booth, "we have some questions for you … some routine questions … let's get those out of the way first …"

"I watch television!I know what that means. It means you smell guilt and you are trying to find evidence." Carmen sniffs and grabs a Kleenex from a mostly empty box on the coffee table. "So what is it? What could you possibly have found?"

"What can you tell us about Aleesha Grimes?" asks Bones.

Carmen looks up toward the ceiling, and pauses, heaving a heavy sigh, and slumping back in the overstuffed chair.

"She was a student of Erique's. And a student worker. She did some computer work for him. She also went with another kid on a couple trips with him. She seemed to be a nice girl. A little impressionable, needy. Sometimes ditzy, even. We had her babysit for us a couple three times. The kids loved her."

"How did the two of you get along," asks Booth.

"Just fine, why?" she says, furrowing her brows, a suspicious expression overcomes her.

"Did you ever have any arguments?"

"With Aleesha? No."

Booth exhales and glances at Bones beside him. Bones gives him a little nod. Go ahead.

"Did it ever occur to you, Carmen, that she might have … feelings … for her professor?"

"You mean Enrique? You can say it. I'm not stupid."

"Right. Enrique."

"Look, Enrique is a **GOOD** man. He's solid. He's intelligent. He's a brilliant teacher. Students say that he's kind of a butt-kicker and his classes are tough - but they learn a lot. He gains their respect, in the end. Plus, he's adorable, in a kind of boyish way," she says, sheepishly. "The girls in his classes, some of them get a little crush on him," she says and smiles, weakly, reaching for another Kleenex.

"Would you put Aleesha Grimes in that category?"

"Hah, Aleesha Grimes **DEFINES** that category," she says.

"In what way?" asks Bones.

"Look, I've never seen another student get as involved as she did. She went on two or three of his meetings or observing runs," she begins to explain. "On one of those runs, she got sick and spent the whole time puking. Enrique nursed her through that the whole time they were there - when he wasn't working. Who wouldn't fall in love with that? But he never returned her feelings," she says confident, but not cocky. "I would have been able to tell … there would have been a palpable disturbance in The Force."

"I don't understand what that means," says Bones, putting her hand on Booth's arm so he'll look at her.

Carmen looks over to Bones. "You know, like in Star Wars. Obi-Wan Kenobi, Luke Skywalker's mentor …"

"Luke Skywalker?" Bones pinches her eye brows together and shakes her head in bewilderment.

"The main character," Carmen explains.

"Ah. The cowboy protagonist …?"

"Yes, the space cowboy, I guess you could say …" Carmen begins again. "So, Obi-Wan explains The Force by saying something like - 'it's an energy field created by all living things, that surrounds and penetrates living beings and binds the galaxy together. It's a Force of goodness.' I can't believe I'm quoting this stuff, I'm usually the one rolling my eyes when Enrique and his friends go on about it like it's part of the real world."

"You do know there is no proof of that, that something that binds all energy, life, together," says Bones, a bit concerned. "The scientific community believes that life is simply an overabundance of chemical reactions. There is no "Force."

_Note to myself_, thinks Booth, _Rent Star Wars with Parker, make Bones watch it with us._

Bones looks at Carmen and gets a blank stare. She looks back to Booth, getting the same reaction. She takes this to mean she should continue. Explain herself.

"In the Miller/Urey experiment in the sixties, using prebiotic chemistry, they simulated the conditions of how the world was before life occurred, by putting methane, ammonia, hydrogen, and water in a closed environment, then running an electric current through it to simulate lightening," she says, explaining. "They were able to create amino acids, and eventually Adenine, which is what RNA and DNA are made of. However, they've never had something crawl out of a bottle and say _"Hello."_

More blank stares.

"According to the physical rules of the universe, energy, or a force, as you call it, cannot exist forever. Organization eventually falls apart. Its called entropy . . . there's no universal force keeping things alive or creating life out of nothing …"

Carmen awakens from her daze. "So how do you explain the existence of so many Christians in the scientific community?"

"Have you ever heard of the God gene?"

"The God gene?" repeats Carmen, dipping her chin almost all the way down to her chest, and looking at Bones like she's from outer space.

"Yes, the God gene. Scientists are human beings ...

"That's debatable," interjects Booth, rolling his eyes.

"… and therefore not immune," Bones smirks at Booth.

"Here we go," says Booth, throwing his hands up and sitting back against the couch pillows, the same ones in the photo of Larrinaga holding baby Jack.

"Human beings are created with a yearning for the sense of belonging, of connection, community. Some more than others, much more, though scientists still contend it's a chemical reaction in the brain. It all boils down to the human biological imperative: perpetuating the human race. Community equals sex equals new humans."

"Can we move on? Please?" Booth sits forward and turns to Carmen. "So how would there be a disturbance in The Force?"

"Seal, you understand the Dark Side, right? Like a universal nastiness that feeds off anger, jealousy, fear, and hate."

"Yeah, I understand the Dark Side. Sometimes I think I live with it," he says, laughs sarcastically.

"Hey!" says Bones, slapping him on the arm.

"Ow!" yelps Booth. "I was referring to the homicidal maniacs we pursue." He gives her a "behave yourself" look.

"Oh, sorry." She rubs his arm where she hit it a moment ago.

Carmen continues. "When Darth Vadar's side is gaining strength, Obi Wan Kenobi could feel it in the Force. In the air, kind of. The force is like their religion … the forces of good versus the forces of evil. And I never felt any disturbance while Aleesha was working with Enrique. Not in him, anyway. Now, she was a different story …"


	118. The Evolution of Man

**Chapter 118 The Evolution of Man**

Carmen explains her impressions of Aleesha Grimes to Booth and Bones. "She was thin, but not too thin. A gymnast's body, but healthy … with a lot of boobs … and a nice face. What struck me as odd, though, was that for some reason, she felt the need to hide her intelligence around men."

"Really?" says Bones.

"Yeah. It was strange," she says, looking off to the right as if Aleesha were standing there next to the coffee table. "She was a natural at math and science. Enrique appreciated that about her. But neither of us could figure out why she would dumb-down around guys. Who knows why we do the things we do, right?"

"Okay - but I'm still not hearing anything about how The Force was disturbed by Aleesha Grimes," says Booth, shaking his head. Bones nods.

"Well, quite a while after she started working with Enrique, she started hanging around his office a little too much, and inviting him to have lunch with her. A lot. She seemed lonely, he told me," says Carmen, blowing her nose on the last Kleenex in the box, and getting up to toss it in the garbage can in across the room. "She'd just broken up with some guy."

"And …?" asks Booth.

"Have you ever heard of a "work spouse?"

"I don't know what that means. Booth, do you know what that means?"

"A person of the opposite sex that you work very closely with, and who gets to know you really well," explains Booth.

"Like us?"

"You could say that, definitely," he says, smiling at her.

"Yeah - but it's mostly in fun. I mean, I don't think a person would use that terminology if there was anything inappropriate going on … that would just be weird."

"Oh, there's nothing inappropriate going one here," says Bones, waving her hand toward Booth. He covers his mouth to hide his amusement, suddenly afraid of how she might answer that question once they are together:

"Yes, we do have sexual intercourse quite often, as a matter of fact,

we just did this morning … and he did this thing … oh, my God,

you should try it, he … how did that go Booth …?"

"Right. Okay." says Booth, almost choking, shaking the image out of his head, refocusing.

"Anyway, Aleesha wanted Enrique to be her work husband. She started assuming familiarity, you know, making up nicknames for him, stuff like that. She brought him a photo of herself, framed, for his desk!" she says, incredulous. "She brought picnic lunches. With wine and flowers."

Booth and Bones exchange a glance, both with eyebrows raised. The lunches are not new information - but that Carmen knew about it, is.

"So we've heard. Let me guess, Enri was clueless?" asks Booth.

"Completely," Carmen agreed.

"It's not uncommon," he says. "Enri is focused, unassuming." "You can say that again," says Carmen. "After she babysat for us the last time, we ran into her when we were out walking one evening. When she and I had a moment alone, she asked me an odd question."

"What? What did she ask you, Carmen?" asks Bones, "I find I am intrigued, and repelled, by her unreasonable behavior. Why would a young, beautiful girl HIDE her intelligence? What kind of men was she after? Obviously not the smart ones!"

"Well, if you ask me, she was after my husband. What she asked me was "How does a woman meet a guy as wonderful as Enrique?" Carmen looks at Booth and Bones like this is absolutely absurd.

"It sounds like a fair question to me," says Bones. "And I'd like to hear the answer."

Booth slowly turns his head toward Bones and gives her a long, surprised stare. "Why do YOU need to know the answer to that question?" he quietly asks.

"It's a valid question, anthropologically speaking. What?" says Bones, defensively, looking back at Booth. "Women for centuries have shared information about where and how to find the most suitable mates. Which traits about Enri was she interested in, Carmen?"

"She said his patience, his understanding, his compassion, the way he could teach a person something without making them feel stupid," says Carmen. "What was freaky was the dreamy way she said it. I'm his **WIFE**, for Christ's sake."

"What did the dreamy look tell you?" asks Booth.

"That she obviously thought Enrique was perfect and she didn't want someone LIKE him, she was totally interested in him."

"So, what'd you say?" asks Bones.

"I told her men like Enrique aren't FOUND, they are MADE."

"Okay - what does that mean?" Bones asks. "You can't really MAKE a man. He has to be born as a baby, then mature to adulthood, just like everyone else."

"Oh, I beg to differ, Sister. You see, the Enrique Aleesha Grimes was referring to was the post-ten-years-of-marriage Enrique. You think he was like that when I first met him?"

"Are you suggesting you changed him?" asks Bones, confused.

"More accurately, he evolved. We both did. We still are evolving. Together. If you hitch your wagon to the right person, and you take your commitment seriously, that's what happens. We've worked long and hard at our relationship. A couple times we almost threw in the towel. Or at least I did," she says.

"But Enri seems like a wonderful guy, Carmen," says Bones.

"Oh, he is. But he can also be a gigantic horse's proctology experiment."

"I think I might know what you mean," says Bones, nodding her head. "Does he light his farts on fire?"

"No," says Carmen, looking at Bones strangely, then at Booth like maybe HE does.

"Don't look at me!" he says, shaking his head, wanting nothing to do with this part of the discussion.

"Once he parked our car directly behind an AT&T service van," she says, like a girlfriend sharing a a tale of woe, "that was parked in our spot at our apartment. He pinned the guy in, then pulled out a lawn chair and the newspaper, and sat in the yard waiting for the guy to return. When the guy arrived, they got in a pissing contest and the police ended up being called."

"What's wrong with that?" asks Booth, a little louder than he's intended.

Eyes wide, Carmen spits out, "That man could have forgotten to take his Prozak that morning and he could have a rifle in the back of that van! Enrique could have gotten himself killed! And I was pregnant!" she says, almost spitting. "I could have killed him myself, I was so fracking pissed!"

She stares at Booth for a moment, as if HE were the offender in the story.

"Another time, at Wal-Mart, he'd had one of those 42 oz sodas they sell. Well, every single one of their four bathrooms was closed for cleaning at the same time! He was so pissed when we got to the fourth one, he unzipped his fly and pissed in the potted plant right there in the garden department. IT WAS A FAKE PLANT!"

Bones stifles a laugh. "Sorry," she says when she sees the look in Carmen's eyes.

"I've spent the last ten years riding in the passenger seat of my own car whenever we go somewhere together. Do you know why?"

"He's a better driver?" asks Booth. Bones elbows him in the rib. "Ouch!"

"No! He's NOT a better driver, by far, but he's always gotta critique every move I make, and freak out whenever there's a car within 300 yards of us. I got sick of listening to it! I ended up pulling over to the side of the road pissed off myself, and screaming at him, THEN YOU DRIVE, YOU STEAMING BAG OF DINOSAUR EXCREMENT! … which, of course, didn't go over very well. So I swore I'd never drive him anywhere for the rest of my life. Except to the hospital, and then only if he was literally squirting blood from his brain."

"That's not very likely. You should have said his heart or his carotid artery. Or his jugular …" commented Bones.

"Another time, I spent the whole day cleaning while he played video games. Don't even get me started about that ….

A little too late for that warning, thinks Booth.

" … We were having friends over for dinner. When they arrived, he said 'She spent the whole day cleaning, it's usually a pig sty in here!' I almost went for his jugular myself."

"You know how in stores they have signs that say, 'If you break it, you buy it?' There should be a sign above our toilet that says, 'If you piss on it, you clean it - this applies to walls and floors too!' You know what he told me when I asked him why HE never gets out the supplies and cleans the bathroom?"

"Do we have …" starts Booth.

"He said, 'Isn't that YOUR job?" says Carmen. "I almost passed out when he said that. My girlfriends had to talk me off a the ledge, just about. But this is all stupid stuff, really," she says. "We all make mistakes, say stupid stuff when we're trying to work out the kinks in an important relationship, right? At least we sure did."

"What's this have to do with Aleesha Grimes?" asks Booth, desperately trying to bring the focus back to the case.

"Aleesha wanted a pre-trained man. People don't come that way. Especially men … at least when it comes to the softer stuff that no one ever thought to tell them about."

"You mean sexual intercourse and the intricacies of a woman's reproductive system?" asks Bones, nodding, a very serious expression on her face.

Carmen exhales. "Well, there's that, but I'm talking about the important stuff. Life is difficult sometimes … everything doesn't always go your way. People get frustrated. Some people get real frustrated. Some of us handle that better than others. Men, no one really teaches them how to talk about their feelings. Especially in a society where stoicism and aggression are valued," she says.

Bones is nodding in agreement. "It has always been like that. Every culture I have studied, that's how it ends up. Might over right …"

"Yes, fighting on tv, in the movies. People shooting at each other. Angry facial expressions touted as sexual, virile, desirable. Muscles bulging and all that crap," she looks from Booth to Bones.

Booth can't decide if he should let her continue or shut her down and redirect the conversation. It's almost like watching a train wreck, he thinks to himself. He has a feeling they aren't going to make any progress until she gets to make her speech, so he leans back for a moment and crosses his legs. He can't help noticing that Bones is sitting on the edge of her seat. Maybe this is a good thing. Probably not - but what the hell.

"Would you by any chance have some diet Coke in the house?" asks Booth, sitting forward. This is going to take a while, he thinks.

"Where are my manners," says Carmen. "In the fridge. Glasses to the left. Ice in the freezer. Can you get me one too?"

"I was actually kinda hoping you would …" says, Booth, aware that neither of them are paying any attention to him.

"Make that three," says Bones, as Booth gets up and walks toward the kitchen, used to being told what to do by strong women.


	119. Carmen: The Mother UnLoad

**Chapter 119 Carmen: The Mother Un-Load**

Entering the kitchen, Booth takes out his cell phone and dials what's becoming a familiar number. Officer Benton picks up the line on the other end.

"Benton, this is Booth," he says.

"Special Agent Booth, good afternoon!"

"Afternoon," he says. "Are you at the station?"

"Yes, sir, we've got Slade here digging through boxes of receipts we confiscated from his house. The guys just buying time. There's no way he's got proof that he purchased any of that stuff."

"Give him another hour, then, if he's still coming up empty, confiscate any items in his apartment he can't prove are his. Even the toothbrush and his tighty-whities, if you're feeling nasty."

"With pleasure, sir. Where are you, if I might ask?"

"Dr. Brennan and I are over at Larrinaga's house talking to Carmen Larrinaga. How's Dr. Larrinaga doing?"

"He's calmed down a bit. He's still talking to his lawyer. I expect them to come out any minute asking what the status of things are, poor guy. What do you want us to tell him?"

"I want you to wait," says Booth, looking at the watch on his wrist - glad he got it back from Bones finally, "thirty minutes, then tell him he's free to go."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Yes. Tell him Dr. Brennan and I are at his house talking with Carmen, and we'd like him to come home. But tell him not to call first. The station is only, what, ten minutes from here?"

"Ten, eleven, something like that. Should he bring his lawyer?"

"Tell him I said he doesn't need his lawyer, but he can, of course, bring him if he wants."

"Okay - anything else I can do for you at this point? Agent Booth?"

"Hm. Yes, actually. Could you give a call to Chica Vega, Bonita Lucas, and Bob Grimes. Find out what you can about Aleesha's boyfriends during the three years before her disappearance. Get anything you can - names, cities of residence, descriptions, and if any of them resurfaced within the last year of Aleesha's life. Also look up this," Booth refers to a little notebook he takes from his pocket, "George Norland. He was a recent ex. See if there is a record for him. And run a record on any names you get from Chica and Bonita - you have those numbers in the file already. If you have to, check at the Haverford alumni office for contact information from any of the guys if they went there."

"Awesome! I mean, thank you, Agent Booth," says Benton, a little too excited.

"You have a girlfriend, Officer Benton?" asks Booth.

"A wife, sir, and three small children," he says proudly.

"That explains it," says Booth under is breath. "Well done, my man. Now, get to work. And set Larrinaga free in twenty-five."

"Yes, sir."

"And. Benton …"

"Yes, sir?"

"I'd like to buy you a beer sometime … when this is all over. You're doing a fine job." What is wrong with me? Being NICE to the Newbies? AGH - I need to go punch something, thinks Booth shaking his head and scratching his forehead, his eyes closed.

"YES, SIR!" says Benton, hanging up.

Booth hangs up as well, confident that Benton is about to earn his entire year's pay ferreting out those ex boyfriends of Aleesha grimes. If there is anything to find, he will find it. If there's a rock to turn over, he will pick it up and throw it into the ocean to get what's hidden underneath.

* * *

><p>Entering the living room with a tray and a plate of cookies, Booth sets the tray on the coffee table, handing the plate of Oreos to Carmen.<p>

"Oh, thank you!" she says.

Booth hands a tall glass of bubbly brown refreshing goodness poured over ice to Bones, one to Carmen, and brings the third one to his own lips, taking a satisfying swig. ROunding the coffee table he sits back down on the couch adjacent to Carmen and to Bones' right, once again between the two women. Carmen passes the plate of Oreos to him, he offers it to Bones before setting it on the table and taking a handful himself. He wishes he had pop corn. He leans back so the estrogen zinging across the room doesn't smack him in the face. Carmen hasn't stopped talking since he left the room. His returning with refreshments didn't slow her down a bit.

"It's not easy raising a man," Booth hears Carmen saying as he tries to catch up with the conversation.

"Enri?" he asks?

"Well, heh, yeah him," she says jokingly. "But Jack - he's the man I can make the biggest difference with. He's a little guy - already at eight dealing with really big feelings. Today is his broken Tonka truck, tomorrow it's some ding-a-ling on the playground who won't give him back his homework. Ten years from now, it might be a boss who promotes someone else though Jack deserved it, or some woman who humiliates him in front of her friends. Who is going to teach him how to …"

"I know, be a man. I have a son myself," says Booth.

"No, Seal. I was going to say how to be a person. A PERSON, Agent Booth. A man should be a person first. At least that's how I see it. Enrique has come a long way in the seventeen years I've known him. But when we first got together he had no idea how the things he did and said affected me. Sometimes he'd get angry about something and he'd slam a door, or throw a tool, or rip a page out of a book, or stomp around slamming pots and pans on the countertops as he did the dishes."

"He does the dishes?" asks Bones.

"Yes, he's quite evolved, like I said."

Booth and Bones emit a, "Hm," in unison.

"Sone times, he'd just lose it, and I'd leave the house. Go for a walk. Take a drive. I wanted nothing to do with him. He was like a three year old having a temper tantrum. He couldn't figure out why that was upsetting for me. If his wasn't angry at me, he said, why was I treating him like he'd just put a turd in my Frosted Flakes? It took a while for me to articulate why it was upsetting. To be honest, it scared the bejeesus out of me. I mean, you think, how long before that aggression is directed at me? And what if he loses control? And what about the kids? Kids can piss you off like you ain't never seen, let me tell you!"

Once Enri's tantrum was over, and usually it only lasted a couple of minutes, thought sometimes an evening of nastiness could lead up to it, but after the blow up, he was fine. He was calm and rational - and confused about why I wouldn't talk to him or look at him. So I punished him. And I made him feel like the turd I felt he was behaving like. I shamed him. I was really good at it too.

"So what happened? How'd you get past that?" asks Carmen, her eyes wide.

"Counseling. It was either that or we call it quits. I couldn't live like that - and I didn't want the kids growing up with it. At the same time, Enri felt miserable and out of control. He didn't know how to calm himself down before it was too late. He said he hated himself for behaving that way, once he realized what it did to me. So when I punished him, it just made it worse. We could be really nasty to each other, though we have always had a 'no name-calling' rule. And we didn't pick on each other's character. It wasn't about that. It was about stuff we did or said, that was killing our love."

"Booth gets concerned about how he sometimes handles his anger, but he's actually quite evolved in most ways. And when he's angry, it's almost always justified," comments Bones, placing her hand on his thigh for a moment, then taking it away. Then wanted to put it back, because it was … kinda hot and felt intimate. Just thinking about it, brought an over abundance of blood into those cheek capillaries again. But now it would be strange if she did that. And inappropriate. RIght? And I'm a chicken turd, she tells herself

"Can we leave me out of this?" says Booth, giving her a look that says, you're skating on this ice here, Sister!

"So therapy?" asks Bones.

"Yes, two years of it. Enri HATED it. I had to drag him there. But it saved our , our COMMITMENT saved the marriage. Commitment to doing what needed to be done."

"Wow. We're in therapy," she confides, leaning forward.

"Wha - can we change the subject here? This is supposed to be an interview!"

"Boil down, Booth," tosses Bones in his direction. "This is really interesting."

"It's SIMMER DOWN, Bones," he says, but she pays no attention.

"In therapy, I learned about the 'male culture' and how his behaviors made sense to him, but not at all to me. And Enri learned that what works, or is even expected between men, does not go over well with women. Anyway, two years, and we worked it out. I can honestly tell you, I am happier now than I've probably ever been in our marriage."

"Do you think Enri is?" asks Booth, still sitting back against the back of the couch.

Both women look at him, almost like they just now realized he was still there.

"Well, I hope Enri would say, in comparison to that time in our lives, I've become less critical, more direct, less passive-aggressive, less rigid in my demands, more interested in what makes him happy, less demanding. And, yeah, I think he's fairly happy now. You should ask him. But good luck getting a response. He'll probably just grunt at you!" she said, laughing.

"Why do you think you were so passive aggressive, non communicative?"

"Well, one reason was that I felt that I got the very short end of a very long stick.

"I don't know what that means," says Bones, looking from Booth to Carmen.

"You take this one, Carmen, but you better leave Star Wars out of it …" says Booth.

"I felt like I had been cheated, devalued."

"By whom? Enri?"

"Not really Enri - the world, society, my teachers. Everyone who said I could have it all. Oh, and yes, Enri, because he got to live the life I thought I was going to live, and I had to change everything and give up everything. At least that's how it felt to me at the time."

"What were you cheated out of? I don't understand," says Bones.

"Choices! I have a master's degree, Temp! I used to be a powerful corporate contract negotiator. I was hot stuff. I wore expensive dresses, and drove a Lexus, which I custom ordered from the brochure."

"If you loved that, Carmen, why did you leave that?

"Because it stopped being exciting. I was hungry for something more. I don't know … maybe love. It wasn't until I met Enri that I realized I was missing something."

"So what did you do?"

"A lot of soul searching. Got a masters degree. Realized I really didn't enjoy the pressure of the corporate world. Then Jack came along and I wasn't prepared for the sacrifices parenthood brought. We decided I'd stay home with Jack. Then I started wishing I hadn't made all those big changes. Why did I throw away a career doing what I was good at. I knew how to negotiate, how to make money, how to spend money. I knew what was expected of me, and I knew how I was evaluated. There were raises and bonuses and promotions and recognition. I had respect. All that stuff that I thrive on. It was comfortable territory. Enri had to remind me many times of how unhappy I had been living a life that was nothing but work. I must have put in 75 hours a week when I was at the top of my game. I want to be clear though, friends that still work full time say they have had very similar experiences. It doesn't matter if you're home or not - parenting AND maintaining a marriage are hard work."

"No one teaches you how to be married or how to be a parent. Being a mother is physically and emotionally exhausting work! Usually thankless. There's no remuneration, or recognition. I used to say I got paid in kisses. I felt like Enri didn't understand how hard I was trying and working at home. And when he came home later and later, I was ready to kill him. But he was working equally hard, trying to gain tenure, trying to keep me happy. He wasn't prepared for the fire-breathing dragon I turned into, so for a while he came home later and later. In counseling, he admitted that he didn't want to come home. That was why he delayed it."

* * *

><p>"Another thing that was a challenge for me was the change in identity. I wasn't a corporate negotiator any more. We can claim ourselves as much as we want - to ourselves, to those that matter. But when you walk out that front door of your house, or your apartment, the world gets a say in who you are, and what you're worth. Whether you like it or not. Go ahead, try to ignore it. But unless you live on a deserted island, it'll get thrown in your face somewhere along the way.<p>

"Why does that bother you?" asks Bones.

"I do not have an answer for that question. I've asked myself that many, many times."

"Then why DID you make the choices you did?

"Why give up what I KNOW for a chance … a risk … a hope for something unknown … Marriage and children, when both have proven to have great challenges?"

"Yes. That's what I want to know," says Bones, looking to Booth, then back to Carmen.

"I guess I wanted to live, not just wide, but deep. And because I love my husband. He always puts my and the kids' interest before his own," she says, a peaceful change coming over her face. "Enrique knows exactly who I am … no matter what the world out there thinks. I can always count on the fact that HE thinks I'm wonderful, incredible, beautiful, and amazing. He tells me all the time, in the things he does. The tide of public opinion moves in unpredictable ways."

"Wow," says Bones, almost whispering. Booth smiles at her. This is a point in his favor, he thinks.

"Yeah, wow," says Booth looking at his watch. Enri should be pulling up the drive any minute now. Thank God, thinks Booth, I was about to grow a pair of breasts.

"Our family is a constant in an ocean of a never-changing, unreliable world," Carmen continues. "We have worked very hard at this. Years. And this is what really matters. To us. Not that I am at home with the kids, but that we are doing the best job we can for our family."

"I think a lot of couples feel that way …" says Booth.

"Believe me, what is out there in the world … money, things, recognition - is not going to keep you warm at night. They aren't going to put your best interest above their own."

"Why did you need someone to put to put your needs above their own."

"Because she's got a job to do. The most important job in the world," says Booth.

"What's that? Thought you said you didn't work outside the home?"

"Whether I'm a working mom or a mom at home, raising strong adults is the most important thing in my life. This world needs more strong adults. The world needs people of character and principal. Bold people. Compassionate people."

"Like you, Carmen," says Booth. She tears up, and lets the drops fall from her eyes.

"And while I'm doing my job, I need someone to protect me, so I don't have to worry about me and I can channel my energies toward the nurturing of these children." Carmen gets up, takes the empty plate covered in black cookie crumbs, and goes in search of a new box of Kleenex.

Bones leans over and looks in Booth's eyes. In her eyes, there's a little twinkle as she smiles at him.

"What?" he says, not sure what this is about.

She stands up in front of him, bends down toward him, takes his face in her hands, and kisses him on the lips. Lingering briefly, but with no tongue action. It is sweet, brief, unexpected, and it moves him. She moves away, still looking in his eyes.

"I have to run to the restroom," she says, still smiling at him. "Be back in a moment."

Booth sits on the couch, shirt and pants dappled with black Oreo crumbs and drops of water from his perspiring glass of diet Coke. He has no idea what that was all about. But he decides not to question his good fortune. Just be thankful. When Carmen returns with a fresh box of Kleenex, he has a goofy expression on his face, like he's remembering a great joke he heard from a friend.

"You okay?" says Carmen, looking at him curiously.

"Huh?" he says, snapping out of it.

"You look … I don't know … you have a strange look on your face. Did I miss something?"

"Huh?" says Booth, still a little dazed, and trying to revisit the kiss in his mind. God, I love that shirt, he says to himself, remembering the low-cut creamy white blouse that shows just enough cleavage that leaves you wanting more …

Snapping her fingers in front of his face, "Seal, Whoot whoo! Are you still with us?"

Booth exhales loudly. "Huh? Sorry Carmen," he says looking up at her. It's been a long day. Got a lot on my mind … and, oh - here comes Enri!"he says, noticing movement in the window behind him. He turns to confirm.

"ENRIQUE!" shouts Carmen, running to the door.

* * *

><p>While the two are hugging and talking in hushed tones, Bones comes back from the restroom and comes back to sit at Booth's left.<p>

"Please, can I have my panties back? Things are drying out that shouldn't be, and it's getting really uncomfortable, and not in a good way."

"I see your point."

"I'll give them back," she pleads, promising.

"You will? I mean, of course you will."

"Better yet, how about a trade?"

"You want a pair of my boxers?"

"Um, no, not really," she says making a face like she just bit into a rotten lemon.

He looks at her like, what's YOUR problem, lady?

"How about your tee shirt? The one you wore yesterday."

"Bones, it's not … it's kinda dirty."

"That's okay, that's how I like it," she says, winking.

"Jesus! You gotta stop doing that right before I gotta go …"

"Barbecue a scum bag?"

"Yeah …"


	120. The GreenEyed Monster

**Chapter 120 The Green-Eyed Monster**

"Enri, Carmen," says Booth, standing up and walking toward the dining room where they are standing, still rehashing the day's events. "We do have just a couple more things we'd like to talk to you about. Please sit down." He pulls out one of the four chairs around the dining room table.

Enri, emits a loud and long breath. "Okay - let's get this over with, Seal." He nods at Carmen, pulling out a chair for her to his right, then sitting down himself. Booth sits to Enri's left, Bones, to Booth's left, next to Carmen, and across from Enri.

"Carmen, there are a couple of things we hadn't yet shared with you," says Booth, looking to Enri, hoping that he understands that the worst news has been reserved for now, when he can be there with Carmen.

"There's more?" she says, looking from Booth to Enri, worry in her eyes.

"Carmen, what Seal is …" Enrique starts to say, but Booth interrupts him.

"I'll handle this, Enri," he says, not impolitely, but clearly establishing who is in charge of this gathering. "Carmen has already shared with us her impressions of Aleesha Grimes. In keeping with what we have learned from others, Carmen shared her suspicion that Aleesha had a romantic interest in you …"

"But I …" Enri interrupts.

Booth raises his hand to silence him. "Carmen, we hadn't yet covered what you thought happened to Aleesha, how she disappeared."

Carmen looks at Enri, then back to Booth. "Well, by the time she disappeared, things seemed to have cooled down."

"What do you mean by that?" asks Bones.

"Well …" She looks at Enri, who is looking at his hands on the table in front of him. He's rolling and unrolling a small piece of paper that he's taken out of his pocket. A receipt or price tag. He doesn't look up.

Carmen looks back to Bones, which means Enri cannot see most of her face. This arrangement is supposed to make it easier on Carmen, for what she's about to hear.

"Go on, what do you mean that things seemed to have cooled down by then?"

"Okay. Um … About nine months before she disappeared, Aleesha had practically begged Enrique to take her on an observing run - this one as to Chilé, or somewhere pretty far away. But by this time, we, Enrique and I, were feeling strange about Aleesha's behavior. The nick names, the framed photo, the strange question she asked me, the picnic lunches …" Carmen pauses, looking back to Enri.

"Carmen!" Bones says, abruptly. "Finish … answering the question … please." Bones gives her a fake friendly smile.

"To be honest … I was the one who put two and two together about Aleesha's behavior," she says, sighing heavily. "I told Enrique about the strange conversation she and I had had, and that was when he told me about these other things he'd noticed … the photo, picnics, bla bla bla … you've heard it all … and when he was planning this trip to Chilé I suggested he not take her. You know, not encourage her attraction to him."

"Carmen made the point that inviting Aleesha would only encourage her. And what if she made some kind of move - or decided, for some reason, that I returned her affection? Which I didn't - but who knows what was going on in her mind." Booth let him complete his comment before turning back to Carmen, nodding at her to continue.

"That is exactly right. I mean, who knows what kind of whack job she was - and before you know it, we come home one day to bunnies boiling on the kitchen stove," she says, then turns to Bones and explains, "That's from a movie with Glen Close where this woman gets obsessed with a married guy who wants nothing to do with her - so she goes psycho, breaks into his house, and leaves their pet bunny boiling on the stove for him and his wife to find when they return to the house one afternoon."

Bones gives her a disturbed look, then looks to Booth, who nods in agreement.

"Okay, I got it. You were attempting to limit your liability, provide no openings for misinterpretation."

"Exactly," confirms Carmen. "Aleesha was not happy about it. But to be honest, I think her feelings for Enrique had started to cool a bit by then. I got the impression she had found a new boyfriend or something."

"Was there ever a discussion about your suspicions, Enri?" Booth to Enri.

"What do you mean?" says Enri.

"Did you ever confront her? Tell her that you sensed she had feelings for you?"

"Hell no," says Enri, blushing. "I was not about to open a can of worms that wasn't asking to be opened. I was RELIEVED when her visits to my office became fewer, her email questions less frequent, and personal in content. Our student work project had completed a month before I noticed the change in her. That was when I was planning the trip. I was surprised she asked to go. But still, I wasn't about to … I didn't want to risk her getting interested again …"

"What about you, Carmen?" Bones asks Carmen.

"What about me? Did I go on the trip? Actually I did!" she says.

"No - did YOU ever say anything to Aleesha about YOUR suspicions?" Bones asks.

Carmen stares at Bones, saying nothing. Considering.

"Carm, did you talk to Aleesha about me?" asks Enri, surprised at his wife's silence.

Carmen exhales, maintaining steady eye contact with Bones. "Everything is going to come out anyway," she says. "Hell yes, I said something to her!" Enri sucks in some air and holds it, blood draining from his face. Booth is watching him closely.

"What the hell, Carmen?" he squeaks out in a whisper. Booth stands up and reaches for Enri's arm. Enri is still staring at Carmen, who still won't look at him. Carmen puts her hand on the table toward Bones, a pleading expression on her face.

* * *

><p>"Enri," says Booth, quietly. "Hey? Lets step outside for a moment." he jerks his head toward the door that appears to lead to a small yard behind the house. Enri stands up, in a daze, pushes his chair out behind him. It falls over, surprising everyone, and lands on the floor with a smack. Booth picks the chair up, and quietly sets it aside. Enri leads Booth out onto a small painted wooden porch. If either of them smoked, now would be an excellent time to light up.<p>

"What the hell …" says Enri to Booth, more of a statement than a question. "Should I be worried? I did not know she talked to Aleesha. I shouldn't be surprised though . . . "

"And why's that?"

"Carmen is a take-the-bull-by-the-horns type of person. I'm more of a stick-your-head-in-the-sand-and-hope-the-problem-goes-away kind of person …" Booth makes a mental note that this is in keeping with what Carmen said about her wanting to deal with their marital problems head-on, while Enri basically went kicking and screaming.

" … at least when it comes to stuff like this. I have no problem standing up for myself, or arguing for a cause I believe in … but a college girl with a crush? One false move and my whole career could be in jeopardy."

"So you did nothing?"

"I did consider going to in-house counsel or HR - just for advice, and maybe to make them aware of the situation. A preemptive strike in case anything came of it. By the time I was having those thoughts, Aleesha seemed to be moving on. It was around that time that she mentioned some new guy she was seeling - a "Slick" or "Dude" or "Slam." It was some strange name. Made me think of black leather chaps and jackets. You know, biker attire."

"Did you ever meet the new boyfriend?"

"No - but she made it pretty clear she was seeing someone. I thought that was weird," he says, looking a question at Booth, "That she made such a point of telling me."

"Was that new boyfriend's name, by any chance, Jim?" he asks.

"No - "

"Screech?"

"No - "

"Wade?"

"Um … no, but it might have been Suede - like the leather …"

"How about … Slade?"

"That's it, Seal. It was SLADE!"

"Hm."

"Has your wife ever exhibited signs of being territorial? Jealous of other women?"

"You know, Seal, she puts her stamp on me, she wants other women to know I'm private property … But I am surrounded by females all day, every day. All those photos on my walls - they kind of keep me safe. From advances, you know?"

"Enri, are you trying to tell me you're a hot commodity? You have to beat off women with a stick?"

Enri gives Booth a don't-be-ridiculous look, and shakes his head. "I wish!" he says, then quickly recants. "No, I DON'T wish! Who needs the complication? I love my wife! And my kids!" he's an inch shy of pleading.

"You don't have to convince me," says Booth, shrugging his shoulders.

"Only a dumb $$ would put that on the line for a little college girl tail. I got a good thing going here - and I'm happy," he explains, his hands on his hips, shaking his head, walking back and forth on the porch. "But, much to my utter surprise, about every other year, some co-ed thinks I'm a good replacement for her dad, or, hell, I do not even know. How am I supposed to deal with that?"

"Enri," says Booth, sitting on one of two Adirondack chairs sitting placed by side looking out over the postage stamp-sized back yard. "There's a woman in there who believes that you're something worth fighting for. I'll bet SHE'S not surprised when a student gets a whiff of the Larrinaga machismo."

"This isn't funny, Seal."

"I'm not trying to be funny, Enri. I'm dead serious. Good men are hard to come by. Especially for a woman like Carmen …"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, she's intelligent. She's a great conversationalist. Sounds like she had a very successful career before you met her. She's easy on the eyes. And that smile, she's got an amazing smile, Enri."

"So?"

"So - women like her intimidate the hell out of most men … I'm just saying," he says, watching Enri closely for a reaction. "Most of the ones that aren't intimidated are just too stupid to realize that they should be."

"Which category am I in?"

"I think you are in the third category."

"And what's that," he asks.

"Intelligent enough to keep her entertained, humble enough to feel overwhelmingly blessed to be with her, wise enough to appreciate what she has to offer without competing with her. Confident enough in your manhood to let her lead."

"What the hell, Seal? Why are you saying all this?"

"I'm just making a point. From Carmen's point of view, she's got a lot to lose if you were to lose interest in her …"

Enri squints at Booth. "Are you trying to suggest …?"

"I'm not suggesting anything. It's my job to look at everyone … that includes Carmen."

Enri is speechless. But he's also a scientist, and very good at compartmentalizing. He considers the possibility.

"Boy, that would really screw things up," he says.

"Well, that's an interesting response," says Booth, still watching him carefully.

"No, I mean, what do I mean?" He thinks for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Is it possible? Sure. Jealous rage. An accident. Maybe they got in a fight and Aleesha fell … "

"It sounds like you think it may be possible?"

"When I was still in grad school, there was another grad student in our department. Fun, energetic, intelligent, stacked like a brick outhouse, if you know what I mean," he looks to Booth to confirm he understands. "It made Carmen crazy. She said stuff like, 'That girl can talk quantum mechanics with you … and I can't!' She said she felt like an idiot next to my colleagues and friends. Asked me if I wouldn't rather be with this student than with her. It was nuts. The girl was barely twenty-one and couldn't hold a candle to Carmen."

"Did she ever confront the girl?"

"Janet, that was her name, never showed any interest in me, that I could see. There was nothing to confront. Carmen just felt intimidated. After I told her Janet didn't hold a candle to her, and I explained in detail why that was, she never brought it up again. I think she was surprised at what I had to say."

"Hm. One more question … Carmen mentioned that she want to Chilé with you. That was an observing run?"

"Yes, it was. I thought it would be boring, but she wanted to get away. She spent most of the time by herself. I mostly worked at night, slept during the day."

"She go on any other trips with you?"

"Whenever there is a Triple A meeting, we take the kids and all go together, if we can."

"How do you get there? Road trip?"

"No. We fly."

"Was Carmen with you when you were in Washington state in 2006?"

"Yes … that's the second time you've asked me about Puget Sound. What's the significance of that?"

"There may be a similar case out there … that's all. We gotta look at all the possibilities."

"Sounds a little far flung to me, but I'm not an FBI guy …"

After a moment of silence, Booth suggests they return to the dining room and wrap things up with Carmen.


	121. A Picture Worth A Thousand Words

**Chapter 121 A Picture Worth A Thousand Words**

"So, what did you say to Aleesha about her interest in Enri?" asks Bones.

"I ran into her on campus one day. It was before the Chilé trip," she says, wadding up a piece of damp Kleenex, then unfolding it again.

"And …" says Bones, encouraging her to continue.

"I didn't say much," she says, making a ball with the Kleenex, and looking up at Bones. "I thought for a long time and planned what I wanted to say ... in advance."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I didn't come right out with it. So she wouldn't run … or feel attacked. I made her comfortable first. It wasn't like I hated her. Who knew she'd end up a murder victim?" Carmen's eyes open wide in realization. "That was a non sequitur, wasn't it? Oh God! I must have some subconscious guilt over her disappearance. Is that possible?"

"I am the wrong person to ask. Booth could probably tell you," replies Bones. "How did you make her comfortable?"

"I said stuff like, Enrique aprecaites all the hard work you've done for him. He believes you have a bright future in a science profession, if you're interested in one. I mentioned the kids, how much they enjoyed having her babysit. Thanked her again for the help she gave us the day Anna was born. That kind of stuff."

"Okay - then what?"

"I told her that Enrique mentioned the photo she'd given him, but that we didn't think there was room on his desk or shelves for it. And could she please take it back. Then I gave it to her. I'd been carrying it around for a couple days hoping to run into her."

"Wow. That let her know you meant business, I'm sure."

"That was the whole idea … so then I mentioned to her that, as a friend, I thought she should be aware that some of her behaviors might lead an observer to think she was interested in Enrique as more than a professor or advisor."

"Fairly direct."

"Exactly."

"What did she do?"

"She actually teared up a little, to my surprise. That was the first time I considered that maybe she really wasn't aware of how conspicuous she had been. She seemed relieved that I hadn't taken out a gun and shot her between the eyes. By the end of that conversation, which only took about fifteen minutes, by the way, it was clear to me that she understood my message completely. Like I said, she's a smart girl."

"What happened then?"

"She mentioned that she had started dating a nice guy in the electronics industry. I asked her if he knew how smart she was. Told her I thought she could do better if she stopped hiding her brilliance behind giggles and high pony tails. She wasn't convinced. There's only so much you can do for a person, you know?"

"Um, I'm not sure I do."

"You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make them drink."

"That is absolutely true, Carmen," says Bones, nodding. "So, you can advise a bright girl to be herself around men, but you can't make her do it."

"Exactly."

"Did your relationship with Aleesha change after that?"

"We went out of town, to Chilé, for two weeks, and when we returned, we hardly ever saw her. Her work with Enrique was complete. We didn't ask her to babysit for us, though!"

"So you never saw her again?"

"Sure - but not more than to say hello and how ya' doing?'"

"Did she ever come over to the house after that."

"No. At least, not that I am aware of."

Bones takes out a pair of latex gloves and several evidence bags. "Do you mind if I take a look around?"

Carmen shakes her head. "Is there anything specific you are looking for?"

"Just looking," she says. She walks toward the hallway, looking in the opposite direction of the guest bedroom where she spent the night on Tuesday. "Your bedroom is back here, right?"

"Yes …" says Carmen, starting to get up.

"You can stay here. I'll be right back," she says, nodding at Carmen.

"Oh … kay," says carmen, apprehensively.

Bones walks down the hall and enters the only bedroom with the king size bed. Approaching the upright chest of drawers covered with knickknacks, loose change, receipts, and a stack of colorful Father's Day cards, she spies a coffee mug. It's three quarters of the way filled with trinkets, ticket stubs, old jewelry, silver dollars. She gingerly picks up the mug and places it inside the evidence bag. If Enri hadn't given those cuff links to Aleesha, in other words, if Aleesha had stolen them herself, her fingerprints should be on this mug.

Where the mug had been sitting, she notices an absence of dust that appears to be two intersecting circles, each the exact size of the bottom of the mug. The wood in the area where the circles overlap is completely free of dust. The non-overlapping crescents on either side of the intersection have very similar, yet distinctively different, amounts of dust. She makes a mental note, and continues on.

Walking toward the matching dresser, Bones notices a number of photos stuck in the frame of the dresser's mirror. Around the perimeter of the mirror are the most recent school photos of Anna and Jack, an older school portrait, which is either a sibling, or Enri himself as a school boy. She notices that Jack looks a lot like his father. She smiles, thinking of Booth and Parker.

Also squeezed into the edge of the mirror are a family portrait that's about a year old, a photo of Carmen with an older bearded man who shares the same bone structure and eye color as she does, and several photos of Enri and Carmen with their friends - most likely from their pre-parenthood era.

Something notices something familiar about one of the photos, and she's certain she knows why. After some careful work with a letter opener from the top of Enri's dresser, the photo finally releases from it's spot on the mirror, where it must have been attached for many years. She takes out and opens a second evidence bag, placing the photo inside. Taking a cursory look around the rest of this room, the remaining two bedrooms, and the bathroom, she returns to the dining room as Booth and Enri are coming through the back door.

Booth notices the mug in one evidence bag, and something else in another, but he can't tell what. Aleesha's file contains a copy of her fingerprints. A match will be easy to make. He looks at Bones and nods. In a glance, Bones lets him know that the conversation with Carmen had gone okay. Without sitting down, Booth takes the three evidence bags out of his breast pocket, lays them gently on the dining room table, and slides them in front of Carmen, whose still sitting, a pile of shredded Kleenex in front of her.

Carmen looks at what appears to be three messy sandwich bags with a red strip across the top of each. She looks up at Booth, then to Enrique, confused or curious, or both.

"What is this, Enri?" she says to him before breaking eye contact. She looks down, her face closer to the bags. She recognizes the cuff links. "Those are your cuff links. Look, there's our monogram. From our wedding," she says, alarmed.

"Yes, they are. They were found in Aleesha's bedroom at her parents' house," says Enri, shrugging and shaking his head, looking apologetic.

Booth and Bones exchange a meaningful glance.

"And what are these?" says Carmen, looking more closely. She slides the top flat evidence bag over so she can see them both more clearly. She picks one up.

"Is that you, Enri?" she says, looking at him, confused as all get out. "It IS you, but that's not me!" she says. She picks up the second photo. "But these are our friends. What the hell is this?"

No one says a word. Booth and Bones glance at each other, then back at Carmen. Catching his eye, Bones taps her finger on the flat evidence bag in her hand, letting Booth know there's something everyone should see. He nods a go-ahead ever so slightly. Before she can get this third photo onto the table. Carmen jumps up, aggitated.

"There is something very familiar about this photo. Yes, I know this photo," she yells. Taking the photo and evidence bag with her, she runs into the living room. Stopping at the entertainment center, and opens one of the compartment doors, pulling out a fifteen inch square white photo album. Returning to the dining room and slapping the album down on the table, she begins frantically flipping through the plastic adhesive-covered pages.

Half way through the album, she stops. There, spread across two pages, are other photos appearing to have been taken at the same time as one of the photos in an evidence bag. However, on the bottom right hand corner of the left page, there is a spot where a photo had been, and is now missing.

"Here! Right here!" says Carmen, pointing excitedly. "This is where that photo used to be! **Except - that photo used to have me in it with Enri!** Look at all these other photos, Enri, Seal! Look!" As she takes the matching photo out of its evidence bag, Bones starts, but Booth stops her. This is no longer real evidence at this point.

"Look at all these other photos! That's me in the Hawaiian dress dancing with my husband! Look at the back ground in both photos - the same people, the same clothing, the same bar, the same lantern lights, the same exposure. Is there any doubt that this is the missing photo from my album?" she nearly screams. "But how hell that other person's face got put in the picture, I have no fracking idea!

The other three say nothing. It appears indisputable that this first photo found at Aleesha Grimes' house belongs in this series of images. Bones takes this missing photo and lays it on the table. She takes off for the kitchen, rifles through several cupboards, and returns a moment later with a thick drinking glass. With the other three adults watching her with interest, she turns the glass upside down, places it on top of the photo, and uses it as a magnifying glass to view the photo up close.

"Booth," she says, her eye still looking through the upturned bottom of the drinking glass. "Look at this."

His eyes not leaving Bones, he walks over to her at the end of the table, and glances at the photo.

Bones moves out of the way, indicating that he should look through the glass. He bends over and peers through the fishbowl image on the table.

There, in the image, is Aleesha Grimes, dancing nose to nose with Enri.

"Now," says Bones, taking the open photo album from Carmen, pealing back the plastic sheet, and removing a similar photo. "Look at this," she says, placing this photo on the table, moving the upturned glass over it until the female's face is clearly visible. She steps back for Booth to look once again.

"Notice that everything is almost the same in these two photos, except for a slight variation in the couple's pose, like they were taken right after each other. But in this photo," she says, indicating the photo she took from Carmen's scrapbook, "Carmen's is the face on the female. However," she continues, reaching for the photo that had been in Booth's evidence bag, "in this photo from Aleesha's house, it's Aleesha's face, most likely Photoshopped in.

Booth looks at each photo under the glass once more.

"Do you see the feathering around the female face next to Enri's?" Bones asks him.

"It's blurred. Ever so slightly," he says, standing back up.

"Angela will analyze and confirm, but I'm fairly certain, that this," she says, indicating the photo from Aleesha's house, "is the counterfeit, a doctored copy. And, I believe we will find the same is true for these two photos," she says, reaching for the evidence bag containing the second photo found at Aleesha's house, and revealing the photo she took from the bedroom mirror.

Carmen gasps. Enri emits a "That's creepy!"

Booth nods and smiles at Bones. "Good job, partner!"

"What does this mean?" asks Enri.

"Is this the coffee mug that your cuff links were in?" says Booth, as Bones gives him the mug she bagged in their bedroom.

"Yes …"

"This suggests that Aleesha took these three items, the two photos and the cuff links, when she was here babysitting. And she kept them as part of her fantasy life."

"That …" says Carmen, "IS creepy!"

* * *

><p>"So what do you think this means, Booth," Bones says once they are back in the car, heading to the station to interrogate Slade Burup.<p>

"Unfortunately, it doesn't completely clear Enri. He clearly didn't have an affair with Aleesha Grimes. She had a thing for him, but no way it was mutual. That doesn't negate the fact that he was substantially involved in her life, and he was in King County, Washington, when Booby Solicitous was murdered," he says, pausing to think, pulling on his bottom lip with one hand, steering with the other. "On the other hand, that's a fairly weak beginning."

"What about other astronomers from the department who went on that trip to Washington state. Dr. Hubbard mentioned that they all go to some of the meetings. Sounds like they all going on these star-watching trips as well."

"Right. So who else was there on June 17th, 2006, AND also here in Laurel when Aleesha disappeared on June 15th? Man, those dates are way too close together. Squeaky close."

"Maybe it was Superman? Faster than the speed of light."

"Maybe we'll finally learn his true identity … no, you know what?"

"What, Booth?"

"I can't even joke about this."

"I know what you mean. I find I am anxious to get to Washington state. There are remains there that have a story to tell us. Right now it's all a big mess."

"Yeah - I feel like we're spinning our wheels. This interview with Slade is most likely going to result in bupkis!"

"That's not a word. Bupkis. You made that up," says Bones, narrowing her eyes.

"Did not. It's a real word."

"Is not. It's ludicrous."

"Is to. Look it up."

"I will."

"Fine."

"You'll be sorry."

"You'll have egg all over your face. You'll have to eat your words. You'll have to pay the price."

"You don't think I know what any of that means, do you?"

"Well, do you?"

"I do."

"Then tell me …"

"You're just trying to distract me from the **bupkis** thing."

"Am not," says Booth, shaking his head and laughing.

"Then how do you spell it? I'll look it up on the internet right now …" she challenges.

"How the hell should I know? I just say it, I don't write it!"

Bones opens the laptop and skates around on the internet, trying different spellings. Three minutes later, she shuts the laptop, as if she's tired of looking.

"And?" asks Booth.

"Just so you know …" she says, a little snottiness in her tone, "Egg on your face means you will be shown to have made a mistake; eating your words means you will have to recant because your original information was faulty; and paying the price means that there will be consequences for your mistakes."

**"You just looked that up, didn't you!"** he nearly yells, incredulous, and laughing.

"I **did not**," she yells back, playfully.

"Did too! Liar," he laughs back at her.

"Did not, twenty-four month old child …" she fires back at him.

"Then what was all the surfing for? Huh?" he challenges her, eyebrows raised, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows one at a time.

Bones looks out the window, unwilling to tell him.

"You **did** just look all that stuff up . . . " he says, as if to say, 'I rest my case.'

Bones whips her head around and stares at him, her arms crossed against her chest.

"If you **must** know … Booth … Bupkis is spelled **B-U-P-K-I-S**. Etomology: Yiddish: meaning large beans, from the word kozebupkes meaning goat droppings, from Slavic root koz meaning goat, and diminutive of Slavic root bob meaning bean. As a noun, it means 'absolutely nothing; nothing of value, significance, or substance,' as in, 'We searched for hours and found bupkis.' Related terms: Diddly-squat, peanuts,nada, zilch.

"Ah hah! Score a big one for the Booth Man!" shouts Booth, extending his knuckles to her for a fist bump. She ignores him and looks back out her window. Booth fist bumps the ceiing of the car instead.

"You may have won **bupkis**, BOOTH MAN, but I ... I won egg on my face, eating my words, and paying the price," she says seriously.

Once it's out of her mouth and hanging in the air, they both realize what she really just said. They look at each other and crack up.

"I think we both won bupkis," says Booth finally.

"No, you definitely won it," she says, then notices he's grinning mischievously.

"Oh. That was a joke, wasn't it?"

He nods his head, looking back and forth from the road to her face, still grinning.

"That was funny … " she says.

If you liked this chapter - or hated it for that matter! Please click on the review button and let me know about it! Thanks!


	122. Don't Let Steroids Mess With Your Junk

**Chapter 122 Don't Let Steroids Mess With Your Junk**

"Booth, any chance I can sit this next one out?"

"Slade, you mean?"

"Yes. You said he's bupkis, diddly-squat, right?"

"Yeah. But …"

"I could really use …"

"We could both use a nap, Bones. Come on, we'll give him … twenty minutes. If we need him for anything more, we know where to find him. Sounds like Benton has enough to get the guy on grand theft."

"Agghhhhhh! Okay, but at twenty … I'm walking. Even if he's in the middle of a confession. My brain needs some chocolate and a catnap."

"Deal," he says, extending his hand across the console for a fist bump.

She looks over at him, smiles a tired smile, and bumps her fist with his. "Deal."

* * *

><p>"So Slade - looks like you're already in a load of trouble."<p>

"Listen, man, I don't know where most of this stuff came from. I'm holding onto it for a guy."

Booth tosses a white pad of paper and a pen on the table and it slides into Slade's considerable abs. "Name, address, phone number of said … guy."

"I don't have his contact information …" pleads Slade.

Booth, who has been pacing the room for the first five minutes of this interview, stops across the table from the long-haired, steroid-pumping, body building form slouching in the chair like a lion relaxing on a mountain ledge. Leaning across the table, Booth spits out," Come on, Schwarzenegger, we BOTH know there is no 'guy,' so cut the BS. Listen, I have it on good authority that you had a tussle with Aleesha Grimes two days before she disappeared, and that you were the last one to see her alive. Now, I got a bag of bones with her teeth attached to them, and when I have my squints do their science thing, they are going to find some reason to lock you away for the rest of your life. You got that, you horse's hid quarters!"

This whole time, Slade is giving Booth the, 'I'm cool and you can't touch me' 'tude.

Bones looks at Booth and waves him over to the corner where she's leaning against the wall. She whispers into his ear, "There's no way this guy is using legal pharmaceuticals to get biceps, triceps, quads and obliques like that. He's juicing. Something on the black market …"

"You sure?"

"Yes, see how his hair is thinning, his face is slightly bloated and greasy, his skin has begun to yellow, he's covered in purple epidermal eruptions, and if you could get him to drop his Dockers, you'd probably find his testicles are the size of raisins and his penis is probably …" she sticks out her pinkie finger, and grimaces at Booth. "All signs of illegal steroid use."

"OH!" says Booth, flinching. "You're a genius, Bones!"

"I know," she says, smiling confidently, happy to be of assistance to her partner.

"Where are my manners? Did I introduce my partner to you, Slade?"

Slade turns a lazy eye to Bones, still leaning on the wall in the corner. He smile-smirks with half his face, turns, disinterested, back to Booth, still sucking on the tooth pick he came in with this morning

"This is Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute in Washington D.C. She is a forensic anthropologist. Do you know what that is, Slade?" he pauses for only a split second. Nine and a half minutes left on the clock. "Slade, Dr. Brennan takes apart bodies after people have died to figure out why and how they died. First she boils off all the meaty parts …"

Bones steps away from the wall and slowly advances toward the table.

"Agent Booth, you always get this mixed up," she says, feigning irritation. "Let me explain what I do to this young man." Bones pulls out a chair, sits down, and begins speaking in a very calm, clear voice. "Slade, I don't boil the bodies I work on. At least not at first. First, I cut the scalp and the fingers off - that is, if they have any hair left. I had a steroid user earlier this week, about your age, actually, who had the thinnest hair I'd ever seen. I thought at first he'd had cancer. Sadly, it was just the steroids. I apologize for mentioning him," she says, reaching across the table to touch his hand, a pained expression on her face.

"It was such a gruesome case and so recent," she says, looking away forlornly, then begins again almost perkily. "So I cut off the scalp. Then, starting at the biceps, I use a large knife, like a machete, to slice off the large muscle masses. This poor kid, his muscles had putrified, you know what that means, Slade? They'd started digesting themselves. It's a very painful condition. The digestion of muscle by muscle results in recurring and persistent halitosis. I noticed you have an unpleasant odor about you … do you brush regularly?" she asks, continuing without allowing him to get a word in edgewise. Seven and a half minutes and counting. "Anyway, after the muscles are sliced off and disposed of in the food processor at 6,000 rotations per minute - practically turns the muscle into a milk shake, but not one you'd want to sip, Slade. That would be disgusting, don't you think?" she asks, again without waiting for an answer. Six and a half minutes.

"Protocol at this point is to take a scoop - much like an industrial sized ice cream scoop, but with serrated edges like a steak knife, and scoop out the reproductive organs, you know, the vas deferens, the prostate, the scrotum, the testicles, the epididymis, the urethra, the penis. You get the picture," she says nodding at him. "But anyway, this poor kid this week, he barely had anything to scrape out! The steroids he'd been using had shrunk his junk to almost nothing," she says, pausing to hold up her pinkie finger for him to see. By this time Slade has turned white, almost blue, and he looks like he is going to crap in his pants. Or puke, Or both.

"I'm telling you, it was frightening. The sad thing is, if he had gotten help, he could have reversed all of that and gone on to live a healthy, sexually productive life, but he didn't know enough to get help, poor boy. Well anyway, after the scooping, then I boil whatever's left," as she finishes, she smiles sweetly at Slade, then at Booth. "Now why did you have me explain all this to Mr. Slade, Booth? It really has nothing to do with him. I hate to scare the boy …"

Booth smiles at Bones. "Thank you, Dr. Brennan," he says, sitting down next to her, across from Slade, who is now sitting upright in his seat, leaning on the table for support.

Booth takes a couple moments to shuffle blank papers around in the file folder on his lap. He draws a couple of stars and hockey sticks, pretending to take notes, and letting Slade sweat it out a bit.

"So what we're really interested in is your relationship with Aleesha Grimes. What can you tell us about that?" Booth stares him in the eyes.

"Well, um, we broke up right before she disappeared. Two days before. How late is too late to reverse the effects of steroid usage, Dr. Brennan?"

"Well, if the genitals have not completely ascended into the reproductive cavernous epididymis, then there is still time, but why would that concern you, Mr. Slade?"

"No reason," he says, sweat dropping from what's left of his hairline down to the shelf that is his eye brows.

"Why did Aleesha break up with you, Slade, and when was the last time you saw her?" asks Booth.

"We broke up because she found out all my gear was … on loan … the electronic gear … from the store I work at. How would a person go about getting help to reverse the shrinkage, I mean, the side effects of steroid use?"

"You don't seem real focused this afternoon, Slade," says Booth. "Is there something else on your mind? Anything you'd like to get off your chest?"

"If I tell you everything … can you help me reverse the steroid damage?" he asks, panicked.

Bones leans forward, putting her hand on Slade's. "I will do what I can, Mr. Slade," she says in her most sincere voice, "but it will mean you'll have to give up the steroids, most men aren't willing to do that …" she says, shaking her head and grimacing.

"Oh, I will do whatever it takes, Ma'am."

"Aleesha Grimes," says Booth. Five minutes and counting. "Last time you saw her?"

"I don't remember. I never saw her after that phone call, that's for sure. Man she was a rag. We'd been together about nine months and all of a sudden, she says she's pregnant! Then we start talking about finances and she finds out I'm broke. Well, that changed everything. What about all this equipment, she says. And how do you afford that 2006 Ford Wrangler. And how do you expect to support a family. And I was, like, I don't have to support any family. You can just get an abortion. Then she was all pissed, screaming, and yelling. And she said she never wanted to see me again. That was the last I heard of her. Is there a shot, or some pills I can to take, Dr. Brennan?"

"I'll go get you a prescription right now," says Bones, leaving the room.

"Do you have an alibi for June 15th, 2006, Slade?"

"Hell yes! I was in Canada. Fishing. With my Dad and brothers. You can ask all them. And the guy who owns the shop I bought my fishing license from. And the dude I got in a fight with at the little bar by the fishing hole. Already had to run all those people down the first time you cops went through this whole thing about Aleesha's disappearance."

"Names and numbers of all your family members. And those two other people you mentioned. Officer Benton needs to talk to you about the equipment he found at your place. I have a feeling you'll be getting free rent and three squares a day for a while, Slade. If you want to live that long, you'll do what Dr. Brennan tells you to do," says Booth, getting up to leave interview room one.

Slade looks deflated, and constipated, all at the same time.

"Word of advice?"

"Yeah," says Slade looking at Booth, hopeful.

"Turn over your steroid dealer, and Officer Benton might be able to be pursuaded to knock a couple of months off your prison sentence …" says Booth, winking, and leaving the room.

* * *

><p>"All done?" asks Bones, waiting outside interview room one for Booth. Two minutes to go and counting.<p>

"All done," he says. "What's that?" He points to the tan prescription bottle in her hand.

"Well, the bottle is from the nice woman who files all the police paperwork around here. The Tylenol is from my first aid kit."

"Ah ha ha. You are bad!" he says, laughing.

"Even when I'm bad," she answers him back, "I'm still good!" Bones opens the door to interview one and tosses the bottle to Slade. "Quit the steroids. Take two of these, once a day, until they're gone. Then go see the prison physician. Take care, SLADE," she says, ready for a shower and a catnap.

"Let's **go**, Romeo!" She shouts to Booth, leaning against the glass entrance to the police station, hoping her weight alone will open the door. One minute and counting. The clock stops.

* * *

><p>If you enjoyed this chapter, found it funny, or appreciate where the story is going, please take a moment to write a review! Thanks, MoxieGirl<p> 


	123. Caroline Gets An Ear Full

**Author's note: **The chapters, from here forward, get longer, so I will most likely be publishing fewer at a time. I am not above groveling for more feedback ... which I desperately need, and will greatly appreciate. So here I go ... grovel, grovel, grovel. I'm curious if you think the details in this chapter are realistic, and if parts of it surprise and/or delight you, as a reader. So there you have it. Please take a moment to review! ~ MoxieGirl

**Chapter 123 Caroline Gets An Ear Full**

"Bones, was that the only mug on Enri's dresser? And how do you know that is the one the cuff links were in?" Booth asks in the SUV on the way to the hotel.

"There were two other mugs toward the back of the dresser top, but one had what looked like Christmas socks in it, and the other was filled with wheat pennies. Besides, the dust gave it away."

"The dust?" repeats Booth, with a quizzical glance.

"The dust. When I picked up the mug, I could tell that it had barely been moved since it was placed there, probably back when Jack was born. But it had been picked up at least once - some number of years ago," she says.

"How could you tell?"

"When was the last time you dusted the top of your chest of drawers?" she asks him.

"Oh, are we supposed to dust those?" he says, laughing.

"My point exactly. You told me once that every man has at least one place where he keeps little things that he has no use for, but he doesn't want to throw away."

"Right. A repository for small items that are meaningful or possibly useful in the future, but have no other place to be kept without getting misplaced. We'll probably find a couple odd sized screws, some dice, an old driver's license, a broken watch, some really small batteries, maybe a couple of buttons, a class ring, who knows what else is in there," says Booth, thinking of the contents of the ceramic bowl with Parker's self-portrait painted on it when his son was five years old.

"Precisely. So Enri's was that mug. By examining the dust, I could see that the mug had been placed there many years ago, then picked up, and returned to almost the same location - but not exactly. So - the layers of dust were different. One layer was eight years old, the other looked to be about five years old, assuming a continuous level of physical activity and traffic through the room ever since the mug was first placed there."

"Kind of like the rings on a tree trunk, huh?"

"Yep. My guess, Aleesha was snooping around, picked up the mug and dumped it out, took the cuff links, and returned the mug to it's location, but was off by a half inch."

"Brilliant," says Booth.

"I know," answers Bones.

"Well, no matter what, the presence of Aleesha's fingerprints will confirm that she was in that room. We can believe all we want, it's what we can prove that matters."

"Booth," says Bones, putting her hand on his arm, leaving it there until he looks at her. "I want them to be innocent as much as you do," she says, leaning her head to the side and grimacing at him. Booth looks at her, then back to the road. His jaw muscle flexes. Bones had said out loud the words he had been kicking to the back of his mind all day. It seemed easier to remain objective if you didn't dwell on your feelings about the suspects.

He looks over at Bones briefly, and grimaces, turing back toward the road.

* * *

><p>As Booth pulls into the hotel parking lot, Bones' phone rings.<p>

"It's Hodgens," she says to Booth, looking at the caller I.D. "Maybe he's already received the extra phalange and has some interesting news for us."

Booth nods, pulling into a parking space fifteen yards from the hotel entrance.

Bones answers her cell while getting out of the car.

"Dr. Brennan," she says. A stack of files and the laptop in one arm, her bag slung over the other, she holds the phone with her only free hand and closes the car door as gently as possible with her knee. Noticing Booth is also on the phone now, she climbs up onto the sidewalk around the perimeter of the parking lot, and waits for him, still listening to Hodgens.

Hodgens has news about the extra phalange. He tells her he just sent her his mass spectrometer report identifying the source and identity of a yellowish substance found cleaving, in places, to the surface of the bone.

"I believe the substance," he says to her, "once covered the entire bone, but has since been worn down as a result of constant friction."

"Very interesting, Dr. Hodgens. Good work. Please conduct an analysis of the stable isotopes as well, and send them to me as soon as possible," she requests. Oxygen isotopes ingested through food and water are incorporated into the hydroxide carbonic appetite of the bone. When analyzed, they point to the geographic region where they were acquired, identifying where the bone's owner spent his or her life. Before hanging up, she says, "I may be out of reach after six o'clock, Dr. Hodgens, but please forward your findings to me regardless."

As Booth locates and walks toward Bones, his phone still stuck to his ear, he raises the key fob over his shoulder, without looking back, and locks the SUV, rendering all 326 horses speechless. Loving that sound, he unlocks and re-locks it two more times.

As if on queue, Bones' cell rings again. This time it's Cam. She's been in touch with Sheriff Sharon Restovich from Washington state. Restovich has arranged for supplies and lab space at the coroner's office for Bones when they arrive on Monday. Booth motions to Bones that he needs to talk to Cam before they hang up.

They walk into the hotel, each still talking on their phones. This continues all the way up to their rooms on the third floor. They've both stopped in front of their doors to do the 'where the hell is my key card' dance. As Bones is winding down her discussion with Cam about the revelations of the day, Booth listens to Caroline drone on. She, too, wants an update on the case, as well as some other items about a closed case going to trial in two weeks. Booth asks Caroline to wait for a moment. He puts his phone to his chest, and motions to Bones that he needs to interrupt her. Caroline wants to talk to Bones, and he still needs to talk to Cam. They exchange cell phones and resume searching for their keys.

Booth finds his key card in his breast pocket. Instead of unlocking his door, he leans against it, watching Bones, who is still struggling to find hers while keeping the files, computer, and bag from falling to the ground. Her back is to him, allowing him to observe her undetected. He's not paying very close attention to whatever Cam is saying, because he'd much rather focus on the view in front of him.

"Maybe while you're out there," starts Caroline, "you and your Dr. Bones can figure out what the hell's taking you so damn long to consummate that relationship! I need your head back in the game, Cheri. With all that steamy sexual chemistry flying all over the place, it's amazing either one of you is able to get anything done at all! For God's sake, seal the deal, Booth. And get back to work!"

"Um, Caroline," says Bones into Booth's cell, "this is Dr. Brennan. I'm going to assume that your comments were intended for Agent Booth?"

"Oh, Dr. Brennan. How nice to talk to you!" says Caroline, adopting a fake syrupy voice. "Well, as long as the cat's out of the bag," she says, reverting back to her usual acerbic voice, "let me tell you something, Cheri. It just isn't right, you teasing Agent Booth like you do. Who do you think you are, a kitten with a ball of yarn? It's shameless! You got him all tied up into next Tuesday, and he can't rub two thoughts together without getting a stupid look on his face from thinking about you in that tight blue lab coat and those low-cut, cleavage-revealing, dresses you been wearing."

"Caroline," interrupts Bones, "I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about ..."

Booth, still on Bones' phone, notices that the back of Bones' neck is turning beet red as she listens to Caroline. He wonders what Caroline could possibly have been saying to have this affect on Bones.

"Gotta go, Cam," he says absently, hanging up on her and turning the cell off. He walks over to Bones, who is so focused on her interaction with Caroline that she is oblivious to his presence immediately behind her. He can tell by her rigid posture and the tone of her voice, that Bones is on the verge of losing it.

"Then let me be perfectly clear, Cheri. That poor man is certifiably, one hundred percent, head over tea kettle, in love with your brainy ass, though for the **life** of me, I **fail** to see the attraction. If you aren't smart enough to see what's right in front of you, maybe you need to dumb down a bit. I understand they've got lobotomies on sale at Wal-Mart this week, shall I make you an appointment, Cheri?"

"Caroline, surely you are mistaken, Wal-Mart is not a D.C. Health Board approved medical, or psychiatric facility. You must be thinking of WALMEN Clinic off 5th and Germantown. However, I seriously doubt they have added lobotomies to their services," she says, dropping everything to the floor, putting her hand on her hip, and getting louder than she intends. "Regardless, I am **not,** nor will I ever **be**, at liberty to discuss with you, Agent Booth's ability to concentrate on his responsibilities to the Bureau, whether or not," cries Bones, on a roll and gaining heat with every breath, "his brain is pumping massive quantities of dopamine into his blood stream. Your suggestion of Agent Booth's inability to perform his duties as a result of some … out of control … **LUST** … inspired by me … is without merit. Agent Booth, even **if** he were to be incapacitated in such a manner, is **TWICE** as intelligent and **FOUR TIMES** faster than any other agent employed by the FBI, past or present. "Now," she stops to inhale, her shoulders rising and falling, dramatically, "do you have a question for me or are you wasting my time?"

Caroline, who can hear Bones clearly even though she's been holding the phone four inches from her ear to protect her ear drums, grins ear to ear. _Maybe this is finally going to work out, she thinks, nodding, and snickering to herself. If I'd known pissing off Dr. Brennan would get this kind of result years ago, I could be the godmother of their third child by now!_

"Well, ain't that nice, defending your boyfriend and all," she says into the phone, all sugary-sweet again. Then, returning to her usual sarcastic twang, "Now you've made me **forget** the whole reason I called his sorry butt in the first place!"

"Caroline, there's someone else calling, I have to cut this short," lies Bones, clicking the end button.

Still standing directly behind Bones, Booth heard every word she said. It did something to him. He felt funny. Dizzy, funny. Or … wow … just … a nagging impulse to pull her around by her hair, pin her up against the door, and sink his teeth into her neck just below the jawline. I'm losing it, he tells himself, taking a deep breath.

At that exact moment, Bones heaves a frustrated sigh, and abruptly whips around intending to throw Booth's cell phone to him one door down, but runs right into him instead, slamming them both against the door jamb. It happened so fast, Booth's reflexes took over and he caught her, wrapping his arms around her.

"Woah, Bones! Was that CAROLINE, you just hung up on?" he asks, eyes as big as coasters.

"Um, yes," she says, apologetically. "I'm sorry. I lost control … I really shouldn't have done that."

Her bag, files and computer on the floor around her in a semi-circle, she begins to trip over them when she attempts to back away from his embrace and ends up falling in the opposite direction. Once again, Booth catches her, yanking her back into his arms so she doesn't fall on her face. Now they are pressed against each other and for a moment neither one of them knows what to say.

"Today was, um, an interesting day," says Booth, more quietly than usual, but not whispering. He's thinking about the two kisses, the almost kiss over lunch, the panties ... and he's not releasing her, or loosening his hold on her.

Bones gazes up into his warm chocolate eyes and can't think of anything intelligent to say. So she just swallows dryly, a swallow which she thinks the whole floor must have heard.

"Um, is this another sample of the league you play in? The league I am apparently not a part of. Because … "

"Because what …?' he says, smiling, raising an eyebrow, a twinkle in his eye.

"Because I seem to be having trouble breathing …" she says, feeling the poppies blooming on her cheeks. Each time she takes a breath, she is more and more acutely aware that how he's holding her brings the entire length of their bodies into contact, except maybe their ankles and feet. Yowsa.

No longer able to stop himself, he looks into her eyes and tightens his arms around her, much like a boa constrictor tightening its grip each time its prey exhales.

"Oh, no, Booth, I can't take the teasing …" starts Bones, thinking this is another round of competition, another round of teasing.

Booth cuts her off by tilting his face toward her and dragging his parted lips back and forth over hers, watching her, breathing in the scent he knows to be Bones, then kissing her full on the mouth, squeezing her whole body till there's nothing between them but warmth.

As he sinks his teeth into her neck, Bones hears herself sigh, "Oh … my … god …. Ohmygod. Jesus." Her arms, though feeling like they weigh a ton, fly up and encircle his warm, solid shoulders. She's almost afraid to trust this enough to let herself surrender to it, but can't help noticing that no matter what her concerns are, her body doesn't share them. "What … are … you … doing …?" she asks, arching into him, sounding like she's talking in her sleep, or drugged.

Booth makes his way back up to her lips and finds hers, saying against them, "What do you think I'm doing?" before burying his face in the hair behind her ear.

"Oh … my … god," she sighs again, "this is so … not fair. Ohhhh," she whines. "I can't compete with this," she whimpers, almost inaudibly.

"The best competitions are those where everybody wins," Booth whispers into her ear, his breath sending hot sparks down her spine and further still.

The whole attack probably lasted all of sixty seconds. Booth knew he better stop or he would bust down the door, pick her up, throw her on the bed, and let Mother Nature have her way with them. Before he has a chance to think another coherent thought, she leans into him, pushing him back toward the door jamb, cushioning their fall with her outstretched hand behind him. Ensuring they've landed safely against the door, she stands up on her tip toes and, looking into his eyes, puts her whole weight against him, from her hips to her lips, letting him know exactly how she feels about this little competition of theirs. Her mouth moving against his, her hips leaning into his, the softness of her chest making his own tight, his knees feeling like jello, he knows he's got to pull himself together or … whew.

Putting his hands on her rib cage, he gently stands her upright and steadies her, holding her until she gets her balance. She has a pained expression on her face. He's not sure what that means ... but it clearly isn't bad.

"I'm going to go to my room," he says, "and you are going to yours, and we will both take cold showers. Then, would you like to join me in the hotel restaurant for dinner?"

"Russ loves Pringles potato chips," she says, her eyes, glossy and bright, looking up into his face with wonder.

Of all the things she could have said, this was nowhere near expected.

"What does that mean?" he asks her, smiling, no idea what she will say next, but confident there's nothing she could say that would bother him in this moment.

"Russ says the Pringles Company puts crack cocaine in their chips so no one can have just one. You have to have more, and more, and more …"

"Yeah?" says Booth, still unsure where this is going.

"You," says Bones, sighing, "are like Pringles to me."


	124. Did That Really Happen?

**Author's note: **Okay, here we are in the aftermath of what we've all been waiting for ... something that breaks the stalemate and sets thing most definitely going in the desired direction. So, what are your thoughts? Feedback, feedback, feedback! Thanks! ~ MoxieGirl

**Chapter 124 Did That Really Happen?**

When Bones finds her keycard, she hands it to Booth who has already picked up the computer and her bag from the floor outside her hotel room door. Immediately upon walking across the threshold, Bones absently plops her files down on the table/desk and falls, face first, across the bed, still in a daze over what just happened. She looks like she won't be moving for the foreseeable future, or at least until she takes that nap, though how the hell she can sleep after what just happened is a mystery to her.

Watching from the doorway, Booth is amused at the affect his kisses are having on her. Amused, and more than a little shaken himself.

"Um, Bones?"

"Ungh?" she grunts from the bed, not moving.

"I'm putting your stuff, and the key card … right here," he says, squatting down and placing them on the floor just inside the door.

"Booth!" says Bones, the only thing moving is her eyelids which slowly close.

"Hm?" he says, straightening back up, and leaning against the door jamb.

**"Did that really happen?"**

"Oh yeah," he says, smiling even though he knows she can't see it.

"What now?" she says, still no movement.

"Well, we are both going to take a break. Shower, nap, whatever you need to do … then we'll meet in the hotel restaurant," he says, looking at his watch. It's later than he thought. "See you there around … 7:15?"

Finally stirring, Bones rolls over onto her back and looks up at him as he's standing in the doorway. They lock eyes, both of them expressionless, except for the tender eye contact. What is being said, cannot be put into words.

In the end, it's Bones who breaks the silence.

"If you're going to go, you better go," she says.

"What? You don't trust me?" he says, teasing.

"Are you kidding me? Look at you. You won't even take a step into my room. No, Booth, it's not you that I don't trust," she says, smiling weakly.

"You?" chuckles Booth. "You're a pile of jello right now. You couldn't tackle a marshmallow."

"Don't be so sure about that," she says, raising one finger and letting it fall back down. Booth is reminded of a scene in Monty Python's Holy Grail where an almost completely dismembered knight refuses to surrender, exclaiming, as blood squirts from his gaping wounds, "It's only a flesh wound!"

Booth takes her cell phone from his pants pocket and tosses it toward the bed.

"Seven-fifteen," he says, and backs out into the hall, letting the door close automatically.

After the door clicks into place, Bones' eyes close slowly once again. She considers falling asleep, but her brain is buzzing. She considers showering, but she'd really rather not wash off the ghost of his lips on her skin. She reaches up and touches her throat where he bit her, and shivers involuntarily, a smile creeping across her face. Reaching out toward the pillows with her free hand, she grabs the bed spread, and rolls in the opposite direction, wrapping it around her. Maybe I can sleep … she thinks, nodding off eventually.

* * *

><p>Showered, shaved, and wrapped in a damp towel, Booth crawls on top of his own bed, reaching for the phone he'd tossed onto the side table. Flipping it open, he clicks through to the photo of Bones, asleep in his bed. He wonders if he'd noticed before that she is wearing his tee shirt in the photo. Snapping the phone shut, he now reaches for his wallet. Rolling over onto his back, he opens the wallet and finds the folded piece of paper containing her Footie Note. He reads it for the one hundredth time, and puts it to his lips, but unlike the previous paper kisses, he's not smiling this time. "This is really happening," he says, out loud, to the room. Closing his eyes, he drops his arm across his face, and heaves a long sigh. No going back now, he thinks, a gentle smile creeping across his face.<p>

* * *

><p>A half hour later, back on the other side of the adjoining doors, Bones is stirring. "How long was I out?" she says, wondering if she should be panicking. No. Plenty of time. She reaches for a pillow and wraps herself around it, thinking about the day she wrote that Footie note.<p>

Sweets had recommended it as a small step toward becoming comfortable with risk. Angela had added her two cents worth, but in the end, what she wrote, what she included, was 101% Bones …


	125. Prelude To A Footie Note

**Chapter 125 Prelude to the Footie Note**

Over the many months since Booth and Hannah's break-up, Sweets and Brennan had met once or twice a week, at different locations, to work through whatever it was that stood in the way of her having an open heart, one she could share with Booth. For almost twenty years, Brennan had been building an impenetrable wall around her heart, as if it were an irritant, something to cover up and lock away, as an oyster does when creating a pearl.

As a result of her childhood traumas of abuse and abandonment, Brennan had used her intellect to armor herself against intense levels of emotion.

"A requirement of intimacy," Sweets contended, "is the ability to experience and share those intense levels of emotion. I believe that your abandonment by your parents convinced you that all meaningful relationships were doomed. An inability to share those emotions would certainly render any relationship doomed … creating a self-fulfilling prophecy."

Not knowing when Booth would return from his disillusionment over love, and perhaps be interested in giving their relationship a chance, Brennan was in a hurry to get through these sessions with Sweets as quickly as possible . . .

"No, Dr. Brennan, we cannot meet every day of the week for three weeks and call it good," Sweets had told her when she expressed her need for expediency. "And, no, you cannot opt to a weekend lock-up filled with intense therapy!"

"But, we already know that I possess a superior intellect," she argued, squirming in her seat on the couch opposite his chair in his office.

"I … I am a motivated and diligent student. I will put in extra hours. I will pay you double whatever the FBI pays you per hour!"

"Dr. Brennan, while I appreciate your tenacity and your commitment, I assure you that the human mind and heart do not advance through study and wrote memorization," he explained. "Dissolving an imperviousness that took years to construct will take time, practice, and dogged persistence. It will also require you to focus one of your most valuable professional assets toward something that, for a very long time, may not make much sense at all, scientifically speaking."

"Dr. Sweets, which professional asset are you referring to, first of all," she asked.

"Your commitment, Dr. Brennan," he said. "You regularly put everything you have on the line toward the goal of solving the mysteries locked inside a set of remains that other professionals would have abandoned long before. Not only are you committed to your work, you are committed to your team of colleagues, and to your family."

"I have always been committed to my work," she replied, "which is how I have come to be regarded as the foremost forensic anthropologist in the world. But my investment in my relationships is a direct result of my partnership with Booth …"

At this, Sweets smiled, sitting back in his chair at the office in the Hoover Building. Resting his elbows on the arms of his brown suede chair, and making a tent of his fingers in front of his smiling pink lips, he said, "Sometimes it amazes me that you can clearly identify the changes brought about in your life through your relationship with Agent Booth," he said. "But I want you to recognize something else, Dr. Brennan, a key component in this process we are undertaking."

"What is that," she said, intrigued.

"The changes you have made as a result of your relationship with Agent Booth are only possible because **you** have opened yourself to them," he said, letting her chew on that for a moment. "And, in effect, opened yourself to Agent Booth."

That statement had shocked her. And increased the perspiration already making itself known on her forehead and under her arms.

"So, maybe I don't need to meet with you after all?" she said, she hoped. "I just need to continue with what I am doing - and do more of it?"

"I wish it were that simple," he had said. "The value of a trained professional is in their ability to hold up a mirror and provide a context by which you are able to see your own strengths and inadequacies - so that you can be intentional in the direction of your own growth. That is in DIRECTING your focus toward those practices which nurture the desired growth, and away from those which stifle it."

"Isn't there a book I read about this? I think it would streamline this process considerably …" she had said. "Or would it be possible to …"

"Stop. No, Dr. Brennan. Building neural passageways takes time and repetition. You know this better than anyone. Every time you learn something new, or learn how to do something new, your brain creates neural passages to sustain that knowledge or skill. This requires TIME. We will meet and discuss. Then you will go out into the sandbox called life, and you will observe and practice what we've discussed. Then you will return and we will review. Then the process starts again. That is how we build new neural passageways that support the kind of open heart you are desirous of building."

"Then, let's get to it," she said. "But I would like this to be confidential between you and me. I would prefer that Booth not be informed, and that you refrain from making reference to our arrangement.

Sweets agreed, recognizing that, at this stage in the game, she was not yet able to expose her vulnerability in such a direct manner to the object of her affection - or anyone else, for that matter.

Over the months, Sweets and Brennan worked on her acceptance of the truth around her childhood abandonment: her parents' love and concern for her and Russ' safety, anonymity, and longevity.

They explored the root cause of her fear in regard to relationships: that someone would uncover a truth that was too painful to face - that perhaps she wasn't worthy of another's love.

Sweets challenged her to step outside her comfort zone by expressing her feelings to those closest to her. On this, they had to back track and repeat the process several times. First in very small ways, and usually with Angela, who was very good in this area, and at providing feedback. Identifying a feeling proved challenging for Brennan, since she had used her intelligence to insulate her from emotional cues all of her adult life. Sweets helped her learn to recognize her body's physical and chemical reactions, associate them with emotions, and verbalize what she thought she was feeling.

They identified those parts of her personal mythology that were based upon truth, and those that were based upon supposition, thereby debunking many core beliefs that were unsupportive of her growth as a strong, rather than impervious person. Then, they created new sets of beliefs that were nurturing, rather than destructive. This was a long and "arduous" process, perfectly described by Webster's dictionary under the definition for that word: onerous, taxing, difficult, hard, heavy, laborious, burdensome, strenuous, vigorous, back-breaking; demanding, tough, challenging, formidable; exhausting, tiring, punishing, grueling; uphill, steep; informal killing; toilsome. God, it was exhausting.

During their frequent sessions, Sweets and Brennan became more and more comfortable with each other. Sweets gained an even greater appreciation for Brennan's plight as well as her determination. Brennan gained considerable respect for Sweets' expertise in his field, though she vehemently insisted that the hard sciences of biology, chemistry, physics, and anthropology were much more exact sciences. She preferred depending on that which is objective rather than subjective, or open to interpretation.

In the end, one of the most challenging, yet valuable, truths that Brennan learned was that, in many cases, especially involving intimacy and love, the subjective is the only truth that matters. How else could two people, completely different, and with no valid substantiating argument, look at each other and love each other to the exclusion of all others?

Choosing a lover, a partner for life, a spouse, is not a mathematical exercise. What brings two people together, binds them together, despite logic or reason, is as elusive as the concept of soul and love themselves. How it can work so brilliantly and valiantly, despite the odds, is beyond comprehension.

Brennan learned to accept that surrendering to a life of intimacy and vulnerability with Booth would inevitably mean learning to embrace volatility. Personal, emotional volatility. Chance. Unpredictability. Risk. Agh! This, the final and greatest challenge, literally gave Brennan a case of urticaria, or hives, for two weeks straight. She broke out in a rash of round, red welts that itched intensely, swelled dangerously, and landed her on quarantine from the Jeffersonian until she got lab results testifying that wasn't a carrier of typhoid, small pox, or measles.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Anyone interested in what the Footie note says? Anyone have any clues? Anyone have some feedback for me? Even if just to tell me to GIVE IT, please review! Grovel, grovel ... ; ) ~ MoxieGirl<p> 


	126. Saying It With Bones

**Chapter 126 Saying It With Bones**

"Is there any reason **not** to believe that Agent Booth does love you?" Sweets had asked during one of his sessions with Dr. Brennan.

"Dr. Sweets, while it is true that he told me about his feelings for me, and then later I shared my feelings for him, a lot has happened since then. And though we have gone through all of this work together, I cannot say without a shadow of a doubt that he still loves me as he once did," Brennan answered, uncertainly.

"Remember what I told you at the very beginning of our sessions, Dr. Brennan?" he asked, looking her straight in the eyes, and daring her not to remember what he must have repeated at least once during every single session they'd had since. "Our entire time together has been about living **inside** the shadow of doubt.** Life is lived inside the shadows of doubt. Love is found inside the shadows of doubt. ** That is why it is so precious, so sought-after, so cherished. It is not a right - but a blessing.

_'What value there is, in requisite affection?_  
><em>None, I tell thee, verily.<em>  
><em>Precious only, is that given,<em>  
><em>yet undeserved by feckless man.'<em>

Sighing heavily, and focusing on the fingers tangled in the hank of hair on the left side of her face above her ear, she leans that elbow on the arm of the couch. The couch, by now, bears a permanent indentation the exact size of Brennan's Gluteus Maximus as a result of her many hours planted in that seat, DESPITE the fact that they've met at any number of other locations as well.

"You told me then, and have many times repeated, that there are no guarantees. That at the end of our journey," she recites, as if reading it off a script, such is her familiarity with Sweets' recurring speech. "At the end of our journey, I will have lost much, learned much, lived much, and become open to loving much. When all is said and done, everything I have accomplished is rendered worthless if kept inside a vacuum. That in risking pursuing an intimate relationship with Booth, I am also risking LOSING that opportunity, because the other person is always the unknown in an intimacy equation. I cannot make him return my love, I can only make mine known to him, and hope for the best." By the time she's at the end of her recitation, she's speaking from a place of emotion.

"I am impressed, Dr. Brennan," I couldn't have said it better myself!"

"No, you couldn't," she replies, "because that is exactly what you did say. Verbatim. So it is exactly as good or poor as you could have said it."

"Still with the insistence on accuracy, huh? Well, you can keep that endearing part of your personality, we've worked on quite a bit of other issues together. You are almost ready to graduate!"

"But can I at least express my concern?"

"Are you in need of encouragement?"

Brennan looks at him, not saying yes or no. By now, however, Sweets knows that this means 'yes.'

"Okay - give me the facts, followed by your interpretations, and I will give you my thoughts. The conclusions, you will have to find on your own."

"**Fact 1:** Out of the last twelve cases we have worked together since he and Hannah broke up, he has declined eight of our usual after-case drinks at the Founding Fathers," she says, making a fist with her left hand, and sticking out her index finger to indicate her first point.

"**Fact 2:** Before Hannah, he engaged in approximately six hours of eye contact lasting longer than eight seconds per incidence per week with me. Now he is down to three hours of eye contact at less than five seconds per incidence per week."

"You timed his eye contact even before he was with Hannah?" asks Sweets.

"Well, no. I conducted a Fermi Estimate, an approximation. Perhaps, it is an inexact representation, but it's still close enough to be useful. You, yourself, taught me the benefit of loosening my stranglehold on exactness in areas where exactness is not significantly relevant."

"Yes. Right," said Sweets, rubbing his forehead with his hand, then dropping it back across his lap. "So, what you are telling me is that from these two ESTIMATED observations …"

"Oh, no," she interrupted, "there are more. Shall I continue?"

"By all means," he said, extending his hand in a gesture of resignation and wonder. He capped his pen, and tossed it along with his blue lined pad of white paper onto the coffee table between them. She hesitated, unsure what those gestures meant. "You say, 'go ahead,' but your gestures seem to be saying, 'I don't want to hear anymore.' So which is it, Dr. Sweets?" she asks, looking confused.

"I'm sorry. It's been a long day and I was supposed to be out of here fifteen minutes ago," he says, looking to her to see if she might offer to continue this discussion during their next session. Who am I kidding? he says to himself. I am not a miracle worker. "Please continue, Dr. Brennan. Please," he says, sincerely this time.

Brennan looks at him, hesitating. She'd sensed something, but wasn't sure how to interpret it, so she made a choice to go with the face value of his words. So she continued, straightening her third finger

"**Fact 3:** Before Afghanistan, instead of calling, he would appear at the Jeffersonian to deliver updates an average of seven times a week. Since then, and especially since the break-up with Hannah, he calls instead of visiting nine out of ten times.

**Fact 4:** He hasn't shown up at my apartment unannounced more than twice in the last five months. His usual habit before Afghanistan was twice a week, minimum.

**Fact 5:** He does not laugh out loud at my humor."

"I don't think I've heard him laugh out loud at ANYONE'S humor in a while," interjects Sweets. Brennan, looks at him, considering, then grimaces. Sticking out the index finger of her other hand to indicate the 6th fact, she continues.

"**Fact 6:** He no longer argues when I ask to drive.

**Fact 7:** He hasn't trimmed his facial hair in at least … and I have no proof of this, it's just a rough estimate … but I'd say five weeks.

Shall I continue?"

"I think I get the point, Dr. Brennan," says Sweets. "Now, let's consider these behaviors. The reasons for this kind of change in behavior are a) grief, b) trauma, c) illness, or d) a change in affinity for the recipient, meaning you."

"Okay. Go on," said Brennan.

"A) Grief - valid. Before Hannah, he was attempting to get over the loos of a potential future with you. After Hannah, the loss of potential future with her - or the death of his attempt to prove that he could get over you by moving on through a successful relationship with another woman. Again, Hannah. In short, item A is a valid option."

"I concur," said Brennan.

"B) Trauma - possibly valid. The retrospective realization that the three major loves of his life chose not to share his life as a romantic partner when he offered his heart. That is traumatic. Quite traumatic, especially for a man like Booth, who places great value in having a life of intimacy shared with one other person."

"This sounds a lot like 'A,' but I defer to your expertise. Continue."

"Okay. C) Illness. I think we can rule this one out," said Sweets. "D) Change in affinity for you. Hm. While this is possible, it contains some qualifiers of it's own."

"Qualifiers? Such as?"

"Is the observed behavior limited only to you? How has he behaved toward others with whom he interacts on a regular basis?"

"Ah hah. That is a valid question," said Brennan, nodding and smiling. "How do we get the answer to that question?"

"Lets close our eyes and think about specific interactions we have witnessed over the past … couple of months … and see what we remember."

"What have YOUR observations been - about Booth's interactions with you?" asks Brennan.

"Well," he says, thinking and pursing his lips. "I have noticed a lack of humor on his part. Also, a disinterest in giving me crap. While it has been nice to not be treated like Dougie Howser, I had come to recognize Agent Booth's ribbing as a sign of his affection. I've also noticed he doesn't hang around the break room and chat with the other guys anymore."

"And I … have noticed … he hasn't been referring to my interns as 'squints' in quite a while. And, he doesn't stop to talk with Cam every time he's at the Jeffersonian."

"I think it is safe to assume that option D) is invalid - that he has NOT had a change in affinity for you. So, the logical conclusion is that his behavior has been a reaction to his grief and trauma over the last year's disheartening events."

"So - what is there to do about it? How do we help him get past this ennui, this listlessness, lack of enthusiasm for life?"

"I recommend patience. And affection. Give him a wide berth to navigate his feelings and the new terrain he finds himself in. He'll come around."

"Should I offer to have sex with him?"

"What? What?"

"You said affection, Dr. Sweets. It's a valid question."

"Do you really think that is a valid option, considering what we're going for here is an intimate, long-lasting relationship? Sex, really, Dr. Brennan?"

"Sex always helps brighten my mood …"

"No. No, Dr. Brennan. Sex is not a good idea at this point!"

"What would you suggest?"

"Take a risk. Place a bet on him. In his favor. Give him something that lets him know that you care about him, no stings attached."

"No strings?"

"His only job is to receive. he owes you nothing in return."

"Like what?"

"Write him a note. A message of support. Maybe acknowledge what he's going through … let him know he's important to you."

"Can't I just tell him?"

"A note is different. It's something he can read unobserved. And do with it whatever he chooses. Acknowledge or not. REspond or not. Also, he can read it as many times as he wants. he can keep it. there is no interpreting to do - it's there in black and white. For him to keep, or throw away if he wants. But he won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

"He's hurting, remember? Any affection, given freely, no strings attached, will be a salve to his broken soul."

"Hmmm."

"What's your hesitation? This is what we have been practicing for. Strengthening your risking muscles. That is why we played all those games. This is the game of chance you've been waiting for. If you really want it, lay it out there for him. See what happens."

"But what if …."

"That's not any of your business, really. remember? Your business is to put it out there. His job is to choose a response. Risking means doing it even when there's a possibility that you will lose. Look, it sucks where you two are right now, right? What is there to lose? He's still Booth. You know he loved you once. My guess is he still does. he's just got a world of hurt piled on top of that love. Something has to shake him out of it. This is your risk. Write a brief note. Send it to him. Then let it go."

"I'll consider it," she says.

"Don't consider it. Don't think about it. Do it."

"Wha - now?"

"Sure, if you want to."

"I don't. No problem."

"I challenge you to do it within the next 24 hours. Write it at least. Then give yourself a window of time to get it to him. Less than a week."

"Hm.:

* * *

><p>"What should I write, Ange? You're good at this stuff, right?"<p>

"Oh, yeah! It doesn't really matter what you write if you cover it with lipstick kisses and drench it in your perfume before giving it to him. He'll be so wowed, he won't care what it says."

"I don't wear perfume, Ange," commented Brennan.

"Bren, whatever! Get some perfume - something sexy - like Nude or Chanel No. 5. Something that says you're hot for him!"

"I'm going to have to think about this …"

"Okay, Sweetie, but don't take too long. You only have until 6PM tonight if you stick to the 24 hour rule Sweets gave you."

Brennan spent the next two hours thinking about what to say in the note, then the next three hours constructing it. When she finally had it complete, she considered the perfume and lip stick ideas, but they weren't her. They weren't a Bones thing to do. At the last minute, she decided to fold the note up and carry it around in her bra for a while. Maybe her natural scent would soak into the fibers. Maybe he wouldn't notice, maybe he would. She'd have to wait and see.

That night, while getting ready for bed, the note fell out of her bra as she was undressing. She'd forgotten she'd stuffed it there, and was surprised when it fell to the floor. Unfolding it, she considered her handiwork, and had second thoughts. This is childish, she said to herself, then quickly refolded it and put it in her top drawer with her freshly cleaned bras and panties. After closing the drawer and walking out of the room, she rushed back in and yanked the drawer open. Just wanting to peek at it one more time.

She unfolded it, imagining what it would be like for Booth, unfolding it for the first time. The first three quarters of the note looked like a semi-organized, yet complicated, child's maze drawing. If he thought about it, and thought about her, Booth would figure out what it really was. In careful, intricate drawings of tiny human bones lined up to form letters of the alphabet, Bones had spelled out the words,

**_"I Do Love You, Booth. With All My Metaphorical Heart."_**

On the bottom quarter of the note was written _"KJV: Eccl 3:1-11."_ It was perfect, she decided, returning it to the drawer and promising herself she'd give it to him before he left for Pennsylvania next week.


	127. A Momentary Loss of Confiden

**Chapter 127 A Momentary Loss of Confidence**

For the next five days after creating the Footie Note, Brennan carried it with her in her bra everywhere she went. She had it with her when she was on the roof with Booth, waiting for Jacob Broadsky to appear. She had it with her when Mr. Nigel-Murray was killed and lying on the floor of the forensics platform at the Jeffersonian. It soaked up some of the tears that had fallen from her eyes as Vincent lay dying, pleading for his life. It was in her bag after she changed into a sweatshirt when she went to Booth's apartment that night she ended up sleeping in his arms, and in his bed. She thought about giving it to him then, but it wasn't the right time.

Over and over, she tried to imagine what it would look like to hand it to him before he got on the plane to Pennsylvania the following Monday. What would he say? What would **she** say? Each time, she broke out in a sweat, her cheeks caught flame, and she had to sit down and take several deep breaths so she could continue working, or cooking, or talking to Booth.

"This is stupid, Sweets," she said calling him one afternoon when she didn't think she could take the stress any longer.. "I don't think I can do it!"

"I told you, Dr. Brennan," he replied, "This is the risk you are going to have to take. Embrace the unknown. Agent Booth is in the middle of a … a wicked case of disappointment. If you love him, you will risk this for him. Take yourself out of the vacuum and give him this gift. Then let it go. Even if he were to hate you tomorrow, there is no way the Agent Booth, Agent Seeley Joseph Booth could be unmoved by this gesture."

On her side of the line, Bones' hand was wet from the tears sliding down her face and onto the phone. She said nothing. She sniffed, quietly, but Sweets heard anyway.

"Dr. Brennan, are you crying?"

"No," she says, wiping the saltwater from her cheek and running her hand down her pant leg to dry it off.

"Now, **that** was a lie," he said, catching her. "Liar, liar, pants of fire. You are going to hell."

Brennan laughed a guilty laugh, and sniffed loudly. Still saying nothing.

"This is just a step," Dr. Brennan. "A small step."

"Maybe to you …" she says, sniffing again and looking around her office for her box of Kleenex.

"Look, you are not telling him something he doesn't already know …" he said. She had shown the note to Sweets a day earlier, after stopping by to see Booth at the Hover building. Sweets had grinned ear to ear, proud of his protégé. This note was so very Bones. He knew Booth would cherish it. He knew it would have an effect, put a big chink in the armor he'd been erecting around himself lately.

"But he doesn't really know it the way I mean it, Dr. Sweets. We've talked about having sexual intercourse. We've talked about our partnership. We haven't talked about an intimate, interdependent life-long relationship …"

"This is not a marriage proposal, Dr. Brennan!," he said, almost pleading. Why do people always make things so much bigger than they are, he wonders to himself. Then, "Oh, wait a minute ... is **that** what you're worried about? That there will be no way out once you open yourself to meeting Agent Booth at the level he needs to be met?" he asked her, realizing that this was, indeed, much bigger to her than just a small expression of her affection and support. It was a declaration of what was in her heart, her willingness to put it all on the line. "Dr. Brennan, these things go a step at a time. You don't have to rush in."

"This is Booth we're talking about, Dr. Sweets! Don't you get it? I can practice all I want, I can tell myself that he loves me, and that we are perfect for each other - though that is debatable on so many levels."

"No it's not. No, it's not. We've been through this. What is perfect between you is your commitment … to yourselves and to each other. Your willingness to do something intensely irrational, in the name of … of … a feeling that you know begins with a rush of chemicals. That is what compatibility is about. Willingness to try, no matter the cost, out of the love you hold for another. Do it. Then let it go, Dr. Brennan," he pretty much commanded her. "If he feels for you **HALF** of what you feel for him, he won't let you down …"

"I'm not worried about **him** letting **me** down. I'm worried about **me** letting **HIM** down! Look at how he's been hurt! What if I can't do it? What if I get frightened when we're already in the middle of it? What if I run? My parents ran!" she says, in a voice like a fifteen year old girl. "Booth wants marriage, and children, and a house, and a real life. What if I can't give it to him? **I WILL NOT PUT HIM THROUGH THAT, DR. SWEETS.** I **CANNOT** do that to him."

"Maybe that's not your choice, Dr. Brennan. He knows the risks. He knows who you are. He K**NOWS** you, the baggage you carry around, what opinions you hold …"

"Meaning the choice to gamble on me again is his? Is that what you mean? That the responsibility for the outcome is not on my shoulders alone? Please tell me that is what you are saying …"

"It is. Have faith in him. Have faith in yourself. You once said there was nothing you wouldn't do to help him. This is one of those things … irrational, uncomfortable, frightening … but he will not leave you alone in it - as he ever?"

"You are being rational …" she says, throwing the wet Kleenex on the floor and grabbing another.

"Who picks you up when you fall down?"

"Well, Booth does …"

"Who shows up just in time to pull you out of the way of a moving vehicle headed straight for your head?"

"Booth always does …"

"Who is your rock in times of adversity, and volatility, huh?"

"Booth," she whispers this time.

"Who holds you when you are disappointed … or sad … or frustrated to tears …?"

"**BOOTH DOES**!" she screams at him, crying harder now, her eyes closed, a fresh Kleenex pressed across the bridge of her nose.** "ALWAYS!"** She lets out a couple of quiet sobs. "That is why I can't let him down," she whispers across the cell line.

"Then don't. He will see what you are doing. He will know what it has taken you to do it. He will not let **YOU** down. There are no guarantees. But look, this is by no means a long shot … the odds are in your favor."

"Why can't this be easy?"

"If it were easy, you would have done it long ago … and look what you would have missed, twenty-three one-on-one meetings with Yours Truly," he says, attempting a chuckle.

She exhales audibly, then gives up a brief chuckle. "Sweets," she says, as if to say, thank you.

"Dr. Brennan. **You** be his rock. You be **his** shoulder. You be his **partner**. You be the **gambler** this time. Give him that much." No one says anything for a moment.

"I can do this," she says, quietly, clearing her throat. "I can do this. I have to do this. Even if he has been a royal pain in the $$ lately. I gotta be that girl."

"Dr. Brennan, you already **ARE** that girl. You have been for quite a while. You just didn't know it."

Brennan exhales again, hoping her cheeks will eventually cool down, but doubting it will be anytime soon. Is this is what they mean by 'hot and heavy,' she wonders.

* * *

><p>So - if you enjoyed this chapter - - - you just HAVE to let me know! Have I gone over the top? Have I given you some insight into what it took for Brennan to write that note and actually GIVE it to him? Do you want to read more?<p> 


	128. Don't Back Out On Me Now

Author's Note: Okay folks, remember that she has been going through a lot to get to this place - emotionally. And it's a BIG DEAL for her to take risks - to gamble. So ... at this point, do not worry that she's getting weak - or losing her strong identity. That is not at all the case. Now that things are going in the direction she's wanted for so long, it's a lot to handle - and it's frightening ... so she has a couple of last minute insecurities. They are short-lived, I assure you!

**Chapter 128 Don't Back Out On Me Now**

Another ten minutes pass as Bones, awake, lies on her hotel room bed, still wrapped in the bedspread. She's been staring at the ceiling, reliving what happened in the hall right outside her room less than an hour ago. Grabbing a pillow, she covers her face, and says, "That was the most exciting six minutes of my life …"

She still can't believe he kissed her. She had kissed him right back, without hesitation. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I could send my brain on an all-expense-paid vacation, and let what's left of me take over for a while. That won't work, she realizes, because it's the part of her WITH a brain that has to sustain this relationship, has to approve its progress, has to call on commitment when desire fades, or adversity strikes.

"Hot Blooded, check it and see …" rings out from somewhere past the bottom of the bed. Did I imagine that? she asks herself. It rings again. A stab of adrenaline pierces her chest. Oh crap. She takes a deep breath and crawls to the bottom of the bed, looking around for the phone. It rings a third time, and she sees it. It's on the floor up against the bed frame. Grabbing it, she pushes the "Talk" button and puts the receiver to her ear. Another stab of adrenaline, she can't speak.

"Bones? Are you there?"

"Yes," she says. "Yes, I'm here. Just caught a little off guard. Just woke up," she says. It sounds like good old regular Booth. Booth my partner, my friend. Hot Booth. She shakes her head. This is starting to get a little scary. She's getting that anxious feeling - the sweating, shortness of breath, dizziness.

"Did I wake you?"

"No - I was laying here, staring at the ceiling, reliving the, uh … whatever you call it … that happened between us right outside the door of my room," she says, taking deep breaths in, letting them out. Booth … just talk for a minute, let me listen to your voice. It soothes me.

"Uh, okay … so you were reliving it, huh?" He's still laying on his back on his own bed, a damp towel wrapped around his waist, her Footie Note in his hand.

"Yep," she says, "don't tell me you haven't done it ourself."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says, chuckling. "By the way, you really told Caroline off."

"Yeah, I guess I did …" she says, chuckling as well.

"What did she say that got you all hot and bothered?"

"Oh, I forgot."

"You are the worst liar …" he says, rolling back onto his stomach and staring at the Footie Note once more. Why is it so easy for her to write this, yet difficult for her to say it to me? he wonders.

"Oh, Booth, it was stupid."

"Sure got you all … flustered."

"I wasn't flustered," she objects. "I was neither agitated, nor confused. Wait … " she says, rethinking it, "I need to adjust my statement. I WAS agitated, but not confused. I knew exactly what I was saying, and I meant every word of it."

"Do you remember what you said?"

"I'd rather not …"

"Let me refresh your memory," he says, closing his eyes, grabbing hold of the hair on the top of his own head. "You said, and I quote … 'Agent Booth's inability to perform his duties as a result of his uncontrollable lust for me is ridiculous."

"I don't think that's what I said," she says, shaking her head, and pursing her lips.

"I was right there behind you. I heard every word …"

"Then you should recall that what I most likely said was that her accusation was 'without merit," she says, pointing out the flaw. "I don't usually use the word, 'ridiculous." I am more likely to use the word 'absurd' … which more accurately describes the wildly unreasonable and illogical accusation she was making!"

"Right. Okay," he says. "Do you remember what else you said?"

"Something about you being intelligent and fast, I think. I almost told her you were like a flea, but I didn't think she'd understand …"

"Oh, it was MUCH hotter than that," he says.

"Really," she says, teasing him, knowing he wants to repeat what he heard.

"You said that even when I am consumed with lust … you actually said LUST …"

"Her word, not mine," she interrupts, "I would have used a less pedestrian, more scientific descriptor for … it."

" … I am twice as intelligent and four times faster than any other agent in the FBI."

"Yes, past or present," she adds.

"Past or present," he repeats.

"Hm. It's not like me to rely on hyperbole as a strategy for making my point, but that does sound like what I said," she concedes.

"Well, that was very nice of you to say, Bones. And it was very hot."

"Is that why you attacked me?" she teases.

"I attacked YOU?" he says with mock surprise. "You pretty much flew at me!"

"I didn't know you were right behind me!" she says, defending herself. "You don't really think I instigated that whole … thing?" She's not sure if he's teasing her or not. And had she misinterpreted the whole experience? She thought this was the beginning of whatever comes next for their relationship. Was she that off base?

"Oh no, I take full responsibility," he says. "No doubt about it."

"Well, not FULL responsibility," she says, relieved. "I didn't object, quite the contrary."

"Yeah, I noticed that," he says, smiling, sitting up on the bed. "Listen, we're going back home tomorrow …" He returns the Footie Note to his wallet, and tosses the wallet onto the bedside table. " … We'll be in an airplane full of people. Then the world is going to flood in … Parker, Hodgens and Angela … this case. After the weekend, there's another plane full of people. Then there's King County and all the people there to interview, maybe a body to exhume …"

"That's pretty much a given, Booth."

"That's what I figured," he says. "It's going to get messy. It's already messy …"

"The case?" she asks, is he attempting to back track? Is this the 'I think I made a mistake' speech?

"Yes, the case," he says. "I know I said we should have our talk soon …"

She's just about ready to cry … "Are you breaking up with me?" she says, before she can stop herself. then she's acutely embarrassed she said it. Thank God he can't see her face right now, she thinks, ready to cry.

"God no!" he says, well aware that she's quietly freaking out on the other side of their adjoining doors. "I just don't want to have this conversation in a hotel. So I was thinking, while we're out there, maybe Tuesday, we find a nice park …

"It is beautiful out there … " she says, feeling like crying, but now from relief.

"Yeah … so we find a quiet, private, place out in nature and we sit down and talk. We leave the cell phones in the car - or in our hotel rooms … Just us. No distractions."

"Okay," she says, as quietly as a lonely child, tears breaking free from her lower eye lids. "Promise?"

"Promise," he says, his heart going out to her. I shouldn't have put it off this long, he tells himself, realizing this has been harder on her than he thought.

"Pinkie swear?" she says, chuckling a little.

"Pinkie swear, in the air," he says back, gently.

"What's that? I don't know that one," she says, confused, but regaining her confidence.

"It's what you do when you can't see each other. When you're on the phone - or if you're driving, and your partner is in a car seat behind you. You stick out the pinkie and say "Pinkie swear, in the air."

"Ohhhh. I get it. Pinkie swear, in the air, then!"

"Right. Now clean yourself up, put on your best lab coat, and lets go eat," he says. "No cell phones."

"Okay, partner. No cell phones. Let's just relax."

"And enjoy each other's company."

"I think I'd like that," she says.

* * *

><p>So - are y'all hanging in there? Ready for another chapter? Let me know your thoughts! Are you ready for some more kissing? )<p> 


	129. Nothing To Wear

**Chapter 129 Nothing To Wear**

Bones showers, shaves her legs, just in case, and considers her wardrobe options for the evening. She didn't bring a dress.

"Why didn't I bring a dress!" she says, frustrated with herself, and her options. She always feels sexiest in a dress. Other options: Tee shirt, one that accentuates the curves of her upper torso? Dress pants? No. They need a good washing before she puts them on again.

She wants to relax. All day she had those dress pants on.

"Booth," she says, knocking on the adjoining door. "Booth!" She unlocks her side, thinking maybe he'll hear her better with only one door between them. "Booth! You in there?"

"Bones?" says Booth, looking around, completely still off guard. He walks over to his hotel room door and peers out through the tiny fish bowl hole at eye level. No one out there.

"Booth," Bones shouts again through the adjoining door. "Can you hear me?"

"Oh, there you are," he says, taking a couple long strides toward the adjoining door, reaching for it.

Hearing his voice get closer, she steps back and closes the door quietly. "DON'T OPEN THE DOOR! she shouts. Just talk to me through the door.

"Okay, what's up? You haven't changed your mind, have you?" he asks, wondering if this whole affair is going to end as abruptly as it did the first time they kissed like that. That was six years ago. They were different people now than they were then. In a good way.

"No, no, no," she says. "I was just wondering ... what you're wearing …?"

"Bones, for phone sex, you actually have to be on the phone …" he says, making fun of her.

"No, turkey, I mean, what are you wearing to dinner tonight? My options are limited."

Booth considers mentioning that they could just eat in, but isn't ready to be that close to a bed and Bones at the same time yet. Not until they get a couple of things straight. "I am wearing jeans and a tee shirt. A clean one, well, mostly clean," he says, raising his arm and sniffing under it. Then making a face that says there's at least one more good night left in the shirt.

"They require shoes and a shirt …" he says, smiling. He considers a couple of suggestive comments, but decides against them.

"Thank you for not following that up with something … suggestive, Booth. I know you're biting your tongue over there," she says laughing. "Okay, I'm wearing jeans, too." And a top that will knock your sox off, she thinks to herself.

"Great! Anything else?"

"A shirt, of course, Booth!"

"I assumed that, Bones. I meant is there anything else you need? I have a date tonight and I kinda gotta go …"

"Oh!" she says, tickled that he's referred to their evening together as a date. They have been out together hundreds of times, but it has never been considered a date. "That's sweet, I hope she's nice," she says.

"She is," he says, leaning against the door, cleaning some dirt out of one of his fingernails and wondering how it got there in the first place.

"I hope she's beautiful …" she says, though it's really a question. "Is she beautiful, Booth?"

"As a sunset on Boca Ciega Bay." Booth smiles to himself, finding the fact that she's fishing for complements sweet. Well, if she needs a little extra confidence right now, he's gonna give it to her. He's used to the confident, self-possessed, take-charge Bones. But this is new territory for both of them. In cases like this, you never know what you're gonna get, or how you're gonna feel. So it's good to be gentle. What was it Gordon Gordon advised him about Bones? "I recommend patience and hope," he'd said. Then patience and hope it is, Booth thinks to himself.

Feeling a little coquettish, Bones closes her eyes and asks through the double layer of doors, "Is she hot?" she whispers, though loud enough that he can hear her. Eyes still closed, she smiles, grateful to he in this place in life, with this very good man.

He can tell that now she's smiling that sly smile she gets when she's playing around.

"Sizzlin'" he says, Smokin, Baby," he says, making a sizzling sound, then "OUWWWW," THAT's HOT!" They both laugh. She'd like to hug him right now, but she's willing to wait.

"Well, I have a date too," she says.

"O really?" he says, playing along.

"Yep."

"Well, sounds like you better go get ready, then. Better knock his sox off, though that should be easy enough for a woman like you," he says.

Calmed down by the sound of his voice and his sense of humor, Bones decides to tease him a little more.

"Booth - can you come over here for a minute?"

"Nope."

"I have something to show you."

"I'll bet you do," he says, chuckling to himself. "You don't have any clothes on, do you?"

"Uh … yes, I do…" she snickers, but it sounds like a lie.

"Sorry … No can do," he says enjoying the cat and mouse thing.

"This is important," she says in a singsong voice, sounding more like, "you're gonna be sorry you missed this."

"I'm sure it is."

"You don't trust me?"

"Nope."

"I really think you should see this …"

"I'd like to, but I'm busy," he says.

"Wha … ?" she starts to object, forgetting for a moment that they're just playing around.

"Got a date in less than an hour. Gotta go. See ya," he says, as if hanging up the phone.

Bones, leaning against her adjoining door, and hearing no movement on the other side, wonders what he's thinking. Wonders what might happen tonight. Wonders where they will be a year from now. Sighing, she places her open palm on the door about five inches from her nose and a couple of inches higher. If Booth were here, that's where his lips would be, she thinks.

"Bones, are going to just stand there, or are you going to get dressed so we can eat?" says Booth through the door.

Bones, caught daydreaming, lets out a small screech of surprise, and answers, "I'm trying to decide which shirt and which shoes to wear. That's all they said is required?"

"Yes," he says, warily. "But lets not get arrested tonight, okay?"


	130. Cobalt and China Blue, A Perfect Combina

_Author's Note: As usual, folks, your feedback is very important to this whole writing process for the writer! This chapter is one of my personal favorites, because we hear what Booth is thinking as he sees her for the first time after their passion-filled romp in the hallway a couple of hours previous. A warning to those who prefer an equal mixture of case and fluff ... this evening for the pair, has a lot of ground to cover. They have much to discuss, finally on the precipice of what they have been working toward for over 6 years. This fluff, while fun and titillating, spans from chapters 131 - 141. So, wait a couple of days and then check back. However, if you're ready for some angst, some vulnerability, some sap, and just a little skin ... read on. No matter what - - - - - tell me what you think! ~ Catherine_

**Chapter 130 Cobalt and China Blue, A Perfect Combination**

Booth arrives at the restaurant ahead of Bones. She said she'd be there in less than five. As the hostess is walking away from the table she led him to, he catches sight of Bones walking up to the hostess' station. Their table is toward the back of the restaurant, so he has a couple moments to watch her. The hostess talking to Bones turns, and points back to their table. Bones' eyes follow where she's pointing, and she sees Booth. She smiles, taking her time weaving between all the empty, white cloth-covered tables on the way back to him. She's wearing her only clean jeans, black, which feel great after a long day in dress pants.

Her shirt is another faux wrap around number in stretchy high-quality natural fibers. This one looks like silk. Instead of rose-maroon, like the top she wore for dinner at Carmen and Enri's house, this one is a warm cobalt blue. Swaths of fabric drape across her chest from each shoulder to the opposite hip, creating a sharp V in the center where they intersect. The color is stunning, but the neckline is deep enough that it doesn't overpower the delicate features of her face. The contrast of cobalt and her fair skin set off her clear china blue eyes perfectly. Around her neck she's hung a silver necklace Booth gave her for Christmas two years earlier. The links in the chain are made in the shape of dolphins jumping through hoops. Like many of her other necklaces, it's chunky, except this one is also elegant.

Looking at her as she approaches, he notices her smile getting bigger the closer to the table she gets. By the time she's half way to him, he's staring into the eyes of a smile so big, he can't remember the last time he'd seen it like this. She's usually more reserved. He's waited for her a couple hundred times in cafes, restaurants, and bars, over the last seventy-five months. She's always been beautiful. Right now, she looks like the friend and partner she's always been. But there's something, I don't know, DIFFERENT about her … or is it his imagination? He's always found her attractive … even when she's frustrated or angered him. But something is distinctly different tonight. Yes, their relationship is evolving rapidly, but something is there that he's never seen before. Perhaps it has been there, but he's been so wrapped up in his own confusion maybe that's why he never noticed it. Or maybe the knowledge that they can stop pretending, stop dancing around each other, stop trying to deny their feelings makes her appear … more real, somehow.

It's always fascinated him how you can know a woman for a long time. Months, years. Then something happens and she looks … different. Like, shinier … cleaner … softer … warmer. And you just want to touch her. When you finally do touch her, you think you'll get over this feeling, and you won't need to touch her so desperately anymore. But, miraculously, the opposite is true. She doesn't revert back to her former self, and no amount of touching her diminishes your need to do it again, and again. In some inexplicable way, running through it all, is the ethereal sensation that being with her is like returning to Mother Nature. Returning to where you were created, or what you were created for. Maternal, in a sense, he thinks, but having nothing to do with your own mother. Rather, it's as if this woman you love made you herself, or you were made out of her. She brings you back into the fold of creation and nature and purpose. And it humbles you. At least this is how Booth feels.

Watching her now, he's kicking himself for waiting so damn long to pull his head out of his Ass and move forward with her. For a moment he has a pang of regret for the lost time. Chastising himself, he recalls another kernel of wisdom from Dr. Gordon.

_"Never wish away what has already been,"_ Gordon Gordon had said, pronouncing 'been' like 'bean.' _"For it is EXACTLY THAT, which has brought you to where you are this very instant. So grow a set, Agent Booth, and stop worrying about if you'll do it right this time."_

Grow a set? What Gordon Gordon and Booth had been talking about had been delaying consummating the romantic aspect of their relationship until he, Booth, was certain that she was ready. _"She very well may be willing to … what is that vulgar term you Americans so enjoy … 'bump the uglies' … long before she's ready for the whole package."_

_"Wait for the declaration - make sure she's ready to fully commit. If you want her for the distance, my dear boy. Make sure she knows you cannot be compartmentalized and put on a shelf. You are a human being. A living, breathing, caring, giving, feeling man … who wants to share his life with her."_

_"If you want this woman, this brilliant, frightened woman, to fully commit, she has to_ _CHOOSE to live out here where there are no boxes. She has to discover, for herself,_ _that what is possible, what is extraordinary … is in here," he'd said, poking Booth in the_ _chest, indicating his heart, "and out here. Not in a box."_

_"If YOU want that for HER, I'm afraid you're going to have to allow her to punch her own way out of that box. You cannot do it for her, old boy."_

Of course, Booth has no idea about the work Bones and Sweets have been working on over the last several months.

As she reaches the table, Booth stands up. Her hand resting on the back of the chair adjacent to his, she simply smiles up at him once more, and looks down, then appears to change her mind about something. Turning her face back toward him, she looks at his chin, his lips, his clenching jawline, his eye brows, and the little freckle next to his right eye, like she's mustering up a great deal of courage. Finally, raising her eyes to his, she gives him a wide-eyed, meaningful, unabashedly intimate look. This time he's the one who blushes. He's seen this look before. Not on her, but on others. This is how a woman looks at you WHILE you are making love to her. Very raw. Very intense.

He suddenly feels brainless, speechless, in over his head. After the thoughts that have been washing over him these last forty seconds as he watched her walking toward him, his stomach is in his shoes. From out of no where, he finds himself taking her hand and leaning toward her to touch her face, and kiss her cheekbone. Lingering there for a moment, he whispers into her ear, "You look ... amazing," and kisses her again, laying his lips on her ear, much longer than necessary, but no one's complaining, and he doesn't want to stop.

She closes her eyes, letting him kiss her, and returns the favor, whispering into his ear, "You are equally pleasing to look at this evening, Booth."

He's still wowed by the affect seeing her tonight is having on him, and he has nothing to say. As he starts to sit back down, still holding her hand, he notices she's making no move to sit down. Half way into his seat, he stands back up, not sure what's going on.

Up until this point in their relationship, at least since Monday, he's felt like he was the one in control. Except, of course, for the times she's caught him off guard by doing or saying something completely unexpected … like leaving him her panties at Granny's, or asking him about the physiological reactions he had in response to seeing her in her underwear Tuesday night. Other than a couple moments like that, he's pretty much felt in control, in charge, the leader in the tango.

But something is changing here, and he's not sure what to think of it. She's making no move to sit down. Actually, he realizes, she's pulling him by the hand, away from the table toward the entrance of the restaurant, and out into the hotel hallway. She not walking fast, she's taking her time. Inside, he's going nuts. What is going on and where is she taking me and what will I do if she leads me right back up to our rooms? He's feeling a little panicked, and NOT just a little intoxicated with anticipation for **WHATEVER** is going on here.

Leading him past the elevators, Bones walks toward the entrance to the bar. "It's too bright in there," she says, nodding back toward the restaurant. "Besides, this is more our speed," she says, winking, and smiling up at him again, the intensity softened a bit, but the fire still lingering behind the china blues. She leads him to a booth in the corner.

His heart skips a beat. He's grateful, he's relieved, he's happy, and he's surprised. He's also surprised that he's surprised. This is Bones, after all, whom he's been realizing this week, knows him better than he's ever given her credit for. Better than anyone else who has ever known him. And to Booth, that means the world.

* * *

><p><em>So - your thoughts are my words of encouragement. Please share them with me. Every yours, MoxieGirl<em>


	131. It Is Right To Give Thanks

_Author's Note: It is commonly experienced by writers and creators in all disciplines, that one of the greatest challenges is to follow-up a really great chapter (or ... fill in the blank for whatever your talent is) with something that isn't total crap. Ask anyone. THis chapter has been rewritten to death, and I have no idea if it even makes sense any more! Hopefully the point gets across and you aren't left confused and disoriented by the time you get to the end. So - - - help me out here ... does it need another rewrite?_

**Chapter 131 It is Right To Give Thanks To God**

They slide into the booth, deep in the bar, and tucked away in a corner. It's the kind of booth that wraps around a small, round, two-person corner table. Instead of sitting opposite one another, patrons sit cozily next to each other. The bench is covered in royal red Naugahyde vinyl. The table is covered with a white table cloth, holds two sets of silverware wrapped in red napkins, and a candle which is a fifth of the way melted and still burning brightly. The back of the booth comes up to almost the height of Bones' shoulders. Red wallpaper stretches across the distance between the booth and the low ceiling. Above their booth are hung frames in varying sizes. Each contains either a black and white publicity photo, or an 8X10 glossy of a candid taken here in the bar. What they all have in common is that they contain autographed photos of celebrities who have come here to relax, to enjoy the company of friends, or to chase away their problems with a fifth of Johnny Walker Gold. Booth recognizes the faces of Jack Klugman, Billie Holiday, Richard Gere, Ben Bova, Maxfield Parrish, Bill Cosby, Lloyd Alexander, Ethel and Lionel Barrymore, Teddy Pendergrass, Julius Harris, and Danny Woodburn.

Booth steps aside, nodding for Bones to slide in before him. As she scoots in and over, he follows, sitting to her left. They both lean forward, placing their elbows and forearms on the tablecloth. A waitress comes over, offers them each a menu and launches into her speech about the specials of the evening. Booth isn't paying attention to the waitress. He can't stop watching Bones. He likes the curve of her jaw, and the way her earring dances around as she looks from the menu to the waitress, asking questions about the mahi mahi.

A couple of hours ago, muses Booth, I was kissing that neck. Just moments ago, I kissed that ear. Raising his left arm, his elbow on the table, resting the side of his face on his fist, he can't help but follow the curve of her throat down to her plunging neckline, amazed at how fair and soft her skin is. He wonders to himself, _Is it appropriate to thank God for the designer who made her top, which perfectly accentuates her wonderful shape? Or for the neckline that, when viewed in silhouette, provides a splendid and generous view of the softest, most beautiful skin he's ever seen. Skin that he is very much looking forward to kissing … eventually._

Appropriate or not, Booth decides to send up a prayer, thanking God for everyone involved in the designing, constructing, marketing, and selling of this particular article of clothing. For good measure, he throws in a healthy serving of gratitude to God Himself for having created the beautiful woman inside this top, despite the fact that she may not agree with Booth's brand of attribution.

After taking their drink and meal orders, the waitress leaves them alone together for the first time since those kisses in the hallway outside her room.

For a moment they stare at each other. Not really sure where to start. All day they've been taunting each other. It was fun … thrilling … frightening. And then they kissed. Really kissed.

Finally, Bones says, "What do you say to your partner and best friend of six years who you just made out with in a hotel hallway two hours ago?" she laughs, nervously, and picks up her heavy roll of silverware which clangs as it falls apart on top of the table.

"Just relax," says Booth, "enjoy yourself. That's what we're here for, Bones," he says, looking into her eyes and smiling. He can see she's a little uncomfortable. It's understandable, considering they are sitting in a vat of intimacy right now in this tiny booth, with the lights down low, the walls covered in red wallpaper, and nowhere else to be.

Trying to get comfortable, Bones crosses her legs, right over left, but there is so little room underneath the table that she can't find space for her right foot without stabbing Booth in the shin with her heal. Reaching under the table, she unzips and pulls off her black leather high healed boot, placing it on the floor to her right. Now there's sufficient room, if she tucks her toes behind Booth's calves and doesn't mind the constant contact that brings.

"Do you mind?" she asks, noticing he's shifting around so there's more room for her foot, but they're still touching.

"Not at all, if that's what it takes to get comfortable," he says, still smiling at her.

"You seem so relaxed, Booth," she says, sounding a little frazzled. "My heart is literally beating 20% faster than usual, I can't figure out what to do with my hands, and I'm nervous. This is not like me! And why are you so relaxed?"

"I've had more time to process than you have," he says.

"Wha …? We both had exactly the same amount of time from that kiss to this table," she says.

"Yeah, but I've been thinking about this for years. My guess is that it's all pretty new to you," he says, a twinkle in his eye.

"You are making sense," she concedes. "But this is still not my usual state of being. I've always been able to depend upon my self-restraint, my practical outlook, my tempered emotions, my rational thoughts," she says, a bit frustrated. "I think I left every one of them up in my suitcase, or, to be honest, in your bedroom the morning after Mr. Nigel Murray was killed."

"Hmm," grunts Booth. "What do you think that means?"

"You know what? I think I just figured something out. Wow," she says, thinking silently for a moment. Looking off in the distance for a bit, then back to Booth.

"Penny for your thoughts …" says Booth, calmly, enjoying watching her brain at work.

"Have you ever heard of a phenomenon called "Phantom Limb Syndrome?"

"Isn't that where a person whose limb has been amputated can still feel pain in the limb, or can feel it moving?"

"Yes. There is a theory in the Journal of Natural Biology suggesting that people whose lives are very closely connected can have a similar experience when they are separated."

"Huh?"

"Okay - twins, for example, or two people desperately in love. They spend all of their time together. Then, for some reason, they are separated. For twins, maybe they choose different colleges. For lovers, maybe one of them dies. Anyway, these scientists are studying the physiological affects of separation on each of the subjects experiencing the loss. Their hypothesis is that the body experiences affects similar to what an addict experiences during withdrawal from chemicals such as cocaine, heroine, caffeine, nicotine. There is a profound loss, and its associated physiological consequences. We already know there are emotional consequences ..."

"This sounds like plain old grief," says Booth. "But ... what consequences are they referring to?"

"Well, it can depend on the kind of relationship they are in withdrawal from. It can bean increased heart rate, sweating, vomiting, incontrollable shaking, physical pain, mania … maybe that is all it is ... plain old grief."

"How did you leave grief in my bedroom the day after Vincent was killed?"

"Booth, I didn't **leave** grief in your bedroom. I acquired it as a result ... Okay, you know these hot flashes, sweats, panic attacks, I've been having?"

"Yeah, okay. What is that all about?"

"Well, other than the physiological manifestations of embarrassment that I've been experiencing, I've been, or my body at least has been, going through a mourning process, a grieving process … It makes perfect sense to me now."

"Well, explain it to me, please," says Booth, bewildered, but glad there is a point to all of this. "Were you that close to Vincent that you are physically grieving him?"

"No. I've been grieving you."

"What?"

"Yeah. I've been grieving you, Booth."

"But I'm right here, Bones. How can you be grieving me?"

"It makes perfect sense. Though we have been partners and friends for years, we've always been more than that, though we've tried to deny it numerous times, or, at least, I have, out of fear of intimacy," she says.

"You seem to have improved a great deal, I've noticed," he says, raising his eye brows.

"Thank you. It has been a work in progress for some time now," she says, nodding at him. "So here's what happened. There is a physiological connection between us, not only an emotional one. Some call it chemistry."

"Oh, yeah. I've felt the chemistry. Like a curiously strong magnet."

"Exactly, Booth. But it's not just a sexual chemistry. There's a biological component. The body interacting on it's own plain, so to speak. Are you with me so far?" she asks, turning to look straight at him, animated in her excitement over another piece to the puzzle that is Temperance Brennan.

"I'm not sure … keep talking. I'll let you know if I get lost," he says, chuckling.

"So there's this chemistry, this physiological connection between us. It gets fed every time we touch, strengthening the bond, in much the same way that neural passageways gain strength through repetition."

"Color me LOST," says Booth, raising his hand.

"Okay. Think of your curiously strong magnet …" she begins.

"Am I the magnet?" Booth interrupts.

"Actually, we are both magnets for the purposes of this analogy," she says, looking in his eyes to determine if he's following. "Okay, imagine this … my magnet has a strength of, say fifty."

"Fifty what?"

"It doesn't matter, just the number fifty."

"Then my strength number must be at least 150, right?," he says, in a macho tone.

"Okay," she says, chuckling, glad he's getting into the analogy.

"So, every time I touch you on the arm, my magnet gets stronger temporarily, my strength number goes up. But to keep that number up, and I need more constant strength, or touch, touch to sustain a healthy balance." She can tell he's tracking so far. "Every time we touch, I gain strength points and it keeps me feeling healthy, energized. You put your hand on mine, that's another ten strength points. You hug me …"

"Or YOU hug ME …"

"Right. That's twenty points, right?" she asks.

"Right. So am I getting more strength points when all this touchy feel-y stuff is going on?"

"Of course, but that's irrelevant for this analogy," she says, in a 'don't interrupt me' tone. "So the greater number of strength points I gain through you, the stronger the force, or pull, my magnet has toward yours, and the more points my magnet needs to maintain a healthy balance."

"So far so good!"

"Up to this point, our magnetic attraction has been steady, because, in the course of being together during one 24 hour period, we are consistent in the amount of physical touch we share. So there have been no physiological ramifications … or, side affects of withdrawal. **However,** I spend several hours sleeping in your arms, your body wrapped around mine, comforting me, and, POW, I now have an additional 100 units of strength. So it's almost like I got high ..."

"High on Booth!" he says, chuckling. "I'm like a _drug_," he says, mocking her, but in good humor.

"Actually, you are correct," she admits, nodding. "But don't get carried away, Booth. This is just a metaphor," she warns, smirking at him, then smiling. "So, now I need another hit. My body needs to be with yours …"

"That sounds nice," says Booth.

"Right, except that, instead of more opportunities for being together, things go back to as they were before. A touch here, a hug there. And my magnet goes into withdrawal."

"Are you trying to tell me that you have a physical need to be with me in order to keep a healthy balance?" he says, amused.

Bones' eyes fly open. "Wow. That's it! That's it exactly! I guess I need you, Booth," she says, amazed that they got all the way from magnets down to the core of what has been causing her panic attacks. "So you realize what just happened here?"

"You just told a very long story about some magnets, just to make the point that you can't resist me!" he says, leaning against her with his shoulder, a sly grin on his face.

Bones gives him a look. "My body is smarter than I am," she says, taking a sip from the glass of wine that was set in front of her fifteen minutes ago, but has yet to be touched. "Apparently, you are smarter than I am, too."

"I'm glad you said it. I wasn't going to say it," he says, laughing, grinning at her.

"Whew. Well. Wait till I tell Sweets about this …" she says.

"Woah, what? Why does Sweets have to know about this?" asks Booth, suspiciously.

"Because, I've had a couple of discussions with him. I've been trying to work through some things. He's a smart man, even if he is only twelve." she says, looking at him sideways, grinning, and taking another sip of her wine.

"So, what did we figure out, just so I have it straight in my head …" says Booth.

"Seeley Booth," she says, turning to look at him directly. "I need you. To maintain a healthy balance in my life. And my body has known this all along."

"And so has mine," he adds, winking at her. "So …?"

"So, what?"

"Do you want me? Does your brain want me, now that it's caught up with the rest of you?" he smiles, sweetly, but not sugar sweet, lovingly sweet.

Blushing deep red, Bones sighs, and relaxes against the back of the booth. "I do," she says, quietly embarrassed, biting her lip.

"Okay," he says, nonchalantly, "you can have me." He smiles, looking down at the table, their drinks. When he looks up, she's smiling at him.

"Awwww," she says, sweetly, putting her arms around his neck and pulling him toward her. She kisses him on the cheek three times. "Thank you," she whispers, leaning her forehead against his temple. This revelation is enlightening, and the more she's unraveling the metaphorical ball of yarn she's been wrapped up so tightly in, the more comfortable she's becoming with the idea of a long term relationship. _Maybe I can do this after all_, she thinks.

Forty-five minutes later, they've finished eating, and their plates have been cleared. It has been a relaxing, entertaining meal. They're both enjoying themselves. And each other. Naturally.

The waitress returns to hand them dessert menus.

"Do you have any kind of pie?" he asks before even looking at the menu.

"We sure do. We have apple crumble, blueberry delight, pecan, and cheese cake. Which can I get for you?"

"Bones? Anything sound good to you? Pecan pie doesn't have cooked fruit in it," he says, taunting her.

"Yes. I will have a piece of the pecan pie," she says. "And my friend here will have the apple crumble, heated, with whipped topping on it, but not if it's that sugary fake stuff, only if it's real cream, whipped. Do you have that?"

"We do! That'll be right out for you," the waitress says, and bustles off to place the order.

"You think you know me …" says Booth, teasing her.

"I do," she says back confidently. "I **do** know you, mister." She laughs, shaking the crumbs off of her napkin and onto the table, returning the napkin to her lap.

"It's nice to be known," he says. _You are so beautiful,_ he thinks.

"Do you want to know what I find interesting, Booth?" she asks him, looking back to him with a playful grin.

"Did I mention you are … stunning?" he says, ignoring her question. He leans back against the back of the booth, turning his torso toward her so he can look at her without having to turn his head sideways. "I bet I have waited for you in places like this a hundred times …" he says.

She leans back, mirroring his position. As a result, they are more than a foot apart, but they can comfortably have an intimate conversation. Crossing her right leg over her left again, she leans her foot on his shin.

Looking at him, her head cocked to the side, considering his comment, she says, "Probably more like 576 times."

"How do you figure," he says, surprised, pinching his eyebrows together.

"Have you ever heard of a Fermi Equation?"

"That sounds familiar. How does it work, and what does it have to do with how many times I've waited for you?"

"For a Fermi equation, you make a series of estimates in order to come up with an approximate total for something. For example: We've been working together for …"

"About 75 months …" Booth finishes her sentence.

"Okay, 75 months. About how many times would you say we meet somewhere, rather than going there together?"

"Probably once or twice a week."

"Okay - approximately 4.3 weeks in a month," she says, drawing the numbers on the table with her finger. "So - 322.5 weeks. Take away 38.7 weeks for the time we were apart in Afghanistan and Maluku … and another two weeks per year for holidays … that's 271.8 weeks. If you've waited for me one or twice a week for 271.8 weeks, then your total ends up being between 271 and 543. Assuming half of those weeks you waited for me once, and the other half you waited for me ….."

"Oh, stop!" he says, lifting her wine glass to her mouth. "Here, you need another sip of the grape. The point is … I've waited for you many times … lots and lots of times. And tonight, when you came into the restaurant ... I could barely breathe."

They are booth leaning an elbow on the table, their cheeks propped up on their fists, looking at each other companionably. Enjoying their conversation.

"Are you saying I take your breath away," she teases. "Because if you are, even though it is a literal impossibility, that is very sweet."

"I guess I am," he says, sighing. He pauses, looking into her eyes. Leaning a little closer, without breaking eye contact, he puts his arm around her waist and pulls her up against him, grinning at her the whole time. She leans toward him, a throaty laugh escaping through her lips. "What are you up to?" she teases him.

"I'm going to kiss you," he says, coming closer. When their noses are almost touching, he stops, continuing to look in her eyes.

"Oh ho," she says, "You are the biggest tease …"

"Me?" he says, "Me? Miss Give-an-anthropologist-a-bone-and-she'll-know-exactly-what-to-do-with-it," he says, laughing.

She laughs as well for a while.

"Come here," she says, taking his face in her hands. "You need to work on your follow-through, Booth. This is what you are **supposed** to do when you make a statement like _'I am going to kiss you."_ Looking in his eyes up until the last moment, she brings her lips to his giving him a lingering, tender kiss. When she pulls away, he's looking sheepish, so she kisses him again, moving her hands to around his neck, sliding her cheek onto his and staying there. "Oh, Booth," she says against his ear, sighing. "This is so weird, you know?"

"I think I do," he says, holding her tighter around the waist, squeezing her to him.

"So what are we going to do about it?" she says into his ear, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Lets do like we do with everything else …" he says.

"What's that?" she asks, still cheek to cheek and practically whispering in his ear.

"Let's talk about it. Partner to partner. I have a couple ideas …"

"You do, huh?" she says, leaning away and smiling playfully.

"Yes, I do. But first, I have to find the restroom," he says, pulling away from her, but not before taking her face in his hands and planting a kiss full on her lips. "I'll be right back …"

"Mmmmmmm. Just like Pringles ..." she says nder her breath, touching her lips, as she watches him walk away from the table.

* * *

><p><em>"So?" asked the author, hiding behind her hands, peaking out between two of them with a sliver of an eyeball. And the verdict is ... in the review. <em>

_There is a light at the end of this tunnel, however. If this chapter did really suck, it's a good sign that the NEXT chapter will be pretty good! ; )_


	132. It's Ladies' Night and the Feeling's Rig

_Author's Note: Let the games begin! If you've seen the movie "What Women Want" with Helen Hunt and Mel Gibson, you'll recognize some of the songs Brennan and Booth hear throughout the evening. If you haven't seen the movie, you won't miss anything ... promise. GOing forward, where it's helpful, I include a reference to how you can find the YouTube version of the song I refer to. Let me know if listening to the songs on another internet window while reading the story makes for a richer experience ... you know what that means - drop me a note!_

**Chapter 132 It's Ladies' Night And The Feelin's Right**

Returning to the table, Booth finds Bones gone. She must be taking a powder, he figures. Left to himself for a moment, he slides into the booth and thinks about what is happening here. He can't help smiling, wishing they were staying her for a couple more days. It would be nice to have some time together alone before the world rushes in, all eyes and ears and inquisition.

Returning from her visit to the restroom, Bones walks up to their booth.

"Did you see what was written on the sign in the front of the bar?" she asks Booth, excited.

"Yes I did. Scary," he says, suspicious. "Why are you all … excited?"

"The theme tonight is _WHAT WOMEN WANT_," she says.

He shakes his head, gesturing with his hands that this still doesn't mean anything to him.

"Remember that weekend I went to Vermont with Russ and his family?" she says, making no move to sit down. "That whole weekend, his girls listened to the soundtrack for the movie "WHAT WOMEN WANT," _ad nauseam_,* their mom's CD, of course. So I know **all** of the songs they are going to play tonight, if they play any from that movie," she explains, getting more excited. "There should be lots of The Temptations, Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee, Sammy Davis, Bobby Darin, Meredith Brooks, Christina Aguilera. I find it's a very good combination of vintage and contemporary styles of music. I think you will like it," she says. He's not convinced.

"What they are banking on is that **you** will like it, and bring all your girlfriends," he says, reaching over to her, grabbing her hand, and pulling her the rest of the way into the booth to the spot right up close to him. Once she's seated, he drapes his arm across the top of the back of the booth behind her.

"What do you mean?"

"It's **ladies' night**. Women like this kind of music. They'll be crawling out of the woodwork to come here."

"Yeah?" she says. "Well, this is certainly no old lady's quilting bee. Women in all cultures have gathered to share confidences, advice, plans … it's how women get things done. But will they spend a lot of money? I don't know," she says, shaking her head. "If this bar wants to make a lot of money, they should have a men's night. Anthropologically speaking, men are much more prone to displays of superiority by the volume they can drink, the amount of money they are willing to spend, the number of times they offer to treat their friends by paying for everyone …"

"Ohhh, so much to learn, so much to teach you," he says, dropping his arm from the booth back to her shoulders and squeezing her sideways, kissing her just above her ear. "Okay. This is how Ladies' Night works, and you are absolutely correct, this is not your grandmother's quilting bee …"

"Though, Booth, I do have to interrupt you. Those quilting bees are not to be devalued. Societal structure would collapse without them," she says, looking at him, confident, and knowing he's going to feign disbelief. "They can be quite lively, even salacious in nature. It is during these gatherings that the younger women are taught about sex, and the older ones discuss techniques, strategies for enticing their mates into activity resulting in more offspring when more hands are needed to manage the work … You men think you rule the world, but who is whispering in your ear, controlling your nutrition? Regulating the frequency of your sexual interactions? Providing you with a tranquil or abrasive home environment? Yeah. You can't deny it," she says. "I am an expert at these kinds of things, Booth. That's what anthropology is all about."

Booth smiles at her, lifting his glass to his lips, not taking a drink, shaking his head at her and grinning. "You are a wealth of interesting information. No wonder Vincent was your favorite," he says, finally draining his glass of the last bit of wine.

"I have to say," starts Bones, scooting even closer to him so that their thighs are pressed against each other. "I had hopes of regulating some sexual interactions myself this evening," she says, running her thumb down the length of the top of his thigh, seductively, and back toward his hip, eventually laying her open palm just above his knee, "but I have a feeling that's not on the menu ..."

"Can we please have one conversation at a time?" he says, grinning at her, making no move to remove her hand from the spot on his leg where there is now an impressive amount of heat radiating back toward … well … you get the picture. "I was just about to educate you about Ladies' night. Which I **will** do, if you can refrain from interrupting for more than two minutes!" He laughs. She laughs.

Raising an eyebrow, shooting him a sly glance, she can't help herself. "There are more than one way to shut a woman up ..." she says.

Does she mean what I think she means? he asks himself. The question showing in his face prompts her to complete her comment.

" … give her something better to do with her mouth," she says, tilting her head, raising a shoulder and dropping it, giving him a fake innocent look. She pulls his face close and kisses him. Twice. His stomach does a flip-flop. Oh, the places he could go on that one suggestive comment alone. He shakes his head, as if to rid it of the thoughts bouncing around in there.

"I was so wrong. How could I have been so wrong about you?" he says, smiling, shaking his head and looking away. "The panties in the folder at Granny's should have been a big clue … and I call myself a detective ..."

"What?" she says, intrigued. "What were you wrong about? After a setup like that, you have to tell me!"

"I thought you were out of your league … I was clearly off base on that one," he says, looking back at her, clenching his jaw, smiling, then looking out toward the dance floor where woman are starting to gather.

She nods, appreciative of the acknowledgement, and now confident that she's having the same affect on him that he has on her **all the time,** it seems.

"So - ladies' night? Educate me, Professor Henry Higgins," she says in her best cockney accent, referring to the misogynistic professor who tries to convert a street urchin played by Audrey Hepburn, into a woman of high society in the movie "My Fair Lady."

"My Fair Lady?" he says. She nods. "You do that accent pretty well - much better than your Katharine Hepburn."

"Hey," she objects.

"Okay. Ladies' night … the whole **point** is to get as many nubile women here as possible. The women are the bait."

"Bait for what?" she asks, confused.

"Bait for the men. Fill a bar with lots of hot, single, women who've been drinking at half price all night, and the guys come out of the woodwork. They've been doing this for years," says Booth, watching her as she surveys the layout.

"Yeah, look around, " she says. "Women everywhere!"

"Yep. Two hours from now, the lights will be dimmed … again, the place will be packed with women, everyone will be on their fourth, or fifth, or ninth drink, the disco ball will begin to rotate, the music will be turned up so loud that people will have to lean closer to hear each other … and women will start to dance with each other. It's a single guy's paradise!"

"Really," she says, looking over at him.

"Oh, yeah," he says. "And the women will have their pick. Everybody wins."

"Huh. Do you go to places like this a lot?"

"Nope, I'm usually with Parker. Or with you," he says, kissing her on the nose, smiling and raising his finger toward the waitress. He makes a circular motion, indicating that they'd like another round.

She looks away, smiling to herself, and feeling those poppies starting to burst her capillaries once again.

"Anthro-po-logically speaking," he says, "you should probably mark your territory …" he says, warning her, trying to sound serious, failing miserably.

"Ohh ho," she laughs, taking a sip from her own glass, "how do you recommend I do that, professor? Hang pictures of myself all over you?"

"Or something else …" he teases her, looking at her sideways, grinning. Now it's her stomach doing a flip flop.

"I'm seeing a whole new side of you, Booth," she says, impressed, nodding her head. "You are quite flirtatious when you want to be. I find that I quite enjoy it."

* * *

><p>*<em><strong>Ad nauseam<strong>_ is a Latin term used to describe an argument which has been continuing "to [the point of] nausea".[1]For example, the sentence, "This topic has been discussed _ad nauseam_", signifies that the topic in question has been discussed extensively, and that those involved in the discussion have grown tired of it.

_Note: Sometimes I inject a definition, just in case you don't read with a dictionary open beside you ... which is what I do when I write. I'm always in search of the perfect word to express what I intend without detracting from your reading experience. Does it help - or is it insulting?_

* * *

><p><em>Okay - are you ready for some dancing? I think there's some in the next chapter.<em>  
><em>Can you imagine the spectacle of Booth sitting in a bar with Bones and a boat load of women? <em>  
><em>He may get concerned his testicles will atrophy - but we'll see that that is not likely ...<em>


	133. Encore! Encore!

_Author's Note: This is one of my all-time favorite chapters. Hopefully you will enjoy it as much as I did putting it together. I love it when Booth and Bones get crazy together, unabashedly letting their freak flags fly in the face of the serious nature of their jobs. The Meredith Brooks song, "Bitch," which this chapter is built around can be found on YouTube. I recommend listening to it before, or during the reading of this chapter, to get the full effect. Enjoy! _

**Chapter 133 Encore! Encore!**

Booth and Bones are interrupted by the loud voice of the DJ, encouraging the patrons to have a rousing good time, as if they needed any reminding.

"Ladies, if I may have you attention for one brief moment. You are **ALL** looking lovely tonight," he says into his microphone headset, holding the black spongy receiver close to his mouth while he talks. "Our drink specials this evening are: Two Long Island Ice Teas for the price of one, Two Colorado Bulldogs or White Russians for the price of one, and, la pièce de résistance … dollar draws on all tap beer! For women only!"  
>A cheer goes up from the tables closest to the dance floor, which appears to be the female half of a bridal party out to celebrate the intended's final night as a bachelorette.<p>

"Now ladies, we're here for a rocking **WHAT WOMEN WANT** night on the town! We'll be bringing you lots of music, especially tracks from the movie of the same title. How about that Mel Gibson, ladies, huh? I'm a guy, and even I think he's smokin' hot! At least, I did before he went totally _loony_. What's with all the celebs going off the deep end, ladies? Charlie Sheen … Tom Cruise? Huh?"

"Yeah,** YEAH!"** from the crowd. Bones and Booth watch in amusement.

"Come on, I mean, geez, are there any** REAL** men out there, ladies?"

The bachelorette party screams out, "She got the last one! Cherry, stand up!" A 23ish girl, wrapped in a shower curtain, and wearing a veil made out of several pairs of men's white cotton briefs sewn together at the hips, and held onto the bride's head by a crown of prophylactics, still attached to each other in their little perforated string of packages.

Cherry takes a bow, and screams out, "Robert Oldman is … in 48 hours, excuse me, 47 hours and 22 minutes … officially … **OFF THE MARKET,** _so suffer, bitches!_ and keep your hands off … the** LAST GOOD MAN!"**

"Way to be a party animal, Miss Cherry! And Ladies, I have a challenge for you, for the most **BEAUTIFUL** women here, that is! And,**YES**, I mean you sweetheart," says the DJ, winking at a brunette walking toward his booth, but smiling out at the other women already seated around the dance floor.

"My lovely assistant, Jane, is bringing around a iridescent stamp. Everyone in the joint MUST get their right hand stamped on the fleshy spot between the thumb and index finger. Once Jane is done, we'll tell you how the rest of the challenge goes! While we're waiting, here's our first **WHAT WOMEN WANT** song for all you bitches and ho's waiting to get up here and shake what cho' mama gave ya!"

Just then, a heavy beat vibrates through the room. It's carnal, almost tribal. Vibrations emanate from speakers suspended from the ceiling and mounted to the walls every six feet. Repeating pulses of tambourines and percussion fill the air. After the first eight measures, bass and guitar join in for another 8 measures. Thrum, thrum. Recognizing the beat, the women scream and jump up, running to the dance floor.

"This could be fun to watch," says Bones, leaning forward on the table, laughing at the DJ, and the crowd, bobbing her head to the beat. Booth is sitting back watching her. He can't believe they are finally in a place where thy can sit close like this, admit that they want each other, that they love each other, though she hasn't actually said it. But he knows she does. It's right there in his pocket, drawn out in letters sketched in tiny human bones. He's also glad to be out of the funk he'd been in since Hannah. It was all worth it, he thinks to himself, smiling. It was **ALL**worth it.

Meredith Brooks's voice assails them from all around, singing the song, **"BITCH."**Her smooth voice, a juxtaposition to the acerbic lyrics.

_Thrum, thrum,_two strong guitar strokes vibrate from the speakers. Brooks tells her lover of all that she is, the good and the bad, her disinterest in shame, her propensity to change the moment he thinks he's figured her out, thanking him for not trying to change her.

Bones is singing along, moving to the music, sitting in their own private booth, with her very own big Booth. Sitting back and turning to face him, the appropriate performer's scowl on her face, Bones wags her finger at him as she mouths the words to this first verse. She looks at him with an expression and posture of one who is rebuking a naughty child. Smiling wide, she winks at him. Wow.

He's thoroughly enjoying watching her having this much fun. When was the last time they enjoyed something like this together? Was it Hot Blooded? Or was it when she performed "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" on Karaoke night. That was a gas, until he got shot. Oh well, he thinks. You can't have everything. Let's just hope tonight they have better luck than they did that night, he thinks, making the sign of the cross.

"How about that, Bones. It's your song," says Booth.

"What? How can you say that?" she says, shaking her head. "You sound like you're saying something nice, but you're actually being rude."

Booth leans forward and says into her ear, "In my book, you fit the description of a **B-I-T-C-H**… that is, when it stands for:

**B**eautiful**  
>I<strong>ntelligent**  
>T<strong>erribly**  
>C<strong>ourageous**  
>H<strong>uman

"Does that make me your "Bitch," in the vernacular?" she asks him, teasing.

"If you wanna be …" he hits the ball back in her court. This is fun.

"Well, nice save, pal, but if you value your testicles, you will never call me that again, ha ha. Ever," she says, warning him and laughing.

Booth gives her a surprised look and laughs loudly. "I guess I've been put in my place," he says, still laughing.

"Booth, would you ever let anyone else call me that?"

"Hell no," he says. "I'd kick him in the testicles myself."

"Point made," she says.

"I can't take credit for the acronym, I stole it from a guy at the office," he says, grinning. "Get on out there and dance, Bones. You know you want to!"

_Thrum, thrum._  
><em>Thrum, thrum.<em>

Bones considers it. Is this too silly for us to do together? Hey, if we can air guitar to **HOT BLOODED**in front of a hundred people, surely we can let loose a little on a dance floor. She smiles, thinking, what the hell? Why not? She grabs Booth by his arm and pulls.

"I'm not going alone!" she tosses back to him. He follows her, tripping along behind her, onto the dance floor. Now Bones is really getting into the song, mouthing every phrase as if she's singing it to Booth. It's actually really hot, he thinks, chuckling to himself. He looks around to see if any other men are on the floor. There aren't. But he does notice he's being checked out by a couple of the women. He's alone in the middle of a hot, sweaty, estrogen frenzy. A tall woman in a skintight gold lamé dress winks at him, so he stops looking around, and focuses his attention on Bones. Deciding there are much worse ways to spend part of his Friday night, he shrugs and grabs her, giving her a twirl.

As the beat hits the crescendo, Bones goes wild. This is a bitchy, irreverent song, and she enjoys playing the part. She starts to sing/shout, taunting him with the lyrics, walking circles around him, moving her hips and torso like an angry dominatrix with a whip. This does something to Booth … it's very … very …** hot.**His stomach is in his shoes again or in knots or he doesn't know what, but it's affected. He's starting to sweat, though not from the minimal dancing he's pretending to do. He thinks she's so hot, it almost scares him. Since Bones is having a great time, he decides to do what comes naturally for him, too. He whips out the air guitar, twisting his face up into a mean rocker expression. All that's missing is a tie to wrap around his forehead.

At the chorus, Brooks asserts her melodic self-portrait once again, describing herself as demanding, loving, immature, maternal, fallible, etherial, shameless, natural, inspirational, sensual, sexual. She reminds her lover that she is all this … and to change any of it, would change who she is, and she'd no longer be the woman he desires.

"Russ let the girls sing this song?" he shouts over the din. "I find that hard to believe!."

"He altered the recording so the word "bitch" sounds like "witch." He's quite creative with computers when he wants to be. She goes back to enjoying the song, singing along with the lyrics and playing up to Booth. He's amused, but not really into the dancing ... he's more of an air guitar hero.

_Thrum, thrum._

Brooks warns that being her lover means he'll have to be confident in his manhood, an equal to her.

_Thrum, thrum._

Bones slinks up to Booth so they are belly to belly, chest to soft chest, but she's not touching him with any other part of her. They are both rocking-out hard. She's swaying her hips and teasing him. When they get to the line about being a stronger man, Bones grabs Booth by his biceps and squeezes. He's caught off guard, totally thrown by the aggressiveness of the action. He grabs her by the hand and whips her around so she's directly in front of him. Extending their left arms, Booth grabs her left wrist to use as his guitar frets. Wrapping his right arm around her, he begins to strum his guitar on her abdominal muscles. He's enjoying this, **WAY**more than he thought he would. Bones, dizzy with the carnality of it, leans back against him. As he tightens his grip on her, she grabs his strumming hand and strums along with him.

If either of them took a moment to think about it they'd realize that the only reason they are able to let loose like this is that they've broken free of what's been keeping them apart. His disappointment and anger. Her imperviousness and fear. Their combined timidity about changing the dynamic of their relationship. It is exhilarating to leave all of that behind.

_Thrum, thrum._

Brooks sings about her volatility, her brilliance, her powerfulness, her unabashed commitment to her true self ...

_Thrum, thrum._

Guitar riff on the six-string electric. Booth takes it away and … **Goes. To. Town.**He finishes the solo by sliding on his knees toward Bones, channeling Eddie Van Halen. Bones is laughing so hard, and loving seeing this side of him.

** "I AM SO ATTRACTED TO YOU RIGHT NOW!"**she screams at him, laughing so hard, she covers her mouth as tears fly from the corners of her eyes.

** "I KNOW, ISN'T IT GREAT?"**he screams back, continuing with his performance, nodding hard to the beat.

For the final chorus, Brooks takes it up a notch and lets the world know that she knows how to bring a man to his knees with desire. Bones drops to **her**knees, continuing to sing/shout for all she's worth from there.

After the final repetition of the song, Booth takes it away on the electric six-string, while Bones joins him on the slide guitar, and the two …**Rock. Out.**As the instrumental fades away, they pull themselves up off the floor and lean weakly on each other. Booth puts his arms around Bones and gives her a little swing off her feet.

"Ohhhhhh!" says Bones, weaving her way back to the table. She's out of breath, and her cheeks ache from all the smiling and laughing. "That was SO MUCH FUN! We should ask them to do it again. Do you think they'd do it again?" she says, then yells, **"ENCORE!"** toward the DJ. Booth grabs her by the hips, swings her around so she's facing toward the back, and pushes her toward their booth.

* * *

><p><em>So did that make you want to get up and dance? Can you see them doing what's written here? Can you? Let me know!<em>


	134. I'm Here to Be With You

_Author's Note: Hey there, readers! I'm out of town this weekend - so you may not see another chapter till Tuesday ... but thought I better at least get you ONE before Tuesday! Here, Bones and Booth BOTH get embarrassed ... for different reasons. When it's all said and done ... let me know what you thought! _

**Chapter 134 I'm Here To Be With ****You**

"Meredith Brooks knows how to rock it, doesn't she ladies?" the DJ shouts to the wave of Estrogen zooming around the room. "Well, Janie, are we ready?" The assistant, Jane, armed with the iridescent rubber stamp, waves from the back of the bar where she's still stamping the hands of all the women. "Raise your hands if you still need your stamp - raise 'em high ladies, so Janie can see you!"

Manicured hands shoot up, waving from the corner of the room where Jane stands. She gives a thumbs up back to the DJ.

"Okay," starts the DJ. "We're gonna play some soft Sinatra until party time, and I want all you lovely ladies to get out your cell phones and call your friends. The woman who brings in the most friends, in other words, the most patrons without their hands already stamped, gets a free round of drinks for herself and her friends. And we'll be giving away some other great stuff, too!"

"Did you get your hand stamped, Bones?" asks Booth, following her back to the table, still steering her by her hips.

"No. I don't need to," she replies. "I'm not here for ladies night, Booth. I'm here to be with you."

"What! What if there's a drawing to win a sail boat, or tickets to a Flyers game, or a flat screen tv …" says Booth, mock concern on his face.

Bones give's him the 'don't be absurd' look. "Stop pushing me!" she says to Booth, slapping his hands off her hips and laughing as he continues to steer her toward the table. "I don't think I really want another round of dancing and air guitar anyway."

"It's usually not as good the second time," says Booth. "By then, you're worn out, you've lost some steam, you're tired. Before long, your butt is dragging, and you can't wait until it's over." He grabs a napkin from their table and wipes his forehead.

"Are we still talking about … dancing?" she says, looking at him quizzically, smirking. _Because I could go all night, sexually, if I'm inspired_ ... she thinks, but keeps it to herself. That's just a little too suggestive, she decides.

"Uh, yeah, we **ARE** talking about dancing, aren't we?" he says, looking at her suspiciously.

"Yes, of course we are. But you know, Booth, I find that it is quite easy to interpret just about anything someone says as suggestive," she slides back into their booth.

Booth slides in behind her and they are back in their previous spots, but further apart because they're hot and sweaty. "You're probably right," he says, laughing and smiling. What were you thinking I could have meant?"

"Well, what you just said … one could interpret that comment as _libidinous_, or highly sexual."

"Hm. Men think of most things as sexual anyway …" he says, leaning his elbows on the table and reaching for the glass of ice water the waitress brought before they hit the dance floor. "Cheers," he says, holding out the perspiring glass to Bones.

She picks up hers and clinks it to his. "To your health and wellbeing," she answers. "Okay, listen to this. This is exactly what you said:

_'It's usually not as good the second time. By then, you're worn out, you've lost some steam,  
>you're tired. Before long, your butt is dragging, and you can't wait until it's over.'<em>

"That is what you said. One could interpret that as a double entendre, referring to a second round of sexual intercourse," she looks at him. She's quite serious. "Making love, I mean," she says, smiling.

Booth just looks at her. What do you say to that?

"A psychologist might even say that, subconsciously, you are referring to both activities ... dancing and intercourse …"

"Now, that's a load of crap!" says Booth, sitting back, chuckling.

"How can you say it's a load of crap ... besides the fact that it's_ 'psychology',_" she says, making air quotation marks when she says 'psychology."

Booth shakes his head, hissing while exhaling. "Because, Bones, I would … _never_ … in a million years … say THAT about having sex, making love, screwing, bumping the uglies, doing the horizontal mambo, knocking boots, having a quickie, gettin' busy, taking a hard ride on a soft wave, or any other euphemism you can come up with," he says, confidently, cockily, stretching his arm out across the top of the booth toward Bones.

"Hm," grunts Bones, sitting back as well.

"Hm, what? You don't think I have the stamina?" he asks her, eyebrows raised in a challenge.

"No, I have absolutely no doubts about your stamina, Booth," she says, taking another sip of her water. "I'm curious about the **quickie**," she says, squinching her eyebrows together, creating little vertical wrinkles over the bridge of her nose. "Granted, I don't usually engage in conversations where any of those euphemisms would appear, but I can understand their relevance in referral to the sex act. But … a **quickie**?" She's genuinely perplexed.

"Come on, Bones! You've never had a quickie?" says, Booth signaling to the waitress. "Do you want another glass of wine?"

"I'd prefer a beer," she answers, absently. Booth orders two bottled beers, and turns back to face Bones.

"I assume a quickie refers to the sex act as well, I just don't comprehend the relevance," she says, shaking her head.

"Bones, it refers to the urgency and the lack of preparation … and … usually the duration," he laughs, "of the sex act, hence the name 'quickie.' Have you been living under a rock?" he chuckles.

"Of course I haven't been living under a rock. You know exactly where I live," she says. "So ... 'quickie' refers to engaging in an ill-prepared, fast, and, most likely unsatisfactory session of sexual intercourse?"

"Bingo, baby!" says Booth, smiling, "Except for the satisfaction part. And what I meant about the rock is that perhaps you need to get out more."

"Really? A **_quickie_** ... is satisfying?" says Bones, unconvinced, looking at him through narrowed eyelids.

"Whoo ooo, yeah!" says Booth, dropping the whole rock thing and going straight for the quickie. "Trust me, it's usually fantastically satisfying."

The waitress comes over with a tray and two dark brown bottles of pure gold. Booth nods appreciation to the waitress.

"How can that be satisfying? Females usually need a significant amount of verbal and tactile stimu…"

** "NO BIOLOGY LESSONS TONIGHT!"** Booth interrupts her, almost shouting. "I can do without a technical description of … that!" He holds out his beer toward her. She clinks hers to his without saying anything this time.

"Okay, sorry! I'm just saying, some people need more ... ramp up time … to achieve orgasm."

Holy Mother of a Fornicating Duck, Bones! We're are in public, for Christ's sake!"

"I do not understand why you are so ... uptight about the subject of sex. It's a ..."

"Yeah, I know all about it," he interrupts her. " … a perfectly natural human need, bla bla bla," he says, relieved that she's willing to drop it. "Look, Bones, a_ 'quickie'_ is …," he searches for a word, pausing, thinking. He twists his torso sideways so he's facing her straight-on instead of having to talk sideways at her. He knows from experience that this particular sitting position will make his hips ache if he maintains it for too long, which is most likely what's going to happen tonight. Kicking off his right shoe, he pulls a colorfully-socked foot up to his left thigh, his right knee is pointing toward Bones. After watching him make these adjustments, Bones zips off her boot again and does the same thing, tucking her foot under her thigh. Now they are knee to knee, black denim to faded blue denim.

"This is cozy," says Bones, crinkling her nose and grinning at him. She's cradling her beer in her hands. _I am really enjoying this,_ she thinks, returning her eyes to his, which are intently focused on her at the moment.

Booth rubs his eyes, and rests his right arm along the back of the booth bench again. Without realizing it, he sighs audibly. _Relaxing here, in a dimly lit bar, with Bones. What else could a man want?_ He brings his fist up to his temple and leans against it. _God, this woman makes me crazy ... in a very good way,_ he thinks to himself, and smiles. Their eyes meet again, lingering for several moments. He has a sudden urge to tell her everything. He doesn't want to wait. His skin itches to be up against her bare skin. He wants to walk her upstairs and make love to her. It shows in his eyes. He looks away for a moment, wondering how long he can take this. It's like being in a bakery, but not allowed to taste the pie. He smiles again, a dreamy, satisfied, smile, at these thoughts. _Tuesday is only four ... days ... away. What's another four days?_

"What are you smiling at?" Bones asks, pulling him back to the present. "Geez, Booth, what _ARE_ you thinking?" She's seen this look before. It's a mix between hunger, pleasure, and satisfaction. Maybe the satisfaction of knowing dinner - or pleasure - is on the horizon.

"Oh ... you," he says, quietly, with a slow, sweet smile, love in his eyes. "I'm just thinking about you …"

There go the capillaries again. If she wasn't red-cheeked and sweaty already, she would be now. Looking down at her beer, embarrassed by the intimacy of that look, she begins picking at the label on the bottle.

This does not go unnoticed by Booth. He remembers that the last time she was embarrassed, she began chewing her nails. Never, in six years, has he seen her pick at a beer bottle label, or any other kind of label. She is definitely embarrassed. He leans forward, sliding his arm along the back of the booth, just far enough so he can run his fingertips across her forehead, sweeping her hair out of her face. As he gently tucks it behind her ear, she shivers involuntarily. She leans over and lays her hot cheek against his hand, closing her eyes, just for a moment, then sits back up.

Looking up into his face, she searches his eyes, waiting for him to say something, daring herself not to look away again. She remembers Sweets' words:

**_"Love is found in the shadows of doubt - and what is embarrassment, but self-doubt? Insecurity?"_**

and

**_"Inability to share intimate moments can render a relationship doomed."_**

"Are you ... embarrassed, Bones?" he asks, surprised, chuckling at first. This is the first time he's actually **watched** her get embarrassed. The time before, he was driving when it hit, or was it in his hotel room, talking about baby Parker?

"It's become my automatic reaction to intimacy, I guess," she says, trying to shrug it off. _That look_, she thinks, _Oh boy, it felt very intimate._ She fans her cheeks with her hands, trying to cool off.

Feeling sorry for her, Booth leans toward her and blows in her face a couple of times.

"That's not helping, Booth!" she says, chuckling at herself, whimpering, even more embarrassed by his attempt to make her feel better. "Actually, it might have made it worse!" she says, blushing even more.

She holds her beer up to each cheek, and finally starts to cool down.

"You gonna be okay?" he says. Wow, this embarrassment over intimacy is intense. He hadn't realized how hard it was for her ...

Bones nods, blowing on the exposed skin of her chest a couple of times."You were just about to tell me what a quickie is," she reminds him, having somewhat regained her composure.

"Okay," he says, timidly. _This may make matters worse … but here goes nothing._ "A quickie, Bones, is a frenzied, intense, and exhilarating experience. It's not about the … " Again, he's searching for a word that he won't die saying in public. He's also feeling a wave of heat moving from the top of his head downward. He looks around. There's no one within ear shot. He leans toward her, whispering into the hair behind her ear, "Bones, it's not about the …** climax**, so much as the … the passion, the immediacy, the intensity, the excitement … of doing it … just out of the blue. For no reason at all, except that you can."

"Oh my," is all she can say. "Wow." Having gotten through that first attack of embarrassment, she's actually handling it pretty well, despite how provocative that definition was - or was it simply his Boothy delivery? Hot! _How does spontaneous combustion work?_ she tries to remember.

"Yeah, wow," he says. "You should try it sometime." He tosses that comment out and grabs his neglected beer from the table. If she weren't right there watching him, he would have grabbed what was left of his ice water and poured it on his head, or better yet, into his lap.

* * *

><p><em>Readers, let me know what you think! I love it when Booth get's uncomfortable talking about sex ...<em>  
><em>it's fun to see him squirm about something. What did you think? Let me know!<em>


	135. Chapter 135 The Dichotomy Between Fear a

_Author's Note: Folks - My husband kidnapped me to go out of town for the weekend. Sorry to keep you waiting! I hope you enjoy this next chapter. It kind of goes all over the place! Let me know what you think! ~ Catherine (Aka MoxieGirl) P.S. Remember - you were warned that there'd be a lot of fluff before we get back to the case ... : )_

**Chapter 135 The Dichotomy* Between Fear and Determination**

"Booth," says Bones, exhaling. She reaches up and drapes her left arm over his along the back of the booth. She wiggles her index finger, a **come a little closer **gesture. "I have to tell you something. Can I just tell you something?."

"Always," he says, leaning closer so he can hear her, enjoying the sensation of their overlapping arms. They're both wearing short sleeve shirts, so it's mostly skin on skin. It's sweet, and comforting, for both of them, and he knows it.

"This embarrassment thing is making me a little crazy," she says, leaning in as well, shivering a little as if a cool breeze just blew by. She tries to shrug it off, smiling, apologetically, up into his eyes.

"I can see that."

"Well, it's very uncomfortable, and I really don't know what to do about it. If there is anything I **can **do about it."

"Hey, it doesn't bother me," he says, shaking his head and frowning, then smiling assurance at her. "It's actually pretty amazing to see how many colors you can turn in a short period of time," he says, chuckling.

She relaxes a bit. "Ha ha ha," she says, relieved and anxious at the same time, to talk with him about this. This is my best friend, as well as the living, breathing, main character of every fantasy I've had for the last six years, she thinks. She shivers again. Chuckles. "Okay - as an aside, because I really want to tell you this other thing I was thinking."

"Okay," he says, ready for anything she might throw at him, used to the circuitous routes their conversations always take.

"You know," she begins, scrunching up her face and looking into his eyes with something akin to wonder, delight, appreciation. "It's fascinating to me the facility with which you adjust your demeanor/posture/attitude/tone toward me, so rapidly, from that of friend, to partner, to fantasy … or, maybe lover is a better word, though not completely accurate, technically …" she blushes at the word 'lover,' but ignores it by continuing immediately, "then back to partner, then friend, then lover … in a very brief amount of time. It's a lot like the cuttlefish** in how it camouflages itself from it's predators. Have you heard of the cuttlefish?"

"The cuddlefish? Yep," he says. Registering surprise on her face, he adds, "PBS! Nova. On television. Quite fascinating."

"It's '_CUT_,' Cuttlefish.

"Oh. Whatever. Continue …"

"If you recall, the cuttlefish changes color rapidly, in order to evade predators, using elastic sacs called chromatophores," she explains, searching his eyes and facial muscles for signs of comprehension. Good, he's getting it, she thinks. "I have no proof of this, but I suspect that **you **don't do it to camouflage, or to hide. You appear to do it as a strategy for adjusting to the … nuances of whatever communication we're engaged in."

"Hm," he grunts, adjusting his arm a bit underneath hers so he can wrap his hand around her elbow. As a result, her hand now rests in the crook of** his **elbow, her fingers resting atop his bicep. Booth absently runs his fingers back and forth up and down a small section of the skin covering her humerus bone, just above her elbow joint. He doesn't notice the affect this has on her, because she's determinedly focused on getting this point across … despite the electrical charge running up her arm and cervical vertebrae, then down her spine and into her chest. She closes her eyes for a minute to focus.

"I'm used to things being what they are, in their own little boxes, segregated, nicely packaged. You don't fit in there that way. You are so many things at once. It's quite fascinating, and enjoyable," she says, surprised, and happy that she finally completed that thought.

"You do it to," he says finally.

"I do not, do I?" she says, uncertain. "I'm usually pretty much the same. Logical. Reasonable."

"No you aren't."

"Wha? What are you talking about? I'm not one of these people who walks about saying silly things, having hunches, making decisions of a whim …"

"Of course not," he says, laughing at her. "But you are much, much better at adapting to the needs of the moment. A hell of a lot better than you were when I first met you."

"Hm," she grunts. "Okay. I'll pay for that," she says, satisfied.

"It's 'I'll** BUY **that, Bones," he says, without missing a beat.

* * *

><p>"So, before my digression into the world of the Boothy cuttlefish …"<p>

"And the Boney Cuttlefish …"

"Hey, that actually makes sense. That's cute," she says, giving him the full, toothy smile.

"You were saying … " he says, still running his fingers up and down her skin behind her elbow, now quite aware that it's playing with her concentration.

"Yes, about the embarrassment …" she says, and pauses, looking at her hand on his bicep, squeezing his bicep gently, feeling a responding flex from him. She runs her thumb back and forth, applying a smooth pressure against the pleasing solidness under her fingers. Yowsa, she thinks, closing her eyes for a moment, her mind going blank. Shit.

"And, again, it doesn't bother me one bit," he says, saving her from her brain freeze ... more like brain burn. She opens her eyes, focusing on his face, those lips, those eye brows.

"Seriously," Booth says, "I know you're working through some stuff. I gotta think experiencing embarrassment is a good thing, right?"

"Okay. Well," she says, thinking 'focus, Temperance, focus! "I'm finding that I significantly underestimated the emotional and physiological affects associated with decreased imperviousness," she begins.

"I don't follow …"

"I have this sensation of loss of control. A lot," she says.

"All the time?" he looks at her, concerned. This woman packs a gun occasionally.

"Not all the time," she says, considering the question. "No, it isn't all the time at all. It's only during moments of … well, it's only in response to discussion or thoughts of an intimate nature. So, usually just with you. _**Only **_with you, to be precise."

"That's actually how it's supposed to be, intimacy. If we are in a relationship, an exclusive, romantic relationship. The intimacy is just ours. It's just between us," he says, squeezing her arm above her elbow for emphasis.

This melts her. The content, and hearing him say the words intimacy, romantic, and relationship, melt her completely. And panics her a little, but she pushes that sensation down and out of her system as best she can.

"Oh, what am I so worried about?" she complains, closing her eyes, rocking back and forth slightly.

Booth smiles, recognizing that she actually is relaxing a bit. While her eyes are closed, he reaches over with his left hand and lifts her chin up, so he can look in her eyes.

"You are going to be** just fine**," he says, covering her lips with his. "I promise," he breathes across her lips, kissing her once again, a wet kiss this time. He rubs noses with her, kisses her on that nose, then moves away, smiling.

She sits completely still, holding her breath, eyes closed. A blissful smile on her face. Slowly, she opens her eyes. "You are going to be the death of me, Seeley Booth," she whispers. She drags her eyes away from him and looks around the bar to gauge the proximity of the crowd to their private corner booth. Everyone is on cell phones, calling their friends, inviting them to WHAT WOMEN WANT NIGHT. She looks up at the ceiling, the lights have gotten dimmer every hour. She can see Booth perfectly, but only because they are sitting this close together.

Reaching across the space between them with both hands, she pulls his face back to hers, meeting him in the middle, she tilts her head slightly, looking up into his eyes, his warm, gentle, chocolate eyes, and gets lost there. She doesn't want to look away, even for a kiss.

Booth has stopped breathing altogether. "You never cease to amaze me," he whispers, shaking his head slightly back and forth, massaging her shoulder with the hand that used to be holding her elbow. He reaches up with his fingers and moves her bangs off her forehead again, tracing her hairline down to her ear. They are still so close that she can feel his breath on her lips, his touch on her face making a silvery path. "I can actually see this battle going on inside you," he says, shifting his gaze from one eye to the other and back. "It seems to be fear versus determination. It's palpable," he whispers again. "I can feel it, like a pressure system on the horizon, except that it's already here, and we're in the middle of it," he says, in awe of how her sharing of this fills him up.

"We are the center," she whispers to him, looking down at his lips, then back up into his eyes. "And the center must hold. In every way."

"You do realize," he says, "that this is, most definitely, the height of intimacy … not being afraid to let me see you up this close, experience your struggles with you. And I don't mean physically."

"I knew what you meant, Booth," she whispers, tracing his zygomatic arch, his cheek bone, with her thumb, still not kissing him, still holding his face close to hers.

"One minute you're blushing like a … a … school girl. The next minute, you're pressing you body into mine … unabashedly … abandoning all inhibition," he says. "It's … almost freaky … and, yes, Bones, it takes my breath away. Literally," he's still whispering, his throat getting tight. He flexes his jaw muscles. She responds by running her fingers along his mandible, his jaw line. A hot sensation radiates from his jaw, over his scalp and down his spine. His eyes slowly close, giving in to the sensation. "Did I say that out loud or did I just think it," he says. She chuckles quietly.

"I think it's called progress, what you are seeing in me ..." she whispers, this time he feels her breath on his lips, and along with it, that overwhelming sensation one gets the moment before sexual release: the anticipation, the relief, that all you've worked for, for ten minutes, or for six years, is about to happen. The ... almost ... over ... the ... top ... of ... the ... hill sensation. Your everything is awash in the certainty that at any second, this thing is going to take on a life of its own and all you have to do is go with it, ride it out, in exquisite submission, while your surroundings float away and intense well-being descends upon you. Pretty Powerful stuff.

"This is what I've been wanting to do all night," she says, nervously, boldly. Kissing him gently, her eyes wide open, watching his face receiving and responding to her kiss. His eyes are closed. Watching him surrender under her kisses, she feels, again, the overwhelming sensation that she's going to cry. She traces a path, with her fingers, from his face, down his neck, to his warm, strong shoulders, then across his back where they come to a stop, hot and damp, resting on his trapezii.

Rising up slightly on her knee, she leans into him. His hands slide up her back and pull her even closer in, as he leans back more fully against the back of the booth.

"You have no idea how happy that makes me to hear you say that," he says, breathless, between kisses.

"Oh, I think i have a pretty good idea," she whispers, her breath warming his neck. She scrapes her upper teeth along the ridge of his ear.

"No you don't," he disagrees, leaning into whatever it is she's doing to his ear that makes him weak in the knees. Good thing they're sitting down, or he might have fallen over.

_**Note to myself,**_ thinks Bones, _**the ears are a hot spot for Booth.**_

He slowly drags his five o'clock shadow-covered jaw across her cheek, sending sparks all over every single part of her, including her toes.

She stops mid-motion, caught by the hot salty-sweet friction between her soft cheek and his rugged one. They say the brain is our largest sex organ. Hers just initiated a down pour of dopamine and nor epinephrin that would knock over an elephant.

_**Note to myself,**_ thinks Booth, _**stubble against skin makes drives her crazy.**_

"Okay, you win," she whispers. He can barely hear her, she's so quiet.

"I think we both win."

"I concur with your assessment, so shut up and kiss me," she demands.

"You're so bossy," he says, chuckling into her ear. "That is so hot!"

* * *

><p>*Dichotomy - a division or contrast between two things that are or are represented as being opposed or entirely different<br>**Cuttlefish have the ability to change their appearance in a split second, mimicking floating vegetation or rocks on the seafloor. When it comes to changing one's skin color, the cuttlefish outshines even the chameleon, in both degree and kind. Its skin possesses up to 200 pigment cells per square millimeter, allowing the animal to pattern itself with a variety of colors. The cuttlefish can also use muscles in its dermis to change its skin texture from smooth to rough, enabling it to hide easily among rocks on the seafloor, for instance. For more information about the cuttlefish, look at .

* * *

><p>Okay - how 'bout them Dodgers? The Twins? The Packers? Anything else on your mind? Show me da money, folks!<p> 


	136. Chapter 136 Let's Do This Thing Right

_Author's Note: Sorry to keep you waiting folks! It took me a couple of days to recover from the three day weekend - and then another couple to catch up with a bunch of writing! So ... thanks for all the generous reviews of the last chapter ... and I hope you continue to enjoy the fluff of Booth and Bones in the Booth at the Bar. Hey, that might be a good name for a chapter along the way ... Enjoy!_

**Chapter 136 Let's Do This Thing Right**

"Bones, you're shaking," says Booth, pulling away from her. They've been sitting quietly, side-by-side, in their corner booth at the bar, chatting about nothing.

"I'm sorry, I can't help it!" she says, genuinely at a loss for what to do about it.

"Did you get enough to eat?" He motions to the waitress. "Can I get a clean glass, and maybe a pitcher of ice water?" he asks, then turns back to Bones, concerned.

"I had plenty to eat," she says, shrugging her shoulders, shaking her head. "Plus a huge piece of pecan pie," she says, nodding at him, "Which You helped me finish."

"Are you cold?" He looks her over to see if there are any other signs that something might be amiss. He feels her cheeks, her forehead, with the back of his hand. "You're actually a little warm," he says.

"You would be too, if you'd been doing what I've been doing for the last couple of hours," she says, chuckling forlornly.

"What might that be?" he asks, not that he doesn't know the answer.

She turns and looks him in the eyes. "I've been sitting here … talking with you … just like I've done approximately 2,580 times before, except this time …" she shakes her head, shrugs several times, and looks back at him, a question in her eyes. "This is not something we usually do."

"What do yo mean?" he says, smirking, no longer so much concerned as amused, but attempting to appear serious,

"Come on, don't make me say it," she says, tilting her head, and staring at him, challenging him to feign ignorance.

He shrugs. His expression says: This is your conversation, baby. Go for it.

"You just want to see how many shades of red I can turn in one hour, don't you?" she asks, her eyes narrowing.

"Well," says Booth, "You're going to have to get used to it. Because this is not going away, and we're going to keep talking about it, and thinking about it, and …"

"Okay! Okay," she says, relenting. "Did Sweets put you up to this? Tell you it would expedite my personal development, or some other nonsense psychological crap?"

"Sweets has nothing to do with anything I say, Bones," he shakes his head. "Keep going. It sounds like you were heading somewhere."

"Okay," she says, taking control of herself and attempting to adopt a semi-clinical manner. "Here's my assessment of what's going on." She pauses, gathering her thoughts. "Here I am, in this very romantic environment, with you - my partner - and friend … " she says, her speech slowing to a stop mid sentence.

"Don't stop. I'm still listening," he says, but his face is now buried in her neck and he's slowly dragging his chin from her neck to behind her ear, and back again. She rubs her ear against his cheek, then shakes her head, no. She leans away from him. "Stop. Stop, Booth!" she says, lazily.

He pauses for a moment, chucking into her ear. He traces the line of her jaw with his chin one more time, knowing it's making her nuts.

"Stop it!" she says, attempting to be firm, but unable to stop herself from laughing.

"I'll stop when you stop being so beautiful," he says, a silly grin on his face.

"Or, when you get this pitcher of ice cold water dumped in your lap!"

He follows the length of her right arm from her shoulder to her hand and sees that it ends with her fingers gripping the handle of the pitcher the waitress recently brought to the table. He laughs, appreciating her cleverness.

"Okay," he says. "You win this one."

She still hasn't removed her fingers from the pitcher.

"So you want me to scoot over a bit?" he asks

"Yes. If that's what you have to do to control yourself," she says, smiling, chuckling at him.

"Okay, he says, willing to play along, but also knowing this is probably a good strategy if they do plan to have any kind of serious discussion. He leans away and scoots over far enough so that they are not touching. On the round table, she's at about 6 o'clock, and he's at about 11. When they both lay their arms on the table in front of them, elbows out, hands resting on the table, fingers intertwined as if praying, there are twelve inches between the end of her elbow and the beginning of his. A safe distance. Still cozy, but much less distracting. Physically, at least.

"Where was I?"

"You were commenting about how this is different from the other 5,000 times we've sat somewhere and talked. Then you were going to say something about how strange it feels to be on a more … physical … basis, and how you can't live without me. Wait, no, you already said that," he pauses, acting like he's thinking seriously. "Oh, and you were going to remind me that I said I had some ideas about what to do about it."

"Are you mocking me?"

He presses his lips together, stifling a laugh. "Was I right?"

She grimaces, bites her lip. "Of course," she says, resigned. "Okay Booth," she says, pulling her eyes away from him, filling her new glass with fresh ice water, "talk to me." But then she continues without giving him a chance. "This aspect of our relationship has been …" she looks for some words. Finding some, she says, "On the horizon, metaphorically speaking, for far too long …"

"Looks to me like it was exactly the right amount of time," says Booth, off the cuff.

"Don't interrupt me … what do you mean?"

"Look - there has been chemistry from the beginning. From our first case forward. That was given a back seat due to our … natures, I guess, or personalities … for lack of a better word, for a long time. That was a good thing, I think, because it gave us the chance to get to know each other very well, figure out how to work together, how to be friends as well as partners, right?"

She's nodding, chewing on the inside of her lip. At the same time, she sighs inwardly, thinking about how much she truly, truly appreciates that they can talk like this, especially since this is a topic that has felt taboo and fraught with so much anxiety for both of them, for such a long time.

As Booth continues, she's listening, but also thinking her own thoughts. She's become adept at this brand of multi-tasking, it's part of what makes her so good at what she does. The human brain thinks and processes seven times faster than it can listen.

_At this point in a dating relationship, she's thinking, once the mutual attraction and willingness is established, and after the kissing starts, it usually heads directly into the bedroom … and all talking stops. Maybe that's why I've never found those relationships to be satisfying, outside the bedroom, at least. But Booth is willing to talk. Wants to talk. It's almost as if he's a girl, she thinks. Or maybe the men I've chosen in the past have been so much the opposite. They've been excellent specimens, excellent physically and visually. Good breeding material. Not interested in the the mushy side of a relationship, which has been perfect for me, in the past, she thinks, and precisely why she chose them, whether or not she was aware of it. She didn't want any of the mushy stuff. That would require exposing the raw nerves she'd packed in insulation and locked away many years ago to avoid the potential, inevitable pain. Keeping it mainly physical was safe. How perfect that it should be this way with Booth. She' always felt safe with Booth. This last thought is what makes her stop him._

"We've had many opportunities to be …" he's saying, when she reaches out, her arm pivoting at the elbow, to lay her hand on his forearm, leaving it there.

_Ulna, she hears her own voice say inside her head, naming the bone, then the muscles attached to it beneath where she just laid her hand. Extensor carpi ulnaris, extensor digiti minimi, flexor carpi ulnaris. Inside her head, she smiles at herself for doing this. When she's relaxed, she frequently finds herself naming the anatomical parts of whatever is in view. Sometimes it's her own parts, sometimes it's the person sitting across from her. It's somewhat automatic, subconscious, in the same way that some people count steps when they ascend them._

He stops talking and looks up at her from the table where he had been mentally organizing his thoughts, seven times faster than he was sharing them with her.

"Just so we're clear, here, Booth …" she says, gazing, seriously, into his eyes across the table from her. She's leaning forward. This is an aside, her body language says, but it belongs in the conversation and should have been brought up earlier. So I'll just squeeze it in now ..

"Yeah?"

"And in case I forget to mention this," she says, pausing momentarily, "I, um, I do love you, Booth" she says, squinting. "You know that, right?" she smiles slightly, still serious.

"Yes," he replies, nodding, serious as well. Knowing her as he does, he's well aware that she didn't say that to be funny, or flirtatious, or to get a declaration in return. She literally meant it as a fact, something that should be taken into consideration going forward in this conversation. He exhales, realizing that he's been so focused on the beginning of this conversation that he must have been taking shallow breaths up until now.

"Just so you have all the facts," she says, removing her hand and returning to her upright position across the table from him.

"I know, Bones," he says, nodding. "It's very well documented," he gives her a very warm smile, then returns to his previous train of thought. "Now I have to … where was I? I had a whole progression of thoughts I was gonna …"

"Chemistry from the beginning," she says, to jog his memory. "Our personalities ended up in the back seat somehow - though what that is supposed to refer to, I am not sure. But it allowed us to become friends while also partners."

"Right, right, right. What I meant," he says, "Is that because of who we are, and what we had to do, we ignored the chemistry, the attraction, so we could work together. Which we do amazingly well. Work, I mean." He looks to her for agreement.

"Agreed." she says, smiling warmly back at him.

"And, as friends, we have learned a lot about each other. Two people who otherwise probably never would have done that."

"I know that you like brown sugar on your oatmeal," she says, "And that you call your grandfather "Pops," that you don't like eggs in your mother's meatloaf, that what concerns you the most is Parker's happiness, and that you depend on me to tell you the truth, even if it annoys you."

"Right. And I know that you don't like your fruit cooked, that you find jazz music soothing, that your best friend in high school was a really scary handyman, that if you had a pig, you'd name it Jasper, and that there is nothing you wouldn't do for me."

"These are all true," she says, bringing her glass up to her lips, smiling at him, then taking a long drink, emptying half the glass.

"My point is that, if we hadn't had all that time, as painful and frustrating as it sometimes may have been, we wouldn't have learned to trust each other enough to take risks, personal risks, for and with each other. Risks that involve digging up past hurts, reopening some old scars. Stuff from way before we ever knew each other," he says, his voice getting a little softer because of the truth of what he's saying, and because it has been a bumpy road. "I know I couldn't have done that in the first two years we were working together. I just didn't know that I needed to. Or that it would actually make a difference telling someone about it. Telling you about it," he says, nodding his head toward her, receiving a smile expressed mostly through her eyes, in return. "And it has been good for me, much as I sometimes hate to admit it. Sometimes it's sucked!" he chuffs, pivoting his forearm on its elbow, laying it out on the table toward her, palm up.

Bones lifts her forearm without lifting her elbow from the table, and puts her hand in his, her palm laying across his fingers, between his thumb and index finger. She gives him an affectionate squeeze, leaving her hand in his, where it feels like it belongs. She smiles at him, a tender smile.

"And you," he starts again, returning the squeeze, enjoying its warmth, its solidness, its steadiness, its softness, its fit, inside his hand. "You have come so very far. Recognizing the value in sharing your life with the people who love you, your team, Russ, your dad," he says, "and me," loosening his hold on her hand and spreading his fingers underneath hers. An invitation.

Without hesitation, she readjusts her hand, laying it across his upturned wrist. As he starts to talk again, she massages his wrist, then, exerting the same amount of pressure, slides her fingers between his, so they intersect, loosely, at the second knuckle. An acceptance of the invitation.

_Metacarpal, proximal phalange, she says to herself._

"I've learned a lot from you, Booth," she says, "about a lot of things."

"As have I from you," he says, sliding his fingers from where they intersect with hers at the knuckle, to the tender web of skin at the base of her fingers, and very deliberately folds the full length of his fingers over the back side of her hand.

_Maybe we should be doing this over the phone instead, she muses, stunned at how seductive merely holding hands with this man can be. Capillaries freaking out, she resigns herself to the fact that any interactions she has with him, especially when talking about their relationship, are going to have this affect on her. Get used to it, she tells herself, and move on. She'd like to, but at the moment, she'd really rather crawl over the table and sink her teeth into that bottom lip of his._

_Tilting her head sideways, she looks at their hands, wrapped around each other in a firm embrace. From their hands, her eyes travel up his arm. Radius and ulna. Humerus. Clavicle. Cervical vertebrae. Zygomatic arch. Mandible. Lips, wonderful lips. Nose. Eyes. Amazing eyes. Eyes looking at her watching her thinking, waiting for her to speak. She can barely breathe. Must. Focus. Focus, Temperance, she thinks, trying to coax herself into shrugging off the … unproductive impulses … tugging at her._

In a much younger voice than her chronological age would suggest, she speaks toward their clasped hands, "I never had someone who was patient enough to … or … maybe strong enough to … help me be more invested in my own … way of being." She shrugs. This is also a fact. No longer such a painful one. No longer an important one. But, nevertheless, a significant one. "I didn't trust anyone that much," she says, "Didn't care to, thought I didn't need to. I thought I was happy. I was happy, by my own standards. But I was woefully uninformed. You helped me see that, Booth." She's still fixated on their hands.

"Hey," he says, raising their hands toward his face. "Look up here. Look at me, Bones," he says, waiting for her to meet his gaze. He kisses the back of her hand, then puts it to his cheek just for a moment, without losing the eye contact he just won. "We've helped each other see many things that neither of us knew were there. I feel like we're still working at it. You, here, blushing uncontrollably …" he says. She laughs. "Me, trying desperately to control my impulses …"

"Are you feeling the need to gamble," she says, looking around to see if there was a casino in the bar.

"Yes, I am," he says, "But not with chips, and dice, and cards." He brings their hands back up to his face, kisses the back of her hand again, and returns them to the table.

She relaxes, and smiles, grateful for the sweetness of what he just said, and for the equally sweet things he said without saying anything at all. She sighs, feeling a little lightheaded. Exhilarated, actually, she realizes, and that brings a rapturous smile to her lips. He returns her smile, as she brings their hands up to her face, closes her eyes, and kisses the back of his hand, leaving her lips on his skin long enough for him to register their tenderness and warmth.

"So!" he says, focusing. "I'd like to take it slow. I'd like to do this right."

"How slow" she asks. "Booth, if I have to wait six years to have sexual intercourse, or make love with you … I just don't think I can do it. I don't **WANT** to do it," she says, not exactly pleading, but interested in making her case. "I don't want to wait, I mean. At least not for too long. I certainly would like to engage in, you know, having sex, making love, screwing, bumping the uglies, doing the horizontal mambo, knocking boots, gettin' busy, sleeping together, doing it, taking a hard ride on a soft wave, making whoopee, copulating, fornicating, or any other euphemism **YOU** can come up with. And I'm especially interested learning a little more about this "quickie." And it sounds like the best manner of learning is the hands-on approach." she says, in a very serious tone, shaking her head and scrunching up her shoulders and letting them drop back down. Amused at her laundry list of euphemisms for having sex, he still gets surprised by her ability to remember, word for word sometimes, things he's told her. If she weren't so convicted and serious, he would laugh. But she is. So he doesn't.

He doesn't say anything either. He's still trying to convince himself that waiting and getting through this other stuff is a good idea ...

"Booth, how long are you thinking of waiting. Because I would argue that making love is crucial to the next level of our relationship…" she says, in the same tone she might say, "I really think we need to get that vacuum cleaner fixed or we'll be in dirt up to our ears."

"Bones, no one ever died of a dopamine or endolphin overdose," he says, squeezing her hand, and laughing. It's fantastic to hear her say that she doesn't think she can wait to make love with him. That, in itself, is enough Viagra to stiffen a small army of tired men. Old, tired men!

"Hm, but wouldn't that make an interesting case? I wonder how we'd prove it ..."

"Look, there's a lot going on between us. I'd like to take it slow and do it right, in the right time," he says, starting to convince himself. I have to be convinced, if I'm going to convince her.

"Okay - you know I trust your judgement, even better than my own sometimes. But as 50% of this partnership … this relationship, I'd like to know what your thoughts are, and what is expected of me. And also the reasoning behind the postponement of what you know we both are dying to do." At that last comment, she's convinced her face just lit on fire and is probably bleeding. She reaches up with her free hand to touch her face, half expecting to find blood on her fingers when she pulls her hand away.

"Thank you for trusting me. Just stick with me for a minute, okay. Hear me out," she nods. "There are some things that are very important to me in a relationship. We have a brief window of opportunity here, Bones. I'd like to see if we can get a bit further down the path of working through some things before we have sex."

"You are the strangest man I have ever met," she says, shaking her head. "I'd like to grab you by the teeshirt and drag you under the table for caring so much about our relationship that you are willing to risk pissing off a very intelligent, very willing, very ready woman," she says, in disbelief mixed with humor. "I mean, look at me," she says, waving her hand down the length of her body like Vanna White revealing **A Brand New Car!**

"Angela says I'm **HOT**, and I want you! What more could a man ask for?" she stops there. Then she can't help herself from adding two more comments before he can say anything more..

"You must be made of steel, Booth," she says, "but I certainly am not." She can't help herself, so she laughs.

"I do love you so very much," he says, watching her, a very large, very happy, very beautiful grin lighting up his face. He lets go of her hand, scoots back to the middle of the table, leans over toward her, putting his arm around her waist, and pulls her to him, squeezing her to him, and kissing her on the forehead. He's relieved that they are here, having this conversation, finally. And now, he's confident that he's made the right choice in waiting, AND that she will trust him and go along with it. Because, as she said, she loves him, too.

* * *

><p><em>Okay folks - do the deed! Have you had enough fluff yet? 'Cuz, I got a bit more of that before we get to the case again ... though I could jsut skip a couple chapters and go right there if you'd prefer it ... (wink, wink!). So, let me know your thoughts!<em>


	137. Chapter 137 What Happens When Two Oceans

_Readers ... The version of 'Night and Day' Booth and Bones are dancing to is a particularly romantic one. It's performed by "The Temptations" for the soundtrack album "What Women Want," and can be found elsewhere on the internet. I recommend you listen to it before or while reading this section of the story. I hope you enjoy it all!_

**Chapter 137 What Happens When Two Oceans Collide?**

"You know what Bones?" says Booth, leaning against the back of the booth, taking her with him, his arm still around her waist, holding her close. "This stuff right here, what we're doing right here … this is what it's all about," he says, tapping on the table with his index finger.

"Can you be … a little more specific?" she says, looking sideways at him. "The _'this' _is a little vague … and I get the impression this is important to you, so please qualify that statement …"

"Okay," he says, smiling, accustomed to her need for concrete parameters. "Sitting here, talking about what's been going on between us, teasing each other," he says, picking up his glass with his free hand, sliding an ice cube into his mouth and chewing it. "Sharing intimate thoughts, enjoying each other's company, you allowing yourself to be embarrassed, telling me what makes you feel that way …" he says, looking at her, a glow of pride in his eyes. "That is much more intimate that just sex. And for someone who is trying to figure out how to be comfortable with intimacy, and vulnerability, you're doing a pretty good job."

"I'm still not so good at being comfortable with the intimacy thing," she says, shaking her head, sighing, closing her eyes and rubbing a vertical line from the bridge of her nose up to her hairline and back.

"Oh, I beg to differ," he says, chuckling and taking her right hand in his left, rotating her mother's ring around her finger several times. "That look you gave me?," he says, still focusing on her ring finger. "When you came to the table in the restaurant?" He looks over at her, pausing for a moment, remembering the pure sensuality of that look, feeling a warmth radiating from his neck down through his shoulders and arms as a result. He's suddenly aware that his right fist, attached to the arm that's still around her waist, is resting on her right hip. Turning his palm toward her hip, he squeezes gently, but firmly, until he can feel her hip bone with his thumb.

Bones closes her eyes, concentrating on the sensation he's creating with this exploration. "Lateral aspect of the iliac crest, right innominate," she says, quietly, but clearly.

"What?" he asks.

"That is what your thumb is applying pressure to right now," she replies, her eyes still closed, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"Ohhhhhh," he says, his voice going from low, to high in the middle of the word, then back down, like an audible rolling hill.

"What's this?" he says quietly, watching her face, her closed eyelids, her lips …

His thumb still on her hip bone, his other four fingers spread out and down as far as they can reach, poking and prodding, applying pressure like a professional masseuse, but gentler, looking for other solid protuberances.

As his arm is behind her, she sits a bit farther forward than he does on the bench. When his fingers locate and apply pressure to her upper thigh bone, she leans her head back onto his shoulder, heaving a sigh of contentment. Her chin, now pointing straight up to the ceiling, provides a perfect view of her neck, her collar bones, and everything else, right down to the plunging intersection of the two swaths of fabric making up the front of her shirt. He's thinking about blazing a trail of hot, kisses from under her chin to that plunging intersection between hot and available … Instead, he sends up a prayer to … Saint Whomever … and momentarily squeezes his eyes shut, before attempting to focus on her face again.

"Greater trochanter of the right femur," she says.

"Hm? Oh, nice," he says, enjoying the slow, serene, delicate smile making it's way across her face. "And this?" he whispers, pulling his fingers back up until his fingertips are seated back on her hip bone. His thumb breaks away and goes on a deliberate vertical search over her waist. "What are these?"

"Muscles, external abdominal obliques."

"And these?" Now he's up to the bottom of her rib cage.

"Floating vertebral ribs … vertibrochondral ribs," she says. "You know, for someone who's not that anxious to get me in the sack, you sure are doing a lot of tactile stimulation of what I used to consider my non-erogenous zones," she chuckles, a slow smile creeping in.

"I never said I wasn't anxious to make love to you, I said I'd like for us to focus on a couple of other things first. Can you imagine combining this kind of … intimacy with making love? That is how two people defy the laws of physics …" he whispers into the hair above her forehead, laying gentle kiss on her forehead where her hairline meets her skin, breathing in the scent of her hair.

"Two people trying to become one … the miracle, right? Isn't that what you told me?"

"You remembered?" he says, quietly, but surprised.

"I remember every word you said on the subject of making love that night. It was the horse play case we'd just finished," she says, opening her eyes and leaning away from him so she can look in his eyes. "I think that was when I realized I could no longer deny I had feelings for you. Up until then, it was somewhat easy to ignore those feelings. I was unaware that they'd been creeping up on me for a long time. Then, when you made your 'crappy sex' speech …." she shakes her head. "Whew," she says, slowly letting out a breath, reaching for her glass of ice water with one hand, fanning herself with the other.

"That's how I felt when you came into the restaurant tonight and looked at me like … like … I don't know how to describe it …" he says, shrugging his shoulders, searching her face. His brow wrinkled, he looks for some words, any words that could even come close. _I don't think I'm going to make it to Tuesday, _he says to himself.

"Did it give you a feeling in your chest like you were going to cry?" she asks, looking back at him, holding his gaze, "and a sensation in your abdominal cavity that can only be described as weightlessness?"

Booth nods slowly. "Yeah," he says, wonder in his tone and expression. "Yeah. That's what it was. Hm," he says, impressed, thinking.

She looks down at her hands, remembering what was going through her head as she willed herself not to look away from him in the dining room. Remembering the feeling of being laid bare, she shivers, and rubs the outside of her arms with her hands, trying to make the goose bumps disappear.

"It was very … raw, Bones."

"Really?" she asks, shyly. "I was willing myself not to look away … I wanted to prove to myself that I could convey to you a feeling I was having, but was too nervous, or embarrassed to say."

"Message received, whatever it was … it was very intimate, Bones," he whispers. "It made ME turn red."

"Really?" she says, truly surprised. "How did I miss that? You turning red?"

"It's usually just my neck that gets hot," he says, chuckling.

"Well, from the look on your face, it was pretty clear that I had been successful in achieving my goal. I think I could have convinced you to do anything in that moment," she laughs. "I should have taken you right up the elevators back to my room," she teases him, breaking the tension a bit.

She moves away from him a bit, far enough so she can turn her body to face him. Her left boot still lying on the floor, she's able to easily return to one of their previous positions with her left knee bent and lying on the booth seat in front of her, her left foot tucked under her right thigh, and her right foot on the floor. What's different this time is that he's still sitting back, hunched back a little actually, relaxing. This is a closer arrangement than previously when they were cozily mirroring each other.

"And I probably would have followed you …" he confesses, thinking back and smiling, dreamily. "Bones, the truth is, you can have _**sex**_ with anybody, anytime. But what does it mean?" He's looking into her eyes, determined to make his point before they go off on another tangent. "Sex is the easy part. It's all biology, physiology, physics, chemistry, engineering, right? You don't have to think much about it." Bones is nodding in agreement, so he continues. "And while all of those things are … wow … fantastic, I want more than that." he says, pausing, searching for words to express what it is he is looking for.

**_"You want the miracle," _**she says, smiling at him, understanding what he means, though he hasn't said it yet.

As far as Booth is concerned, she couldn't have said anything more perfect than that. She scoots closer, resting her knee on his thigh, and places her elbow on the back ledge of the booth, resting her temple on that fist. Now she can see him without turning her head or leaning away from him.

Booth slowly shakes his head in amazement. For the second time in five minutes, she has surprised him with her ability to understand what he is finding difficult to put into words.

"Exactly," he whispers, looking into her eyes. "That's _exactly_what I want."

"And you don't think we can have that right now?" she says, leaning her head to the side, a question in her eyes.

"What I think, Bones, is that those - what do you call them - nero networks in your brain … those things that grow stronger the more you do something … those things need to get strong enough that this … intimacy … this vulnerability … that you've uncovered has a fair shot at sticking around," he says, searching her eyes for understanding. Not sure what the expression on her face means, he continues.

"There's something I know about myself, Bones. I crave intimacy. I do. Maybe guys aren't supposed to crave it. Maybe a guy is supposed to only want the wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am … you know?" Assuming she doesn't, he adds, "someone to screw him, someone to make his food, someone who doesn't expect more than a paycheck from him. Someone who won't bother him about his thoughts, or include him in decisions … or care about who he really is." he pauses. "But I'm not that guy. I'm this guy," he says, sighing.

"Maybe I'm strange," he continues. "Maybe I'm the exception. I don't care what other guys want or need. I just know me. And I want it all. I want to feel everything and share everything. And I want you there with me. Feeling it and sharing it," he says, looking from one side of her face to the other. "I can't live in a box. You deserve more than a man in a box, Bones. But what I want to know, is do you _WANT_ more than a man in a box?" He searches her eyes, seeing comprehension and apprehension.

"Booth, I'm feeling what I have come to recognize as anxiety. What if I can't do it? Compartmentalizing is my natural way of dealing with everything, or a least is has been. What then? I don't think … we've both been through so much, I've worked so hard … what if I slip back into it? What if I get frightened and close up?"

"Don't sell yourself short. That won't happen, Bones, and I am here to help you, every step of the way if it does."

"But how can you be so sure?"

"Because you've already started doing it even without my help."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for one, just a bit ago you said how you can't fit me into a box … you said you like it that I don't fit into a box. So you must be comfortable with that, right?"

"Yes … I guess you could say that."

"And this uncomfortableness you've been experiencing, that's from being truly present to the uncompartmentalizable - is that even a word? I don't know … who cares! It means to me that you are most definitely functioning outside a box - and you haven't imploded yet, have you?"

"Well, I've almost spontaneously combusted several times … but that is an accurate assessment for the most part. And I have to tell you, I probably hide it pretty well, but the embarrassment thing is really an awful experience."

"Bones, _STOP! _Every time I see you turn red, I know that you are experiencing a depth of feeling that shows you are here with me, facing intimacy, vulnerability, fear, head on. And who knows, maybe there is no way you could have "handled" all that on your own. Maybe you need me for this part, to help you get through it, ever think of that?"

"That makes sense. It is quite reassuring to hear you say it doesn't bother you … me turning a million shades of red and purple."  
>"Bones, did you just exaggerate?"<p>

"It doesn't feel like an exaggeration … but most likely that's what it is."

"I wasn't going to tell you this, Bones, but when you turn colors like that, when you get all uncomfortable … it's actually very sweet … and kinda hot," he says, grinning at her and nodding. She looks doubtful, but thankful. "Listen, nothing you are ever struggling with will bother me. I think it's amazing that you are willing to go through whatever torture you're experiencing in order to climb out of those compartments and meet me here in _this_ world."

"Thank you. You really are making sense. I couldn't see that at first," she says, sighing and rubbing her arms again against the goosebumps. "To be honest, I was about ready to call a cab to the airport and leave tonight. Whew!" she says, fanning herself again and finally smiling.

Laying his arm along the booth behind her, Booth takes a breath, preparing to launch into his next point, but stops short, turning his head, listening to something in the distance. He smiles and looks at Bones, catching her eye.

As she starts to ask him a question that he doesn't even hear, Bones feels Booth take her by the hand and tug. She lets him pull her out of the booth and lead her away from the table.

"Unless there are any objections, I'd like to take you in my arms, and hold onto you for the duration of this song. It's Pops' favorite," he says, reaching the floor and stopping. He brings her around to stand in front of him, puts one arm around her waist, and holds her other hand up against his chest. She rests her other hand on his shoulder. He holds her close, beginning to hum the melody along with the instrumentalist playing the swirling introduction to "Night and Day," sung by The Temptations.

_(The version of 'Night and Day' Booth and Bones are dancing to is a particularly romantic one. It's performed by The Temptations for the album "What Women Want," and can be found elsewhere on the internet. I recommend you listen to it before or while reading this section of the story)._

_It's one thing to be sitting in a booth, flirting, maybe doing a little kissing, a little hand-holding, thinks Bones, but it is another thing entirely to be in an intimate embrace, up against the warm, pleasingly solid body of someone you love, have loved for a long time. The sensation of his arm around her waist, holding her close enough that she can feel his heartbeat, it is an intoxicating experience for Bones. It's a whole different experience that flirting over dinner and desert. Bones can barely breathe. He smells so good, she thinks. He feels so good. As she exhales, any residual concern she had over their discussion about boxes and compartments floats away.  
><em>  
>"What about leaving room between us for the Holy Spirit, Catholic boy?" she says nervously into his ear, trying to lighten the tension she feels throughout her body.<p>

"The Holy Spirit can get his own woman to dance with," says Booth, chuckling into her ear, pulling her closer yet, and humming into her ear.  
>"Pops used to play this song every once in a while when he was missing Gram," says Booth.<p>

_"Night and day, you are the one,"_ he sings into her ear. Bones closes her eyes, sighs, and leans her cheek against his jaw. _Zygomatic bone to mandible. _She can feel the vibration of his vocal chords as he sings the words of this special song from his childhood.

_"No matter where you are …. I think of you night and day," _he continues.

_How did she get to this place? she wonders to herself, starting to hum to the song as well - what she knows of it. This is not her life, she thinks. She never planned to have this in her life.  
><em>  
><em>"This longing for you follows me wherever I go," <em>whisper-sings Booth into her ear, which is tingling with the warmth and tickle of his breath.

_This whole experience is different than she had ever imagined as a young girl, even as an adult. It occurs to her that she should be nervous about the feeling of submission she feels being in his arms. But she doesn't. She feels safe, warm, taken care of. She thinks she should be running, but she doesn't want to. She should be shaking, but she isn't. She should be crying, but she can't._

_"There's such a hungry yearning inside of me," _he croons to her.

"Booth," she whispers, not wanting to interrupt him, but unable to resist the urge to tell him this.

"Hm?" he says between verses.

"No one's ever sung to me before …" she whispers into his ear, sliding her hand from his shoulder up to his hair, running her fingers through it.

"Now, that's just a crime, Bones," says Booth, closing his eyes and lifting his shoulder to squeeze her against his neck where she's resting her head. He continues to hum until the next verse begins.

_Letting go of Booth's hand wrapped around hers, she stands up on her tip toes, putting both of her arms around his neck and presses her body into him. She wants to melt into him. She feels his arms tighten around her in response, and now she does feel like crying. Tears of relief. Relief from all that has bound her all her life. Relief that Booth loves her. Relief that he knows how she feels. Relief that she can touch him like she has longed to do for way too long._

_"And this torment won't be through, until you let me spend my life making love to you," _he sings, into her hair, pressing his lips up against her.

Listening to this verse, in Booth's voice, being sung into her ear, snaps something inside Bones, she pulls away slightly, and looks into his eyes. He has that look in his eyes like he's just woken up from a good night's sleep. Dreamy, content, happy. He smiles at her, an intoxicated smile. In one swift movement, she sinks the fingers of both of her hands into his hair, pulls him down an inch to her level, and presses her lips and nose to his, mid verse. He stops singing, stops swaying, and though he thought it impossible, holds her even closer than he had been before.

She looks at him, everything she wants to say expressed through her eyes. He's not smiling anymore. He looks into her eyes with the same intensity she's giving him. There's a conversation going on here, even though no one else can hear it. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears.  
>Without losing eye contact, he closes the gap between his lips and hers once again, kissing her … the lingering, exploratory, wet kind of kiss, then looks in her eyes again. Reaching up and brushing her hair out of her face, he sinks his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, pressing her closer to him as he kisses her once more - or she kissed him, no one's really sure who initiated that last one, but it lasted long enough that no one would have remembered anyway.<p>

Booth is imagining picking her up like a child and carrying her up to his room, but he doesn't think his knees, which went weak several minutes ago, would get them past the edge of the dance floor. Bones is imagining her clothes catching fire and blowing away, along with the rest of everything else around them, so they can finally be alone.

When there's nothing more to be said through kisses for the moment, Bones breaks away, and looks in his eyes once more. This look that says, _"I want you. Don't ever leave me. I love you. I need you. I'm yours."_

His returned look says, _"I will never leave you. I love you. I want you. I can't believe you are mine. Share my life with me."_

"Booth," she finally says, they are swaying to the music once again, just holding each other.

"Yes?" he whispers back

"What happens when two oceans collide?"

"They create one great big beautiful ocean together," he says.

"Are you ready for that?" she asks him, sighing, dragging her cheekbone across his, and back again.

"Ready as I'll ever be," he answers. "Are you ready for that?"

"No," she says, "but I will be."

"That's why we wait … just a little longer."

"I know," she says, nodding against his neck. "For everything, there is a season …"

"Ecclesiastes 3:1-11, Bones," he says.

"How does that go again?" she says, pulling away so she can look in his eyes.

"You know exactly how it goes. That's why you wrote it in your Footie Note," he says, smirking and smiling gently down at her.

"I know, I just love to hear you say it …" she says, supplicating. "Will you say it, Booth?"

As Booth recites it to her, she lays her head on his shoulder, her forehead against his neck. She feels like a child being rocked to sleep by her father, such is her contentment.

_ "To every thing there is a season, _  
><em> and a time to every purpose under the heaven:<em>  
><em> A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, <em>  
><em> and a time to pluck up that which is planted;<em>  
><em> A time to kill, and a time to heal; <em>  
><em> a time to break down, and a time to build up;<em>  
><em> A time to weep, and a time to laugh; <em>  
><em> a time to mourn, and a time to dance;<em>  
><em> A time to cast away stones, and a time to <em>  
><em> gather stones together; a time to embrace, <em>  
><em> and a time to refrain from embracing;<em>  
><em> A time to get, and a time to lose; <em>  
><em> a time to keep, and a time to cast away;<em>  
><em> A time to rend, and a time to sew; <em>  
><em> a time to keep silence, and a time to speak …<em>  
><em> God has made everything beautiful in His time …"<em>

_ Ecclesiastes 3:1-11_

"That's beautiful," says Bones, up against his neck. "When you said that to me the very first time, it really moved me," she says, shrugging her shoulders, sheepishly. "It was beautiful. And every line seemed to refer to us …"

"Hm. I thought so too," he says, sighing. As "Night and Day" fades out, the DJ fades in another smooth song, this one by the Indigo Girls: "The History of Us." It reminds Booth of the time they were apart; he in Afghanistan, she in Maluku.

"Yes," says Bones, pulling Booth back to the present. She loosens her hold on Booth so she can talk to him, while still swaying back and forth. The nice thing about slow songs is that you can actually hear your partner speak over the music.

"It spoke to me," she says. "To my metaphorical heart. It said that no matter what was going on in the moment, there would be a time and a place for everything, even though right now might not be the right time," she says, remembering, looking up into his eyes. His arms are wrapped around her waist, but comfortably, relaxed now. Her arms are still around his neck, their faces at a conversational distance from each other. "Remember when you first quoted that to me?"

"Yes, I do," he says, looking into her eyes. "It was the night we wrote our dates on pieces of paper and burned them by the flame of a candle," he says, nodding at the memory, smiling at her gently.

"That was not the right time," she says, shrugging, almost apologetic.

"No, it wasn't," he says, shaking his head, remembering how angry he had been.

"At that time, I was anxious," explains Bones. "I thought with … other obstacles out of the way, if we didn't move forward with our relationship soon, the door would close, the opportunity would be lost."

"Hm," grunts Booth in response.

"That conversation is what had me start talking with Sweets about breaking down those walls I built when my parents left. I wanted to have an open heart. I wanted to share that with you. I was encouraged by your quote from Ecclesiastes. _It gave me hope_."

"I'm glad you didn't give up on me, Bones," he says, squeezing her to him for a moment, in appreciation, "Or on yourself."

"Well, at the time I didn't want the open heart for myself. I was afraid of it for me. I wanted it for you. I was pretty sure that if I could give you my open heart, you could be happy again. You were so sad at that point in your life. I think you had been sad ever since the night you told me you wanted to give our relationship a try. What I found out though, was that I couldn't **learn** how to have an open heart for you, while keeping myself locked up in a box. An open heart isn't something I can add to my curriculum vite, I found out that I had to let it infiltrate my being, become part of me. In order for it to fit inside me, metaphorically of course, all of what I am saying in reference to the open heart is metaphorical. You know that, right?"

"Of course," says Booth, smiling, chuckling at her.

"In order for it to fit, I had to leave some things behind. Some beliefs about myself, my past … It has created a significant shift in … how I see myself in relation to the world."

"Is that a good thing, Bones?" he asks, leaning his forehead on hers, as they sway to the music.

She looks at him, with their foreheads against each other, his eyes are so close to hers, it looks like he's really just got one big eye in the middle of his forehead. Lifting her lips to his, she says against them, _"It made room for you, Booth."_ Then, of course, she lets him kiss her ... and she kisses him back ... and he kisses her again ... until the song fades and the DJ starts up the next song.

* * *

><p>Were you able to locate The Temptations' version of "Night and Day?" Did it make a difference to listen to it while reading this chapter? let me know your thoughts - it's what keeps me motivated to write when I'd rather eat or sleep! Thank you!<p> 


	138. Never Play Chicken With A Rooster

_Author's Note: So ... the music continues ... and we get another song. This one is in both Spanish and English. This song is what prompted me to buy my first Enrique Iglesias album. Oooh la la! Iglesias could make reading a cereal box erotic, I swear! (Fans herself). So ... have you heard it before? The full lyrics for the English version can be found elsewhere on the internet, as can the music videos. FOr reasons of copyright, I cannot provide all the lyrics for you ... but you can find them easily. After you read, please tell me what you thought! ~ Catherine_

**Chapter 138 Never Play Chicken With a Rooster**

The DJ queues up Enrique Iglesias singing the Spanish version of "Hero."

"How appropriate," says Bones, smiling, closing her eyes and rolling her forehead back and forth against Booth's. How many times have they acted as ... heroes ... for each other? "Do you know this song?"

"No," he says, not caring, but glad to be here listening to it with is arms around Bones. "Is that English?"

"No," she says, smiling as she hums to the melody. "It's _'en Español.'_ The summer I spent in Barcelona and León, this was on every station ... and I mean _all the time_. It was the song of the summer," she says, remembering those hot days, muggy nights, on one of the most challenging conference circuits she'd ever attended. The topic was _"El Sentido de la Antropología Hoy: Lugares, Tiempos, Memorias,"_ or _"The Meaning of Anthropology Today: Responsibilities, Dilemmas and Actions._ It lasted from June through September, during the hottest part of the year.

"You speak _Español_, don't you?" he says, emphasizing the word _Español_, with a little sarcasm. "What is the song about?"

"It's called 'Héroe' which means _Hero_. When I learned the song it was the Spanish version. Strangely, the English version is not a literal translation ... but I enjoy them both."

"So, what's he saying now?"

"Hmm," she grunts, thinking, listening closely to the words. She leans away from him for a moment, and looks in his eyes, smiling. "Let's see …" she says, resting her chin on his shoulder for a moment. Switching her brain to translation mode, she repeats each line as it's sung, then translates it for him.

**_"Y si entonces temblaras por mi_ … And if then, you tremble for me.  
><em>Lloraras al verme sufrir<em> … would you cry to see me suffer? **  
><strong><em>Y sin dudar tu vida entera dar Como yo la doy por ti<em> … **  
><strong>and give your whole life for me as I would give it for you?"<strong>

"Wow," he says, chuckling. "No wonder those guys get all the women!"

"That and their beautiful skin, dark eyes, dark hair … " she says, raising one eyebrow, teasing him. "All strong indicators of good breeding material," she comments, winking at him.

He rolls his eyes, then laughs. "So … you and Enrique, what are the chances?"

"Iglesias or Larrinaga?" she asks, giggling.

"Does that count as a double entendre ... both guys just happening to have the same first name?" he wonders out loud, wrinkling his forehead.

Now Bones rolls her eyes and shakes her head at him, smiling up at him, then realizes he was joking.

"Larrinaga is happily married, or, at least so it seems. And Iglesias … " she says, pretending to seriously consider this option, "he's is way too short for me." She smiles. "I like a big man. Who has something to grab hold of, take a bite out of."

"Saved by the measuring tape." He chuckles, resting his forehead on hers again.

"I'll take the snarky, slightly Italian guy any day," she says sweetly, rubbing noses with him, then kissing him quickly on the lips.

"Say something Spanishy to me,"says Booth.

"Like what?"

"Anything," he says, shrugging his shoulders. "Something just for me …"

"I can count up to one million … sing the alphabet song," she offers, grinning.

"No, no, no. Give me something good, something personal …" he says, "maybe something _intimate?"_

"But what good is it if you don't know what I'm saying? I could say, 'my dog has fleas,' and you'd never know …" she teases him.

"How do you say that in Sanish?"

_"Mi pero tiene pulgos."_

Booth nods, pursing his lips. "See, anything sounds _sexy_ in Spanish.

"Hm," she pauses. "Let me think for a minute …."

"Take your time. I can hear the wheels turning. I think I even smell something burning …" he hums, swaying her back and forth, then resting his cheek against her ear.

"Okay," she says, leaning back to look at him. "I'll tell you this - but you're going to have to translate it yourself."

"Woman of mystery … I can handle it."

"Yep."

"Here goes," she says, adopting the proper posture and tone for delivering a romantic message in a foreign language. The lips pouty, the eyes dreamy, her forearms laying along his shoulders, her fingers playing with the hairs in the back of his head. "Are you sure about this?"

"Sure, why not?" says Booth. Bones puts her lip to his right ear and delivers the following:

**_"Un día, nos vamos a duchar juntos. Y ese día, cuando nosotros  
>estemos por fin solos, voy a enseñarte cuanto te quiero."<em>**

Which means,

_"One day, we will shower together. And on that day,_  
><em>when we are finally alone, I will show you how much I love you."<em>

"That was so hot!" he says, nodding his head, impressed, having no idea how _**hot**_ it actually is. He locks eyes with her. Wondering what it really means. Knowing her, it's something meaningful. Hopefully nothing about anthropology.

"So … what do you think it means?" she challenges him.

"Hmmmm. My cat has the mumps? The chicken pox?" he asks, trying to look serious.

"Not even close, Booth," she says, laughing at his feeble attempt.

"Don't tell me … okay, say it again," he asks. She nods, looking up into her memory to recall it word for word. This time she looks him in the eyes, and repeats the sentences again, but this time she wears a more serious, intense expression

**_"Un día, nos vamos a duchar juntos. Y ese día, cuando nosotros  
>estemos por fin solos, voy a enseñarte cuanto te quiero."<em>**

"That is sooo hot," he says, leaning down and biting her on the neck. "Okay. I have absolutely no idea what you just said."

"Let me know when you figure it out …" she says, a smile spreading all the way across her face.

"You really are going to make me translate it myself?"

"Of course, you need something to keep that frontal lobe engaged …" she laughs.

"You _will_ write it down for me, though, right?"

"Sure. Oh, here's the best part of the song … " she says, listening once more to Enrique Iglesias singing to his lover. Closing her eyes to concentrate, she listens closely again, nodding as the words go in her ear, emerging translated into English. "This verse is pretty steamy," she warns. Once again she translates the words for Booth:

**_"Dejame tocarte …_ Let me touch you. _Quiero acariciarte …_ I want to caress you."  
><strong>

"Man, they don't leave anything to the imagination, do they?" comments Booth.

"They are a pretty passionate bunch ..." she replies, nodding, smiling, then listening closely once more.

**_"Una vez mas, mira que al final …_ one more time, understand that in the end. **  
><strong><em>Lo que importa es qu te quiero …<em> all that matters is that I love you."  
><strong>

"Hell, I'd go out with the guy if he said that to me ..."

"Booth, that's a very non-Alpha male thing to say. I'm proud of you."

He chuckles. "What you are hearing is the sound of my … what is it … frontal brain lobes … developing?"

"Oh," she says, "you're growing up. Right before my very eyes! What a pair we are."

"With all our brain activity combined, we could probably power an ocean liner," says Booth, smiling at her.

"I wouldn't need your help to power an ocean liner, Booth," she says, chuckling again. "But I appreciate the offer." She smiles at him.

"Whatever," he says, tightening his arms around her waist and dipping her to the right almost all the way to the floor, so her hair almost touches the ground behind her. She yelps, her eyes flying open to saucer size.

"A little warning would be nice next time!" she says, reaching down into the V of her neckline and tugging on the center of her bra, jiggling it a bit, attempting to return her body parts to their original, secured, location.

Booth laughs. "Ha! I've never actually seen anyone do that before!" he's amused. "I didn't know women had to adjust their clothing for comfort the way guys do ..."

"It's hardly the same," says Bones. "I was not responsible for the disturbed state of the body parts that resulted in the need to … readjust my undergarments."

"Neither are we men," he says, winking, then chuckling again. This is fun. It reminds him of something else that he needs to find out from her tonight … so he dips her again, this time to the left. Half way into the dip, he remembers she wanted to be warned the next time he did it. "And ... another dip," he says.

"A … warning … is supposed to come … _before_ … the acrobatic dance move, genius," she says, noting the devilish grin on his face. Whoops. Devilish grin. She's missed something, but isn't sure what. She looks at him suspiciously, saying nothing. He continues swaying to the music, also saying nothing. The devilish grin persists, and gets bigger. She imagines him whistling the _"I'm not up to anything"_ tune.

"What?" she says, reaching up to grab his chin, turning his face toward her. "What … is going on?" she asks suspiciously. "What have you done? OH!" she says, sensing warmth emanating from somewhere behind her. Has he backed me up against a heating source of some kind? she wonders. She twists her head around to see if anything's back there. Nothing. They are in the middle of the floor. The next couple is swaying to the music, three feet away, behind her.

Looking back at Booth, her eyes narrowed, she stares at him, turing her head to the left a couple of inches, she gives him the evil eye. "What the …?"

She becomes aware that the warmth is increasing in temperature. And a moment ago it was only near her waist band in the back, above her right back pocket. Now it seems to be creeping another half inch further toward the small of her back, inch by slow inch ... But the heat is a direct heat, too intense to have traveled through denim.

"Oh," she says, surprised, a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. This is another panty check! A shot of adrenaline shoots through her chest like a sharp knife. Her hands slide from his neck, across his shoulders, and down his biceps, where she hangs on for dear life. It feels good to have something firm and solid to hold onto so she doesn't buckle at the knees.

_Am I okay with this?_ she wonders._ If things are going to go slow … where's the line we're not going to cross? This needs clarification._ It's just that … well, he's creating a heat wave … throughout her body. Especially in the region below where his hand is now. _This is not fair,_ she decides, shaking her head.

"What?" he says, trying to look innocent, but knowing he's far from it.

All of a sudden, everything else in the room goes black, except that hot sensation very slowly, and very deliberately inching its way toward the rise of her gluteus maximus. She can't exactly breathe. And she wishes they weren't it public because she's feeling an overwhelming need for privacy.

"Booth," she says, closing her eyes, furrowing her brow. "Either you aren't serious about your intentions for our relationship … going slowly, I mean … or, you seriously underestimated the affect that your exploratory touch would have on me … because …"

"Just checking on my property …" he says, watching her face the whole time.

"Wha - " she says, about to get righteous on him.

"Are these _my_ panties?" he breathes, warmly, into her ear, cutting her off before she even gets starts her tirade about women not being chattel.

"No. Those are not your panties," she whispers back, "and neither will the other pair be, if you don't stop teasing me like this. As you know, in dire circumstances, I am not above blackmail." The warm breath in her ear and the hand on her bare skin are enough to just about do her in. _Thank God it's dark in here,_ she thinks. "You are killing me," she whispers into his hear, "You've gotta stop ..."

"You've said that a couple of times, now, Bones. What exactly do you mean?"

"Oh …" she starts, her eyes still closed, "that I cannot be held responsible for my … actions if I've been tempted beyond my ability to maintain control. And what is your obsession with my panties, anyway?"

"Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's," he replies, quoting the book of Matthew.

"Whatever happened to "Thou shall not covet thy neighbor's goods?" quoting the book of Exodus.

"Ah, but I'm not coveting my neighbors goods …"

"Oh … I beg to differ," she says. Talking delays the downward migration of his phalanges toward her sacrum, she notices. "And what about an eye for an eye? You'll get what is yours in good time, but I will expect to get what has been promised to me as well …" She is, of course, referring to the tee shirt she was promised in return for surrendering her panties back to him.

"You want me to take it off right now?" he says, challenging her.

"You are bluffing …" she says, leaning back to look at him. He lets go of her and reaches for the hem of his tee shirt, and starts to pull it above his belt buckle.

"NO! Okay - YOU WIN! Keep your clothes on!" she says, covering her mouth and laughing. At least she got him to stop messing with her circulation, for the moment.

"I should know better than to play chicken with you," she says, laughing. "I think it's time we sit down again ... and _you_ need some cold water!" I need some too, she thinks, fanning herself.

* * *

><p><em>I think I could go for a little cold water too ... how about you?<em>


	139. Chapter 139 Pringles For Two, Please

_A/N: ready for more lovin'? Here you go ... In the words of Kit in Pretty Woman, "Take care of you, call me when you're through ..."_

**Chapter 139 Pringles For Two, Please ...**

"Listen Booth," says Bones, looking at her hands splayed out on the table in front of her. She nervously rotates her mother's ring around her finger. "You know you can always count on me to tell you the truth, right?"

They are back in their booth after the slow dancing, the romantic serenading Booth did in Bones' ear, the translating from Spanish to English of Iglesias' song, the second panty check. The bar is beginning to fill up with the ten o'clock mostly female crowd. Soon the loud music will begin, potentially making conversation difficult (which we find out later that it actually doesn't!). For the first time, Booth and Bones are enjoying a romantic, intimate, and emotional evening together. Tomorrow, the world will intrude on their private reality. It is clear that neither of them wants their time alone together to end. But they can both feel it coming, and it creates a sense of urgency for them. Whatever needs to be said, should get said, and soon.

"Always, Bones," says Booth, "I rely on you to always tell me the truth." Turing to look at her, he pulls his knee up onto the bench to face her. It's a posture that says, "I'm listening, go ahead."

"I have a need for more information. I am finding I feel uncertain about what 'take it slow' means to you. We talk about it, then you conduct a panty search, and I, well I … it makes me crazy," she says, uneasily. "Which is all well and good, if that's the direction you want to head in tonight, but it doesn't feel very, "taking it slow," do you know what I mean?"

Booth smiles at her, takes her hand in both of his, and rests them on his knee, which is currently between them on the bench. "Okay," he says, smiling at her, looking in her eyes. He could drown in those eyes, he thinks. "You're right. It's easy to forget that we're working toward something … I've never been in this place we are in either. I'm so comfortable with you … touching you comes naturally."

"I appreciate that," she says, a precious smile peeking out from behind her eyelashes. "Touching you, for me, comes naturally as well." She can feel the blush coming on as a result of that last admission, but she shrugs it off and continues. "As I said before, you may be made of steel, but I am not." She turns her body toward him, mirroring his position for the second time tonight, repeating the position itself for the third time tonight. This time, both of her boots are on the floor under the table, and her right leg is stretched out over his left, which is the leg attached to the only foot at the table currently touching the ground. This is comfortable, cozy.

"One hundred percent steel, baby," he says, making a fist and showing off a healthy bicep, chuckling. He notices it does have a calming affect on her, him being a little silly. She laughs, reaches out and squeezes his proffered muscle, raising her eyebrows to indicate that she's impressed, playing along.

"Alright," he says, feigning painful resignation. "Fences make good neighbors."

"What?" she says, then figures it out for herself. "Yes, I think I understand that one, actually. Clever," she says.

"It's not mine. I stole it. Just for you," he says, pinching her cheek and smiling, hoping to relax her further. It is obvious to him that she is struggling a bit to get her point across satisfactorily. He knows what she means, but he's letting her work through it.

"Believe me, I am having the most wonderful time. I really am. Perhaps I sound schizophrenic - I'm hot, then I'm cold, then I'm hot again."

"You are not cold at all," says Booth shrugging and shaking his head, assuringly. "This uncomfortableness you are talking about, I think I understand what it's about. We've gone from zero to ninety-nine in 24 hours. Less than 24 hours. We may have been doing a dance around each other for years, but that doesn't mean we're ready to go gangbusters the minute we're honest with each other … and ourselves. I'm not being fair to you," he says, draping his arm over the back of the booth. "I enjoy playing with you. I enjoy touching you," he admits, shrugging his shoulders, a "I cant help myself" gesture. "I love hearing everything you have to say … most of the time," he chuckles. They both know her science talk can put him to sleep sleep faster than Tylenol PM, and sometimes she says inappropriate things at inappropriate times, but that's all part of who she is.

"So?" she says, hoping he'll take the lead at this point. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well, how specific do you want to get?"

"The more specific the better. Fences make good neighbors, right?"

He nods, thinking.

"I mean, I can play any game there is, as long as I know the rules. And usually, I win," she says triumphantly.

"I bet you do," he laughs. "Hmm. Okay. Let's think about this."

"I feel like a teenager," she admits.

"I do too!" They both laugh. "Wouldn't it be great to be teenagers again. Everything so new? Kissing in the front seat of your parents' pickup. Passing notes in class. Holding hands for the first time…"

"You are SUCH a romantic, Booth. You have enough for both of us!"

"You could say that," he admits.

"I didn't do any of that as a teenager," admits Bones. "But … that is a fine place to start."

"What do you mean?" He's lost track of the path the conversation is following all of a sudden. Which is odd, he was doing so well, he thought.

"Those things you mentioned … kissing in the car, passing notes, holding hands."

"Wow, okay, we have to get that specific?"

"The beauty is in the details," she says, as if reminding him of something he already knows. It must be a squint thing, he decides, going with it anyway.

"Okay, so …"

"Look, if our goal is to not … make love, have sex … bla bla bla … the whole list of euphemisms previously mentioned … if our goal is to hold off on that for a little while, giving us time to concentrate on strengthening other aspects of our relationship, then we should each identify what behaviors are most likely to breakdown our resolve."

"You mean, like, how far is too far?"

"Precisely."

"Like, are we talking … as in, bases?" he laughs.

"Bases? I don't know what that means."

"Never mind … it's a teenager thing."

"So lets throw out some ideas, then we can each vote."

"I can't believe we're doing this," says Booth, laughing and shaking his head. Bones laughs along with him.

"I know it sounds silly, Booth. This is where compartmentalizing is effective. Clearly define the perimeter of the box, and there is no ambiguity about what is, or is not, included." She laughs again, pressing her lips together, aware of how absurd this must sound to Mr. Spontaneity. "I'm sorry, this is what works for me," she says, looking contrite, but smiling sweetly.

"No, Bones. It's just fine. I just never thought I'd be doing this kind of thing … past the eleventh grade." They break out laughing again. "Sorry," he says.

"It's okay. Okay," says Bones, taking a deep breath, attempting to regain her composure. She blows it, and cracks up again. "It is silly, isn't it?" She's grinning at him, ear to ear.

"Yep. But what the hell, right? This is our relationship. We make the rules!"

"Thank you," she says. "This will work, I promise," she says, appreciatively. She leans over, reaches out with her right hand, rests it on his trapezius muscle, between his shoulder and his neck, then pulls him toward her, and presses her lips to his, smiling as she pulls away.

"I don't know if I'll ever get used to that," says Booth, somewhat under his breath, as he exhales.

"What?" she says, smiling.

"You. Leaning over and kissing me." he says, pausing, thinking. Looking in her eyes for a long moment. "Onward!" he says, finally.

She's watching him. Smiling to herself. _It is very nice to have that affect on someone wonderful,_ she thinks, sighing. _What did I do to deserve this?_

"So - kissing in cars, passing notes, holding hands," says Bones.

"I'm all for kissing in cars, and passing notes. Holding hands isn't that professional at work."

"Neither is kissing in cars …" says Bones, matter of factly.

"So do we need a whole … Rockefeller Schemata for this? Two columns? On duty versus off duty."

"Ha ha ha … not a bad idea. Sorry this feels so juvenile. But come on, it can be fun."

"Oh, I'm all in. I just reserve the right to laugh my butt off because of it," he says, laughing again.

"In all seriousness, Booth …"

"Hey, it sounds like you've got some things you'd like to put on the list of don'ts. What are they?"

She considers for a moment, then, "Bathing suit areas. Off limits. For now," she blurts out.

Booth's eyebrows shoot up at her conviction in making that statement. "Okay," he says, but it sounds like a question.

"Because once those boundaries get crossed, I know it will be difficult … ," she explains. "At least it will be for me. Sorry," she says quickly, then watches him closely, apprehensive. He looks at her, thinking, making a decision.

"I hear you. I understand," he's nodding, pulling on his bottom lip.

"I mean, nothing under the clothing in those areas."

"And this is just until Tuesday?"

"I certainly hope so," she says, snorting a laugh. "Except the gluteus maximus."

"What? Will that always be off limits?" a hint of panic in his voice.

"Absolutely not. Asses are fair game from Tuesday on. And actually, what I meant was that I have no problem having my … gluteus maximus … touched, outside the clothes. That can be playful without being too provocative. It's actually fun. And doesn't lead to the bedroom. And a panty raid doesn't bother me as long as I know there's a point past where we will not go."

"Okay dokey," says Booth, smiling, snickering. Still amused by this whole process.

"A good rule of thumb is: anything you wouldn't do in public, we should just stay away from. Primarily because if we're doing them, we're most likely not in public, which, again, can lead down that slippery slope."

"You know what, Bones?" he says, holding out his hand, a stop sign for the conversation. "It's not like we're going to see much of each other this weekend, right? So this should be easy to manage, right?"

"Booth, we're going to be together most of tomorrow, then all day Monday and Tuesday …"

"Oh, right. Yes. Okay. Continue," he says, putting on a good face, but secretly hoping this doesn't suck the fun out of everything. _But … it's temporary,_ he tells himself. _And the end justifies the means. So, quit your internal bitching,_ he chastises himself.

"Now, kissing," says Bones. "I really love kissing you," she says, an amazing and satisfied look on her face.

"Thank you. The feeling is mutual," he gives it right back to her, with a wink. Her stomach does a flip, but she's getting used to it. Happy feeling.

"But there's something I should tell you …"

"I'm not going to like this, am I?" suspiciously, his smile fading, looking at her sideways

She twists her lips into an unnatural shape. "Just listen," she begins, reaching out and putting her hand on his thigh, "In the interest of full disclosure, you should know that I sometimes find kissing, I mean, REAL kissing, involving tongue contact, as equally stimulating and … intimate … as actual intercourse," she says, looking at her hands, which she's taken back and put in her lap, waiting to hear whatever he's gonna say next. She closes her eyes, waiting for the response.

"Really?"

"Umm hummmmm," she says, shifting her body so she's sitting up against Booth, her left arm leaning on his chest. She lifts his arm up off the back of the booth and puts it around her lacing her fingers with his. Booth recognizes this as her way of feeling protected, understood, eventually validated. This, he realizes, is important to Bones … on the topic of kissing.

He looks sideways at her, wondering if he's supposed to say something.

She sits there quietly for a moment.

"Tell me about it, Bones," he says, gently.

"It's just that … it seems more … personal … than even intercourse."

This is a new one on Booth. Hm.

"Intimate, you mean?" he wants to understand.

"Yes," she says, decisively. "That is exactly what it is … "

"Okay," he says, nodding, waiting for more. Bones looks sideways at him. She tilts her head, and rests it on his jaw. _Cranium, mandible, clavicle,_ she hears herself think. She turns slightly so she can look right in his eyes. _Beautiful brown, sweet eyes._ She doesn't verbalize it, but it seems to Booth that she might be concerned he will think her reasoning is less than reasonable.

Bones heaves a heavy sigh, then launches into her explanation

"Because no matter whatever you have elsewhere on this wonderfully proportioned body of yours," she says, raising her hand and gently touching his face, as if discovering it for the first time. She traces a whisper-soft path with her middle finger over his left cheekbone, jaw, eye brow, nose, his lips.

".. these eyes, this face, these lips, these teeth," she continues in a very gentle voice, "Because this is who you are to me. This is Booth to me. Every one else has all the same parts. But only you have this," she says. Retracing the path from just a moment ago, she says, "These are the eyes I can lose myself in, these are the lips that speak to me …" as she outlines his lips with her fingers, he kisses them. Her ability to make a simple gesture astonishingly sensual captivates him. _Of course,_ he thinks, _this is a woman whose life's work is focused on the personalization of mere body parts. Bones speak to her. It makes sense that she would have the same reverence for the unique details of a lover's face. Wow, he thinks. He's entranced. Who is this woman? Where did her anxiety over intimacy go?_ She is so close to him … touching him so gently … speaking to him in soft tones … turning his brain to pudding. _And this is only my face! he thinks. Maybe I should be the one anxious about losing control? he wonders. How does she do this to me? Have this affect on me? I thought I knew everything about how this was going to play out. I was wrong._

Her hand still on his face, she feels the intensity of this moment. It feels private, intimate, and she's seriously nervous her clothing might disintegrate if this heat continues. All of her systems seem to be firing at once.

"This is the face whose smile affects the speed of the blood flowing through my body," she continues. "These are the teeth that make your smile uniquely yours." At this, he smiles naturally, showing off those teeth, which she considers to be marvelous, and proof of who he is … and who he is for her.

"They are uniquely yours. Strong teeth. But take this face off this body and it's no longer Booth to me." Her eyes wander from his lips to his eyes, slowly. "So, when I kiss, or am kissed by, this face, it feels much more intimate than what goes on elsewhere."

"I am confident that this is why I'm discovering I love kissing you so much," she says, leaning closer, dragging her lips over his for a moment, until he reaches out with his own lips and covers hers. This is one of those kisses where there's a minimum of lip moving going on, mostly just the pleasure that comes from being pressed up against the skin of someone you love. Booth knows that his neck is probably a lovely shade of crimson at this point, and he's about to slide down that slippery slope if someone doesn't pull him back, and whose going to do that? He reaches out to pull her closer, and she intercepts him by grabbing his hand, stopping him.

"See what I mean?" she says, moving just far enough away so she can clearly see the supplicant look in his eyes. "As much as I hate to suggest this," she says, almost inaudibly, "but maybe we should limit the kissing to …"

"I think I know what you mean …" he says, unable to find his full voice. "But can we postpone the hiatus at least until we leave this bar?" he asks, thinking, I'd like to get just a little more of that before I'm cut off until Tuesday night!

Her face breaks into a grin. This is proof to her that her point has been made.

"I was skeptical when you first brought up refraining from kissing, but I get it now. I don't know anyone who kisses like you do," he says, incredulity spread across his whole face. "That is one … very … slippery … slope," he says, running his hand over his lips and chin. _Wow,_ he thinks.

"Wow," he says out loud.

"I told you," she says, a knowing gleam in her eye.

"And you said 'I' was like Pringles …" he says, with a look of disbelief.

"I'm irresistible, aren't I?" she says teasingly. He leans forward to kiss her, she leans quickly back, not letting him, a sly grin on her face.

Still leaning back from him, she enjoys the transformation going on on his face. From disbelief to surprise to confusion, then to amusement.

"You're gooood," he says, nodding. "And these are going to be the four longest days of my life, I have a feeling." He grimaces. His face says, Oh well.

_"I am good,"_ she thinks to herself, a pleased smile stealing onto her face. _At least he understands now._ "You are the one who wanted to wait … that was your idea. Are you still sure about that, now that we're defining what that means?

Booth looks at her, attempting to look a little … resentful, but it turns into resignation, and a smile. This is what he asked for. And he's more confident than ever that it was a good idea. What's another couple of days if it will help us both figure some things out, help her get more comfortable with intimacy.

"You know what," he says, following his train of thought out loud. "So many people jump right into bed. They miss out on the romance, the flirting, the excitement of anticipation. Once you get into a serious relationship, there's still attraction and passion, but the tension changes. It decreases," he says, looking to Bones for acknowledgement that she knows what he's talking about. "So let's just enjoy it while we can. Our day will come. Before we know it, right?"

"Right. We'll just be like teenagers. Young, love-starved, desperate, teenagers.," says Bones, nodding, chuckling.

"Right. Young and dumb and full of cum," says Booth, looking out into the bar, recalling a phrase from his younger days.

"Booth!" admonishes Bones, a strange look on her face. Oops.

"That was crude," he says, looking back at her. "I'm sorry. That was really crude," he says, looking at her apologetically. "Whenever our squad at the FBI … back when I was a grunt, we'd be dealing with these teens and twenty-somethings making stupid, stupid decisions that affect the rest of their lives … that's what we'd say. We couldn't figure out any other explanation for the idiotic behaviors. We were still punks ourselves, to tell you the truth. Most of us could have chosen the same path those kids had. Making a crude comment helped separate ourselves from them …"

"Well, I certainly won't be behaving like that … and I hope you won't either."

"Nope. No. I will not. All grown up now," he says, shaking his head, but maintaining eye contact, eager to be past that stupid comment. "Look at me, frontal lobes engaged," he says, pointing at his forehead. "All my bones fully attached or solidified or whatever it is you say when the bones tell you they've stopped doing what they were supposed to have done because the victim is an adult. The ipecac frontal crest pubic thingies … " his voice trailing off, he knows he's making mistakes left and right at this point.

"Okay, that's enough. You can stop now," says Bones, chuckling at him.

Booth looks around the bar, tapping the fingers of his left hand on the back of the booth, his right hand beats out a rhythm on the table top. He still doesn't want to give up the kissing. He remembers his earlier solution, which she never responded to. His fingers stop mid tap.

"Tell you what, kiss me all you want in this bar. Within reason, of course, we don't want to get arrested. But when we leave this bar tonight … we'll just focus on the case. Take the occasions of embarrassment and frontal lobe development as they come. Get through them, together."

"Deal." she says, smiling, offering her pinkie.

"Deal," he responds, curling his pinkie around hers.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Was it good for you? Let me know! And I'll send you another ...<em>**


	140. Chapter 140 Sweet Nothings & Ceramic Til

_A/N Okay - there are some convoluted stories in this chapter, but I hope their messages are clear, you be the judge ..._

**Chapter 140 Sweet Nothings And Ceramic Tile**

Bones leans forward and reaches for the pitcher the waitress recently refilled with ice cold water. Her empty glass in one hand, she lifts the pitcher and slowly fills her glass without spilling a single drop. The condensation on the outside of the pitcher falls in drops onto the tablecloth, dotting it with grey circles the size of hole punches. She looks back to him briefly, a smile flashing across her face as she reaches for the glass in his hand. He releases it from his left hand which has been resting, wrapped around the glass, on the table in front of him.

She fills Booth's glass with the same care she took in refilling her own. She places his glass in front of him, and scoots back into place next to him, her left arm against his rib cage, his right arm behind her on the bench. Sliding his arm off the bench, he wraps it around her shoulders, squeezing her sideways, and kissing her on the temple. Though his posture says he's looking toward the crowd and the dance floor like she is, the truth is that Booth can't take his eyes off of her.

She looks over at him, catching him watching her. She twists her head, placing her chin over her shoulder, leans over toward him, and puts her lips to his ear. He leans his head toward her to hear whatever it is she is going to say. All he hears is, "pssh shpt tss ssttsh sh sh sh pst pst pst!"

A confused expression on his face, he pulls back and looks at her. She's smiling, encouragingly up at him. He turns his head to put his lips to her ear and says, "I have no idea what you just said." As he pulls away from her ear, he notices her eyes were closed as he whispered in her ear. She looks back at him now, an engaging grin on her face, her eyes mischievous and inviting. She looks at him for a moment, as if processing what she heard him say. She leans back again, puts her lips to his ear and repeats what sounds like, "spsht shpt tss ssttsh sh sh sh pst pst pst spssspth!"

Before she even finishes speaking, he's shaking his head back and forth slowly. When she leans away to read his expression now, he shrugs his shoulders and grimaces. His gestures say, I still have no idea what you just said. Her smile grows even bigger, so thoroughly she is enjoying this little interaction.

She puts her chin to her left clavicle and peers at him, impishly, over her shoulder. Raising her left arm over his head, she lays it across his shoulders. With her right hand, she reaches over and turns his face toward hers, her palm over his left ear, her fingers in his hair. Leaning his right cheek onto her right cheek, she puts her lips in the perfect position to whisper slowly and clearly into his right ear. This makes Booth's spine tingle a little, but he's focused, intrigued, and determined to decipher what she seems so intent on telling him. She whispers her phrases, pausing in between, clearly now, succinctly.

"I … have always wanted to know …. what it was like … to be the couple whispering … sweet nothings … into each other's ears … in a tiny booth … in the corner … of a restaurant," she says, then pulls away to look in his eyes, her right hand still resting on his ear, fingers in his hair. Her raised eyebrows ask, "Do you get it now?" She's sporting a conspiratorial expression, a playful grin. She returns to his ear, and continues.

"Pssh shpt tss ssttsh sh sh sh pst pst pst! Spsht shpt tss ssttsh. Sh sh sh pst pst pst spssspth!"

Now he's nodding, slowly and deliberately, his five o'clock shadow grazing her right cheek. It tickles. It more than tickles, gall darn it. She leans away to look in his eyes. He gets it. She takes her arm from around his shoulders and returns to her previous position snuggled up under his arm. Booth pulls her closer to him, and leans into her ear. She lays her left cheek on his left cheek so she can hear him.

"Shlp. Sweews slwishshshs. Shpt tss ssttsh sh. Fwish wish plbth!" he says. She's nodding her head, grinning, like she agrees with whatever he just whispered into her ear. She leans back to look in his eyes, winks at him, scrunches up her nose, and giggles. "You sure know how to rock a girl's world," she tosses off, returning to watch the crowd, sighing happy.

Booth is fascinated by this woman sitting beside him. She is an enigma, a mystery. On the surface, she is brilliant, beautiful, rational, determined, faultlessly objective, detached. Below the surface, though most people never see it, she is vulnerable, courageous, passionate, generous, playful.

Booth watches her lift her own glass to her lips, take a drink, replace the glass on the table, and continue looking out over the crowd assembling in the dim lights of the bar.

He hadn't anticipated how fiercely she would return his feelings. Where had he been and how did he miss the transformation she'd been undergoing for the past six months? Where would they be today if he had pulled his head out of his ass sooner and paid closer attention?_ 'Do not regret the past,'_ Gordon Gordon had said,_ 'for it got you to where you are today'_ … or something to that effect. Maybe he's right. Maybe if he'd gotten his shit together three months ago, she would not have been anywhere near ready, or willing, or able. And perhaps their attempt at a romantic partnership would have met with disaster. **_"There is a time to every purpose under heaven,"_** right? How was he to know that when he quoted Ecclesiastes to her, it would inspire her to tackle what has paralysed her in the past … and to begin ripping away the ties that had bound her, and bound her heart. Would he have seen that if he had just paid attention?

Even while she was playing along today … part of him really believed it was just playing, just her competitive nature dishing back what he was serving up. Deep down he feared that, faced with confronting her own feelings, and his feelings, she would become uncomfortable, apprehensive, as she had in the past. After all, Gordon had said that when she finally admitted to him how she felt months ago, it was when she knew he was powerless to do anything about it … it was safe, in other words. How would she react when it is no longer safe? When it is a risk? When they have everything to lose?

He's not thinking about making love to her at this moment. He's thinking past the bedroom. He wants to know that she will be part of his life for the rest of his life. But you don't ask someone to commit the rest of their life to the witnessing of your own life … not on the first day they've opened their heart to you. But hasn't it been six years? How long has she loved him? How long has she been aware of it? She'd said she didn't want regrets. Doesn't that imply that she'd been loving him and resisting her feelings for some time? How long had she felt that way? What does it really matter? Here they are today. Friends. Best friends. Partners. The best partnership he's ever had. They've had more "couple's therapy than most married people.

Looking at her now, he feels an almost uncontrollable impulse to tell her all of this. He has the sensation that he will be physically ill if he doesn't say something about what he's thinking. (Probably an overdose of dopamine or endolphins, she'd most likely tell him). He needs her to know how he's feeling.

_"I counsel patience and hope,"_ Gordon had said. Gordon is a wise man.

_Take one step at a time,_ he tells himself. _She's a little overwhelmed with everything she's feeling right now. Let her ride the bike a little while before ripping off the training wheels._

He also wants to assure her he will do his very best, for the rest of his days, to love her, and protect her, and give her everything she needs to be happy. But again, patience.

Tonight has been fun. Intense. Intoxicating. Easy. But this experience has been in a vacuum, far from D.C., the Jeffersonian, the Hoover Building, family, friends. Start planting the seeds now … that this is a relationship that will stand no matter where they are. In order for that to happen, they will have to learn to blend together their two approaches to the practicalities they are presented in real life. He remembers he wants to ask her to think about this blending, to give it a lot of thought, actually, between now and Tuesday.

"Bones?"

She turns toward him once again. "Hm?"

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you to think about … between now and Tuesday."

"Okay," she says. "Let's have it."

Without preamble, Booth launches into his prepared speech about how their processes for reaching conclusions are different.

"Personal decisions are made from the heart, from the gut. That is how I know I will want to make some of the most important decisions in life," he begins, reaching out and taking her left hand in his, resting them on his thigh and focusing on them before looking up into her eyes once more.

"But going with a sensation caused by chemicals fired off by the brain is not always the best strategy," says Bones, needing to defend logic.

"You are exactly right, Bones. Exactly right," he says, nodding in agreement. "The beautiful thing about us is that between us we have both the gut and the brain. And if you think I haven't learned a lot from you, and your processes, and your logic, and your critical thinking … you'd be very wrong. My hope would be that we continue to learn from each other. I can learn to be more logical. You can learn to be more … intuitive," he says.

"I can see how that would be a reasonable expectation," says Bones, squeezing his hand, nodding.

"Up until now, we've made personal choices independent of each other. But couples, couples make choices together, Bones," he says, looking at their hands on his thigh again.

"I know that, Booth," she says quietly, gently. This is a moment when gentleness is important. He needs to know, to feel, that they are equals. She gets that, somehow.

"Not everything requires a committee, but the big stuff certainly does," he says, looking up and into her eyes again. "There is no right or wrong. Things are not black and white."

"I understand that as well, Booth," she says, smiling, waiting patiently, letting him have his say. She's already worked through a lot of this with Sweets' help, but Booth is still unaware of that. She remembers Sweet's reminding her, _"The subjective, rather than the objective, is what matters most in matters of the heart …"_

"But I'd like you to think about whether or not you can be comfortable giving my point of view … my opinions, my thoughts … as baseless or illogical as they may appear to you at the time … I want you to give them the same weight as you would your own …"

Bones reaches up, sliding her hands around his neck, pulling him closer to her face as he continues to speak. She looks up into his eyes, his determined, confused, eyes, and kisses him firmly, sensuously, on his lips. Leaning back, she can see that he is clueless as to what this means. Leaning toward him once again, she kisses him one more time, getting the same uncertain expression back from Booth.

Finally, he stops trying to talk. "Why do I feel like there's a joke, or something, going on here somewhere and I'm not in on it?" he asks, uncertain, confused.

"Oh, there's not joke, Booth," she says, continuing to smile up into his very warm, beautiful brown eyes. "While I appreciate your concerns, I can assure you that I have come to rely on your "gut," as you call it. I trust your judgement. I trust you. I've told you that many times. You have shown me the value of taking all information into consideration, both the tangible and the intangible, especially regarding issues of great import. We needn't let this keep us from moving forward."

"Wait a minute … I have a whole lot more to say … I practiced a whole speech. It's brilliant. You have to let me finish …" he says, a little panicked, wanting to make sure he gets every point covered.

"Can you give me a short, one paragraph summary, hitting all the major points?" she asks, amused.

He looks at her, dumbfounded. "Well … there's compromise … convictions … our next step, relationship, understanding and respect … making choices together, individual values … " he says, as if reading off a memorized list of state capitals for a geography exam. "Screw it," he says, abandoning the prepared speech. "So are you telling me you are totally fine with the blending of how we both make decisions?"

"I think so, yeah," she says confidently, pursing her lips, raising her eye brows and giving him an affirmative nod, then a smile. "I believe it merits further discussion at another time, but I think you will find that I do understand and have a great deal of respect for the point you are making."

"Hm. Okay," he says. "That was easier than I thought," he says, shrugging his shoulders, then smiling sheepishly. "How could I have forgotten how awesome you are?" he says, feeling stupid.

"However," she says.

"Uh oh," he says.

"No, there's no 'uh oh'. This isn't a bad thing," she says, looking at him seriously. "I do concur with your argument earlier about strengthening my neurological pathways regarding intimacy. While I am a dedicated student, I am human and subject to the impulse to take the path of least resistance."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that if I do not force myself to continue delving into the uncomfortable world of emotional intimacy, I will most likely fall into old patterns, rendering me unable to progress."

"I thought we were just talking about decision-making?"

"We were. But this other thing is still on my mind. Historically, I have not required more than one explanation in order to achieve comprehension of any concept. And though I agree that there are some issues we could both work on, I'm unclear as to how the postponement until Tuesday is relevant …"

"Oh - Well, here's the deal. Things will never be this intense again, Bones. Right now, we are highly motivated, right? Once a relationship gets going, the tension decreases and people have a tendency to let things slide," Booth begins. "Sometimes even the really important things. I've seen it happen. And it can lead to disaster."

"A person needs accountability, motivation, behavior before reward," she adds to his comments, "to prevent, or discourage, the slide back into old patterns," she says, somewhat clinically.

"Yeah - though that sounds kinda manipulative. But yes …" he says.

"Manipulation is a highly effective tool in assuring compliance."

"That sounds awful … But I think I understand what you mean. At least I hope I do!" he says, chuckling. "The things that are important to me, if we don't focus on them now, it would be easy for them to get overlooked. It's just like ceramic kitchen tile."

"I don't know what that means, Booth."

"Right now, there is an urgency to make sure we understand what is most important to each other. For me, it's the need for emotional intimacy, and acknowledgement that my way of making decisions, though different form yours, is valid in your eyes. And I'd really like to know what is most important to you. If we put these conversations off, there's a very good chance we'll never get around to them."

"Okay …" she says. There's got to be more to this than that, she can tell.

"The ceramic tile for the kitchen floor. My aunt and uncle agreed they would replace this hideous dark brown linoleum on their kitchen floor before they moved into their house. For my aunt, it was a deal breaker. She did not want to live in a house with that horrible eyesore underfoot during the many, many hours she would be spending in that kitchen. She made my uncle promise that it would be gone before they even move into the house. Well, he ended up running out of time, and the budget got spent on closing costs or other more urgent repairs. Twenty years later … they still had that crappy floor. As a result, my aunt and uncle ended up divorced," he says, looking at her like the logic should be clear.

"Because they had crappy linoleum?" she asks, a look of concern on her face. "That's ludicrous!"

"That's what I thought, until I asked my aunt about it years later."

"What did she say?" Bones is hanging on every word.

"She said that the linoleum was just one in a string of broken promises. A symptom of a bigger problem. As time went on, they stopped caring about what the other person wanted and needed. And each of them stopped fighting for what they wanted and needed, for the relationship. Eventually, everything fell apart."

"And the moral of the story is …?"

"Communication, Bones!" he says with a flourish. "We need to talk about what we each need and make it a priority. Talk about it, and keep talking about it. I want to understand why you need certain things. I want you to understand why I need certain things. Before we get into the business of life as a couple. Am I crazy? Is this making sense?"

"Yes, you are crazy, but yes, it is also making sense."

"Okay," he says, but it sounds like a question.

"So … in essence, before we get busy with other things, and the urgency to communicate dissipates, it would be beneficial to understand each other's desires, and make them a priority, lest carelessness ensues and resentment follows."

"You understand me completely," he says, nodding. "That is why it is important to me that we talk about blending our modes of decision-making … as well as some other things."

"Which you are going to tell me … when?"

"Soon enough. But one thing at a time, okay?"

"I'll have to trust you on that one, I guess."

"Thank you. Now, I have another story, but this one shows how my other aunt and her husband, who are still married today, chose to work things out through talking about what was important to each of them."

"I'm listening."

"Okay. It was early days in their marriage. Valentine's Day. Aunt Cathy put a lot of time and effort into planning a special gift for Uncle Mark. A couple of days before Valentine's Day, Uncle Mark tells Aunt Cathy that he hopes she hasn't spent any money on a gift for him, because he wasn't planning to spend anything on a gift for her," explains Booth, looking to Bones to gauge comprehension.

"I'm following so far," she says.

"So, Aunt Cathy fell apart. She couldn't believe he didn't feel she was worth at least $50 for something special for Valentine's Day. She was crushed."

"This doesn't sound like a story that's going to end well. What happened?"

"Just wait. She didn't tell him about her disappointment until the morning of Valentine's Day when he found her, sobbing, sitting on the floor of the tiny bathroom in their one-bedroom apartment. When she explained what she thought, he took her in his arms and explained to her that it wasn't that she was not worth a $50 Valentine's Day gift … she was worth a whole house to him. He had been saving $50 a month for a downpayment. He told her that he'd rather buy her a house to live in, to raise children in, and to build memories in, than a $50 gift that would make her happy for one day."

"Which point are you trying to make here, Booth?" wanting to make sure she took from this story what he intended her to take.

"That they talked about it, made it a priority to understand each other. Instead of keeping it to themselves and letting it rot their relationship. It ended up that she didn't care about a Valentine's gift, she just wanted to be shown that she was important to him. They learned then, and for many years afterwards, that _motivations and intentions are not always what they appear to be_ … and that if you are committed to loving someone, you take the risk, whatever it may be, to make sure you understand and are understood by your partner."

"Are you telling me you'd like to buy me a house, Booth?" she asks sweetly, a gleam in her eyes.

"I want us to talk about what we do and why we do it," he says, chuckling at the conclusion she jumped to, and how close it is to what he really does want to do. "And the time to start that is now. If we let it go until the intensity, the urgency, decreases, who is to say we'll ever get around to it? I've waited too long, worked too hard, we both have, to become complacent, and possibly resentful, in the future," he nods thoughtfully. "I'd certainly rather put off a little hanky panky until Tuesday in exchange for a solid chance to give our relationship a running start …"

"Hm," she says, thinking, and watching his expression. He's wondering what's going on behind those eyes, which are now squinting at him, deep in thought. He's not sure what this means. That seems to happen a lot, it occurs to him. All the more reason for frequent communication.

"You are a very smart man, Seeley Booth," she says, her expression remaining one of intent thought. "You should know," she begins again, "that I consider myself quite fortunate to be the person you feel is worth a house."

He starts to object to her conclusion about the house, not wanting to seem … ahead of where they are right now. But then, he stops himself. If she's there, perhaps at the house … why back track? Or maybe she does see it as a metaphor. Whatever. Metaphorically speaking, she is correct, and to that he can respond, so he does.

"As it should be," he answers, in a playful, cocky tone, lifting his glass and sliding the remaining ice cubes into his mouth while she sits watching him, a smirk on her face which turns into a private grin.

* * *

><p><em>Did the stories make sense? I know I need to write it tighter ... more succinctly, and perhaps get to the<br>points more quickly ... but I hope my goal was reached - the goal that the messages got though: Communication is key,  
>and motivations and intentions are not always what they appear to be … and that if you are committed to loving someone,you take the risk, whatever it may be, to make sure you<em>_understand and are understood by your partner. What do you think?_


	141. Chapter 141 Truth Or Dare

_A/N I love Parker. He brings an element of innocence to the table. And, it allows Booth to show a side we would never otherwise see - a side of him Bones would never see, if it weren't for Parker. The second half of this chapter is one of your basic reviews of sexual history that all new couple's go through. I'm curious what you'll think of it. Have you ever been through one of these? Well, maybe not JUST like it ... but you know what I mean! ~ MoxieGirl_

**Chapter 141 Truth or Dare**

"Did I tell you about Parker's definition of 'romance?'" asks Booth, chuckling.

"I would have liked to overhear that conversation," says Bones, a curious expression on her face.

"Well, it came about because he has a little crush on this girl named Caroleena. This cute little curly dark-haired girl sits in from him in all his homeroom classes. I've seen her, she is adorable. I think she likes him too. She has these big brown eyes, and eyelashes that go on forever," explains Booth, an enormous grin on his face.

"So, is Parker considering 'romancing' her?" she asks, grinning back. She enjoys talking about Parker with Booth. It is a side of him she doesn't get to see as much as all his other sides. This is a tender, sweet side.

"Well, I told him that if he's old enough to have a girl friend, then he better learn a little bit about romance," says Booth, a mock-serious expression on his face.

"What did he say to that?" Bones can barely keep from laughing.

"He said he might not be old enough for **that**," says Booth, chuckling.

"What does he think **romance** is?"

"That's what I asked him! He said, 'romance is love and happiness and kissing.' And that he's okay with the happiness, and maybe even the love part, but he's not at all interested in the kissing part," he says, cracking up.

"And why is that?" she asks, her grin getting wider by the moment.

"Apparently the other boys at school told him it involved spitting into each other's mouths," says Booth, barely able to contain himself.

"Hm," grunts Bones, laughing. "That's one way to put it. Did you tell him not all kissing involves saliva?"

"No! It's fine with me that he thinks kissing is gross. He doesn't need to be kissing anyone until he's at least thirty years old."

"I see," she says, chuckling. "Has he ever seen you kissing anyone?"

"That's a good question," he says, thinking. "Rebecca and I ended our romantic relationship long before Parker was old enough to pay attention, much less remember anything."

"What about other women … after Rebecca, of course?"

"He's only met very few of the women on my life … women that I've kissed. I've always kept that separate. I'm fairly certain he's never had the opportunity to see me kissing anyone. Certainly not the spit-swapping kind of kissing," he chuffs.

"Hm," she says, watching him.

"He's probably only met two, to be honest, and one of them was you …" he says, searching his memory.

"And we certainly weren't kissing … though you do have a tendency to spit when you argue your point," she says, laughing.

"I do?"

"No, I'm just teasing you!" she laughs.

"Thank God, that would completely damage my image of myself as a smooth operator," he says, mock concern on his face. He laughs at himself, watching her laugh as well.

"Hey, you know what?" asks Bones.

"What's that?"

"I would have to say, with all honesty, that many times when we have been together, just working or eating, or whatever it is we do when we are together … that I have had a more 'romantic' time with you than I've had on dates with potential lovers. How about that?"

"I'm not sure what to think about that," he says, a quizzical look on his face.

"What it means is that I've felt more chemistry with you, even when no empirical evidence suggests we are engaging in a romantic activity, than I have felt actually engaging in supposedly 'romantic' activities with potential mates."

"Again, not sure what to think about that … don't really want to think about what other 'romantic activities' you may have been involved in with other 'potential mates."

"Booth, I'm talking about dining, attending cultural events, walking in the park, that kind of thing, with other men. That's all."

"Then why go out with them at all?" he asks, looking at her.

She shrugs, shakes her head. They both know why.

He pulls her close to him sideways, kissing her temple once again. It's okay. What's past is past, this gesture says. He smiles at her. She smiles back, a little apologetically. Onward.

"So … back to this thing about the urgency, intensity, of a relationship diminishing once a relationship gets going. What do you think that's all about?" she asks.

"I think the urgency, the desperation, comes from a feeling of lack of control. Over yourself, the other person, the situation. A lot seems to be hanging in the balance. Does she like me? Is this real? Am I going to get a little? That kind of thing," he says, honestly, not trying to be funny.

"Are we talking about teenagers again?" she asks, looking at him, seriously curious.

"I don't think so. I think those questions plague a person no matter what age they are," he says, chagrinned. "Perhaps the older we get, the greater confidence we have, and the more we understand that someone liking, or not liking us, has more to do with the other person than it does with us more often than not."

"Fascinating," she says, nodding. "But tell me about this diminishing passion. My relationships have always been equally passionate at the beginning and throughout," she says, matter of factly.

"How long have your relationships been?" he asks her.

She considers this, looks up and to the right, searching her memory for her longest romantic entanglement. "Okay. Good point. Maybe not long enough to get to the mundane stage …"

"I never said they get mundane, I just said the anxiety and tension decrease. Passion, in my experience comes and goes. There are a lot of factors at play there. Pops used to say that spontaneity and passion are not the same thing. Sometimes passion starts with planning, he always said."

"I can imagine him saying that, Pops being Pops," she concedes, raising her eye brows and grimacing, chewing the inside of her lip. "I can see him saying that." She smiles thinking about Pops.

"Yeah," says Booth, chuckling, "But I was twelve when he first told me that. Repeated it at least once a year, on gram's birthday. Now _there_ was a married couple that put a lot of work, a lot of love, into their relationship."

"Interesting," she says, furrowing her brow. "So that's where you learned it," she says, moving away so she can look at him better. This is indeed getting interesting. They revert back to the knee to knee, facing each other, positions. His arm, once again along the back of the booth, her elbow resting on the booth next to his hand, her temple resting on her upraised fist. They consider each other, both thinking private thoughts.

Booth smiles, thinking of Pops. It's time he want to visit him again. "Most everything I know worth remembering comes from Pops," he says, a faraway look in his eyes.

Bones is reviewing her past relationships, wishing she could have come to this relationship with more experience, more to add. Sometimes she truly does feel like a teenager. Thank the heavens she has Booth to lead her through this. Not all men would take the time, or have the patience. She'd certainly experienced plenty of men like that. Yuck, she thinks, shuddering.

"So!" says Booth, pulling himself back to the present. For a moment, Bones has forgotten what the topic was before Pops came onto the screen of her memory. "I think that feeling of excitement, the feeling of loss of control in the beginning of a relationship … part of that sensation is replaced by a feeling of … safety? Security? Comfort? Like that. In a longterm relationship, its the knowledge that you won't be hurt when you're vulnerable, that someone else is inside that vulnerability with you, so it's shared, halved maybe even. And things get easier"

"People who love each other hurt each other all the time, Booth," says Bones skeptically, looking over at him, running her right thumb up and down the seam of her jeans pant leg over the bend in her knee. She wishes this were not her immediate response. But it is. And they are going to have to deal with that together. She sighs.

"This is true," he concedes, nodding slowly, considering. "This is unfortunately very true. Who knows that better than people who do what we do for a living, right?" he smiles weakly. "For the purposes of this conversation, we are focusing on healthy, non-homicidal people, okay?" he says, chuckling, attempting to brighten the mood.

"Agreed," she says, smiling, grateful. "So, what gets easier?"

"Well, for one thing, you always have a date for boring parties, someone to take with you and make fun of the other people with," he chuckles. 'Heck, you always have a date, period!"

"You bring a date to parties so you have someone to make fun of other people with?" she sounds appalled. He grimaces at her.

"Oh, that was a joke," she says, understanding finally. He continues.

"You have someone to eat with, cook with or for. Someone to talk to at the end of every day. Someone to share the home maintenance load with. Someone to sit home and watch the game with, or a movie …" he says, shrugging like the list is too long to get through it all.

"You have a romanticized idea of what a committed relationship is like, Booth," she says, furrowing her brow and concentrating on his eyes. He wraps his outstretched right hand around the elbow resting beside it. With his thumb he traces circles on her skin. "I doubt we like the same kind of movies," she says, smiling at the familiarity of his fingers on her arm.

"Have you ever seen a Jackie Chan film? I think you'd like Jackie Chan," he suggests, confidently.

"I don't know, Booth. Is she a famous actress, like Angelina Jolie?" she asks in all seriousness.

"Jackie Chan is a man, an actor. He's a martial arts guy … like Bruce Lee!" No glimmer of recognition appearing in Bones' eyes, Booth tries for a description. "He's funny and acrobatic, always the good guy, always gets the bad guy. He even dances." Then a filmography, "Rumble In The Bronx? Rush Hour? Rush Hour 2? Shanghai Noon? Shanghai Knights?" Batting zero, he moves on.

"Okay, what about cuddling on the couch? Who doesn't enjoy cuddling on the couch?"

"Me, when I've got other things that I need to get done. I don't really sit around and just watch things, Booth. The only tv I had for several years was the broken one on the floor in my closet. I'd rather read. Reading helps develop the frontal lobe," she says.

"I read too," he says.

"Yes, I believe we've had this discussion … " she says, continuing to think about the couch cuddling. "On the other hand, I do enjoy non-sexual tactile stimulation," she concedes, "and I can see how I would enjoy sitting beside you for long periods of time … like tonight."

"Great, so I can watch the game and you can read a book, sitting next to me, wearing ear plugs if you want," he suggests.

"Whenever I've been on a couch with a man, for non-business purposes, it usually ends up horizontal in the bedroom," she says, furrowing her brow, looking at him, and still thinking.

"Boy, your mind travels in circles I'd never even think of," he says, laughing at her.

She shrugs her shoulders. "I have a hard time imagining it. I've never really gotten into the 'just hanging out together' stage in a relationship, Booth. It's usually been more like a string of dates with sex thrown in for entertainment, and for the mutual satisfying of physical needs, of course," she says, a serious expression on her face.

"Holy crap!" he exclaims. "Is there nothing you won't say out loud? I'm not sure I want to hear about how anyone else fulfilled your needs."

"Booth, it's the truth, and it is part of my history. So if, or when, I suck at this relationship thing, you have to know it's partially because I have very little experience past the dating and sex for entertainment stages."

Though he hates to, he has to admit that knowing this about her past could prove important. It may explain some things down the line. It will be helpful to have had this conversation, as uncomfortable as it may be for him to hear it now.

"So … sex for entertainment, huh?"

"Yes, but not exactly on the couch … and certainly not irresponsibly."

"But, you've had sex on a couch, right?" This is the oddest debriefing of past relationships he's ever experienced. But, he figures, you get what you get … and maybe this is better than a long list of troubled and damaging emotional experiences. It sounds like she hasn't ever taken a romantic relationship very seriously. How could she, all locked away inside that fortress she's lived in for so long?

"Nope," she says. "To be completely honest, never at all on a couch."

"What?" he says, looking truly shocked.

"Never," she says, shaking her head. "Wait, does a futon count?"

"Open or closed?" Maybe now we're getting somewhere.

"Open?" she says uncertainly, after a moment.

"Nope," he slowly shakes his head, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth. "No go, sister. This is really sad," he says starting to laugh.

"Hey! Don't laugh at me! I've always preferred comfort over creativity," she says, defending herself, and laughing along with him. "What's wrong with that?"

"Man, then you haven't lived!" he exclaims. "Sex in uncomfortable places is some of the most exciting you'll ever have."

"What, like you're an expert? Here you go with the exciting sex again … I'm starting to think we're not talking about the same activity … or maybe we just have completely different ideas about what's exciting."

"I'm not an expert, but I do okay," he says, with one nod, looking back at her.

"You're telling me you've had sexual intercourse in many places other than the bedroom?"

"Sure," he says smiling, as if to say, hasn't everyone?

"Hm," she says, looking at him, narrowing her eyes. "I figured you for a fairly conventional copulator," she says, throwing down a gauntlet of sorts. "Energetic, tireless perhaps, but conventional. I assumed it was part of the Catholic thing."

Booth snorts. "What? Catholics make the best lovers …! We were taught how to love by Jesus Christ Himself!"

"I have never heard of a sex manual being part of the Holy Bible. Is that part of the Old Testament or the New Testament. Must be the New Testament, if it was inspired by Jesus Christ, right, Booth?" she says, snorting herself.

Booth gives her a faux nasty look.

"Besides, your reasoning is flawed. The Jesus Christ of the New Testament, if His recorded words are to be believed, came equally for all those who believe in him, not just the Catholics. He came for the Protestants, Lutherans, Methodists, Baptist, Evangelicals … Presbyterians, Pentecostals, Unitarians, Oriental Orthodox, Anglican, Eastern Orthodox, Congregationalists … shall I continue?"

Booth shakes his head, his mouth hanging open.

"There are more denominations than one can count. It would stand to reason that persons of all those denominations are equally fine lovers, not to mention that christian lore holds that Jesus Christ was celibate, and therefore probably not a good candidate for a technical manual on sexual intercourse."

"Ah, but we Catholics have the corner on the market when it comes to guilt."

"I don't see the connection," she says, suspiciously.

"There is no connection," he says. He's trying to distract her. "Never mind! What I'm saying is that Catholics are great lovers. We have a lot of pent-up ... sexual frustration …"

"Well, I can only speak to my own observations, Casanova. I'm basing my assumption on my experience of you being, with few exceptions, a little … uptight … regarding subjects of a sexual nature."

"That may be true … but that doesn't mean a person isn't … exciting, or creative when it comes to … doing the deed."

"I am figuring that out …" she says, nodding once, a sly smile creeping across her face. "So, enlighten me. What places do you consider to be exciting and creative other than the bedroom?" she challenges him, curious if he can come up with anything that will surprise her. As he's staring up into his memory, she adds a single restriction. "Sex by yourself doesn't count!"

"Jesus!" he blurts, looking around to see if anyone is close enough to eaves drop on this conversation which is quickly deteriorating. Never would he have predicted that he'd be sitting in a bar, in his mid-thirties, discussing masturbation with … well … anyone, actually! "Sometimes the things you say, Bones … wow! Have you absolutely no mental filter?"

"You see," she says, grinning, raising her eyebrows as far as they will go. "Uncomfortable, aren't you?"

He stares at her, his neck hot and growing hotter. He removes his arm from the back of the booth, feeling the need to protect himself. Before he's able to stop himself, he looks at the palms of his hands, confirming that there is no visible hair sprouting from his palm prints. The nuns at school threatened the boys that if they touched their private areas in any non utilitarian way, or in any way other than for the purposes of procreating, and only then, once having received the sacrament of holy matrimony … dark hairs would sprout on the palms of their hands. Though this didn't slow anyone down for more than a week, it did cause a great deal of speculation when the movie Teen Werewolf came out. What had **that** guy been up to?

"Well," says Booth, never one to back down from a challenge, "I always had **you** figured for a very methodical, clinical … _copulator_!"

"I bet I'm more experimental than you are," she says, squaring her jaw as if to say, "Bring it, baby."

"Doubt it," he chuffs.

"Okay," she says, preparing for a smack down. "Have you ever had sex with someone whose name you did not know?"

"No," he says, "of course not."

"With more than one person at a time?" she asks.

"No," again in the tone of, 'that's absurd.'

"Dressed up as a police officer, construction worker, or UPS delivery man?"

"Uh …"

"While tied to the bedposts?" she's enjoying this way too much.

"Do handcuffs count?" he can't believe he's having this conversation.

"Sure. Ever let someone else watch?"

"Hell no!"

"Ever done it with another man?"

He doesn't even answer, he just gives her his best stare.

"Ever use a whip?" she continues, feeling triumphant.

"Whipped cream?" he says, "Like, non-dairy whipped topping?"

She stares at him, considering. "That's not what I meant, but I would give you a point for that," she nods. "Your partner ever use a whip? A whip made of something other than edible pie topping?"

She's getting a blank stare from the man sitting next to her in her booth.

"Hm," she grunts. "Then I'd say you're fairly conventional in your sexual tastes and behavior."

"Are you saying **you've** done all those things?"

"Some," she says, noncommittally.

"Which ones?" he says, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.

"Oh no, that is for a completely different conversation, at another time," she says, skirting the issue. She could only honestly admit to having participated in three of those experiences.

The first is sex with someone whose name she didn't know, but that doesn't really count. She had HEARD his name. She just couldn't pronounce it, because it was mostly a combination of clicks and pops. It was in Africa, and he spoke very good English, but refused, on principal, to change his name from that chosen for him by the gods at his birth. So … one could say that she never really **knew** his name.

She'd once tied a lover to bedposts, but found it logistically frustrating and unsatisfying sexually. When she attempted being tied to the bedposts herself, she chickened-out, feeling far too vulnerable. However, she had many times participated in role playing involving colorful and seductive outfits. So that makes three out of however many she's asked Booth about.

"Now, look at that," she says, "I'm not blushing at all. But look at you, Booth! Did you forget your SPF 50 today? Not so funny when the boot's on the other phalange, is it?"

"Well," says Booth, "At least I'm locationally creative. And spontaneous, for that matter. And it's 'shoe on the other foot,' Bones."

"Okay, your turn," she says.

"Hm," he says, looking at her, his fingers itching to pull the trigger. 'Fine. Have you ever had sex in a public restroom?"

"Not too out of the ordinary, but no," she says.

"Back seat of a car?" he says, looking at her.

"Very pubescent. No, I was a late bloomer, remember?"

"Okay, in a lake?"

"At night?"

"What does it matter?"

"Visibility."

"Okay, at night … " he says, remembering one of his own sultry experiences. She raises and drops her shoulders. She hasn't tried it in a lake.

"In the woods surrounded by mosquitos, on a bed of dry leaves and pine needles?

"Ouch! And no."

"Tell me about it," he says, agreeing to the 'ouch,' nodding at her. "How about in the grass in the middle of the day, or on a rock while hiking?"

"Nope and no,"

"What about in every conceivable room in a house or apartment?"

"Every room with a bed …" she says, happy to get at least one point. "Are you saying you did it all of these places?" she asks, feeling woefully inexperienced.

"Well now, that is for a completely different conversation, at another time …" he says, winking, and continuing.

"Are we at least talking about behaviors as a teenager, or are we talking after the age of 25?"

"Oh, all of these are as an adult, for the most part," he says.

"What? Holy copulating donkey turds!" she exclaims, slapping a hand over her mouth. But he hasn't said he's done them all, just like she hadn't.

"Yeah," he admits. "I will tell you, however, that all of my locationally creative experiences were while in committed relationships, many of them with the same person."

"I don't even want to know who …" she says, grimacing, looking away.

He continues. "At the office. At someone else's office …"

"At the Hoover Building? Have you done it at the Hoover Building?

He sees her panicked expression. "No," he lies. Maybe that hit too close to home. "In an elevator … on a plane while in flight."

"Okay, see, now you're just bragging. I think I've heard enough!" says Bones, laughing uneasily.

"Um, I think I won," he says, asking for her acknowledgement of his coup. She ignores the plea.

"So … when I refer to sex toys, and I'm talking about hand cuffs, and things that require two C batteries … you're talking about elbow and knee pads, and mosquito netting?

"What's wrong with both?" he asks, shrugging his shoulders and winking once again.

* * *

><p><em>Leave it to Booth to have to win one of these competitions! Well, at least they've each got an idea of the other's sexual history. And wasn't Parker cute in his definition of romance? That will come up again later, I promise! Now, let's hear what you have to say about <strong>Truth or Dare<strong>!_


	142. Chapter 142 Uncle! Uncle!

_A/N: Okay folks, for those of you looking for a little more case in your story, you will be pleased to see that it creeps into this chapter, though perhaps not how you'd expect. And in case anyone is unfamiliar with the meaning of a "raspberry," the Urban Dictionary describes it this way: "when you blow directly on someone's bare skin resulting in a tickling sensation for the other person, accompanied by a 'farting' sound, usually done on one's stomach." You've probably given one to a baby, but they are even more fun on agreeable adults! In the interest of full disclosure, I must warn you that they can sometimes lead to pregnancy ... or just to pregnancy-creating behavior. Tell your spouse s/he can thank me later ... (wink)._

**Chapter 142 Uncle! Uncle!**

For the next hour, Booth and Bones talk about everything and nothing. They people-watch, Bones commenting on the mode of dress of some of the women, and what that signifies anthropologically. Booth reminisces about his early days at the FBI and a group of buddies he'd occasionally go out with after putting in a full day at work together.

Each comment by Bones leads Booth into a story about a mishap involving a buddy, a short blonde, and an ex-boyfriend coming to blows on a dance floor. Or a buddy, a long night of slow dancing, and then the revelation that the "she" his buddy was romancing was packing a pair, was really a "he." Or about all the guys at a bachelor party that got busted when the girl who jumped out of the cake invited her "girlfriends" over. The "girls" just happened to be working ladies in a prostitution ring under surveillance by the D.C.P.D. for drug trafficking … and prostitution, of course. That was a sticky situation. All the guys were just as surprised as the D.C.P.D. when all the facts came to light.

Booth moves on to stories about his experiences of camaraderie as an Army Ranger. Spring-boarding from one of Booth's stories about a fellow Ranger who later became a coroner, then a medical professor of physiology teaching gross anatomy at Johns Hopkins, then ... a florist, Bones talks about a study buddy she had in college. Jessica and Bones had been study mates, then roommates, for a semester, until Jess dropped out from exhaustion, and one too many battles with bulimia. Ten years later, Jess ended up as a cadaver in the gross anatomy class Bones was auditing while working on her doctorate. She recalls how that incident had an impact on her. She'd spent a week considering leaving the program herself, then rallied, more committed than ever, determined to spend her life putting names and histories to those whose lives had expired, but who still had a lot to teach the current generation.

That leads to a lot of questions from Booth about what goes through a person's head while taking apart the donated body of what used to be a living, breathing, human being. She tells him about the lengthy and emotional memorial services organized and held by medical schools for both the medical students and the families of donated bodies. She says that many times, students form attachments to their cadavers, feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the donor's generosity, a generosity which allows the student to learn and practice, in order to save the lives of others. Bones also talks about what it was like to meet, for the second time, the parents of her friend, Jessica.

The music throughout is mostly She-rah woman power stuff from all the way back to the '70s forward. Bones recognizes some of the more vintage tracks, but gets lost in the decade coinciding with her graduate studies and forward. The lineup is something like this:

"It's Raining Men" by **The Weather Girls** (God bless mother nature, she's a single woman too!)  
>"I Will Survive" by <strong>Gloria Gaynor<strong> (Oh as long as I have love to give I know I'll be alive!)  
>"Glamorous" and "Big Girls Don't Cry" by <strong>Fergie<strong> (If you ain't got no money take your broke A$$ home!)  
>"Dancing Queen" and "Waterloo" by <strong>Abba<strong> (And how could I ever refuse, I feel like I win when I lose!)  
>"Like a Virgin" by <strong>Madonna<strong> (Touched for the very first time!)  
>"Mļssundaztood" and "Get the Party Started" by <strong>Pink<strong> (I'm coming up!)  
>"Lady Marmalade" by <strong>Lil Kim<strong> (Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?)  
>"Closer To Fine" by <strong>The Indigo Girls<strong> (The less I seek my source for some definitive, the closer I am to fine!)  
>"Man, I Feel Like A Woman" by <strong>Shania Twain<strong> (Best thing about being a woman, is the prerogative to have a little fun)  
>"Bye Bye" by <strong>Jo Dee Messina<strong> (Got a lead foot down on my accelerator and the rear view mirror torn off!)  
>"What A Girl Wants" by <strong>Christina Aguilera<strong> (Whatever makes me happy sets you free!)  
>"Irreplaceable" by <strong>Beyoncé<strong> (To the Left to the left, everything you in a box to the left) and, of course,  
>"She Bop" and "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" by <strong>Cyndi Lauper<strong> (The phone rings in the middle of the night, my father yells, "when you gonna live your life right")

The only song missing is **Helen Ready's** "I Am Woman," but the night is still young, by bar standards.

Bones, of course, just about flies out of her seat, squealing, when she hears Cyndi Lauper belting out _"Girls Just Want to Have Fun,"_ one of her favorite songs to sing karaoke to, and the song she's had recorded for her calls to Booth's cell phone. Then she decides to downplay her excitement, by sitting calmly down, and taking a sip from her glass of water.

"I did not just do that," she says to Booth. "Or, if you think I did, it's just because I got a little carried away."

"Get out there, Bones! Go dance! This is _your_ song!" encourages Booth.

"Are you sure that's not you phone ringing?" she teases him, looking on either side of him where he usually keeps his phone.

"Are you calling me?" he asks her.

"Wha - no …"

"Then it's not my phone," he says, grinning. "Let's see you try to logic your way out of that one, pajama pants!"

"Booth," she says, tilting her head to the side, hoping this explanation works better than the last attempt. "This is my song to** sing** to, not to dance to," she says. "And I can sing it just fine here in the booth with you.

"What ever floats you boat," he says. When he sees her confused expression, he says, "If that's what makes you happy … sitting here and singing rather than getting out on that dance floor and shaking your booty."

"If I'm going out there, you're going with me," she says, knowing he won't. Not for this song.

"Singing here's just fine with me," he says. "Score one for Bones."

A little while later, as Booth approaches their table after a trip to the restroom, the DJ departs from the usual fare and plays "Bad" by Michael Jackson, then "Dirty Diana." Booth, of course, can't resist the opportunity to give Bones a little demonstration of his moonwalk/break dance/Boothdance, injecting the occassional "Who hoo," in falsetto, and doing the signature crotch grab along with it. Bones cracks up so badly, tears are streaming down her cheeks and she's clutching her abdominal muscles.

"I love this man! God, I love this man! This is absolutely hilarious!" is what Booth would have heard her yelling between giggles if the music was just a little quieter, and Booth wasn't working so hard on his mojo. What makes it ginormously funny is that Booth is acting like he knows what he's doing, but he clearly doesn't. Bones' laughter is partly due to his dancing prowess, and partly due to the spectacle of Mr. Serious acting completely goofy. She wishes Parker were here to witness this. Well, she tells herself, perhaps Parker has already seen it. Perhaps Booth and Parker have regular dance fests on Saturday mornings in nothing but their tightie whities and their sox. She wouldn't be surprised if this were the case.

Parker! she thinks, a little stab of adrenaline piercing her through the chest. _What are we going to say to Parker?_ She loves the little man. It hadn't occurred to her before this very minute that his happiness could be at risk if things fell apart between her and Booth. That thought snaps her back to reality, and though she continues to smile at Booth's gyrations, she's no longer laughing as energetically as she was before. _Note to myself,_ she thinks, _we need to talk about Parker ..._

Booth notices a change in her demeanor and takes the opportunity to abandon his performance after a couple of sideways jaw thrusts, and some robotic arm gestures. Instead of sliding into their booth, he kneels on the seat cushion and "walks" over to her.

"Agh! What are you doing?" she yelps, laughing in surprise. Booth leans over, flings his right arm over her left shoulder, wraps his left arm around her, below her right arm pit, and pulls her hair out of the way to expose her neck. Burying his face on the right side of her neck, he deposits several noisy kiss-bites, followed by a great big wet raspberry. Bones erupts in a scream-laugh of delight, trying to get him away from her neck, which is extremely ticklish at the moment.

"Booth!" she yelps, grinning, when he releases her and sits down beside her on the bench, "there are no words to describe … your … moves!" She's referring to his dancing. "I think I have seen everything now. I can die having lived a full life!" she laughs, opening her eyes wide, stretching her face and mouth lengthwise, trying to reach, and wipe away, any drooping mascara from under her eyes. She continues laughing as she reaches up to her neck and tries to rub away the moisture deposited there by Booth's energetic attack.

"Don't die **now,** Bones," he says with mock concern, "things are just starting to get interesting!" he exclaims, laughing, and lunging at her again, aiming for the same location, but this time blazing a path from the right side of her neck, over her throat, and up the left side of her neck, kissing, nibbling, and blowing raspberries along the way. Bones is breathless in a fit of giggles and yelps. "Stop! Stop it, Booth!" she whimpers, between gleeful squeals.

"Stop it, Booth! Stop it!" says Booth in a falsetto voice, teasing her, and laughing at the same time as he attempts to give her another wet raspberry.

"Hey!" she whines playfully, furrowing her brow, trying to wiggle away from him, and attempting to appear serious, giggling the whole time. "Well," she says, when he doesn't let up, "two can play at that game, mister!" She takes advantage of his position draped across her, grabs the back of his hair, and sinks her face into his neck, delivering several sloppy raspberries.

Booth finally stops when he can't handle her tickling his neck any more. "Uncle! Uncle!" he says, chuckling. "Meaning, I give in," he adds, just in case she's unfamiliar with the universal cry of surrender that all kids know by the age of six. "Can I have my hair back?" he says, squeezing his eyes shut, as if he were in pain, which he isn't, and she knows it. She leans back so no one is touching anyone's neck, and looks at him, squinting.

"Are you going to behave yourself?" she asks, realizing that they are caught with their arms around each other, both a bit breathless from the giggling and the tickling. She releases the handful of hair in her fist, but not before crushing her lips to his, playfully biting him on his bottom lip, before letting him go. She then gently, but firmly pushes him away, sitting up straight, and readjusting her disheveled clothing. "I think we might need to bring some fire extinguishers with us Tuesday night," she says, somewhat seriously, "just so we don't burn the whole park, or forest down." She can't help laughing again at the prospect.

"Whew!" he says, running his fingers through his hair. "If I saw a couple doing what we were just doing here, I'd toss them fifty bucks and tell them to get a room!"

Bones laughs, then sighs. "Oh, come on," she says playfully, "Just let me take you up to my room and have my way with you. I won't tell anyone," she says, teasing him unmercifully, and giggles again.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he says, grinning, and scooting away from her. "You're dangerous. I'm going to have to cut you off **before** this bar closes if you don't behave yourself."

**"Me?"** she teases him, grinning, **"Me?** You're the one who attacked me! I was just sitting here, minding my own business, laughing my ass off at your, um, _dance_ moves," she says, laughing still, "and _**you**_ attacked _**me!"**_

"Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery," he says, reaching out with one finger and releasing some hairs caught stuck in the corner of her mouth, sweeping them over her ear.

"Huh!" she chuffs. "The only problem I've got is that I'm jonesing for some Booth, and I can't seriously get at him until Tuesday!" she says, pinching his cheek, wrinkling her nose, and smiling at him. They are both finally calmed down from their … tussle. Then, their eyes meet, and they both start chuckling again.

"Thank God it's dark in here," says Booth, looking around. At this point, the lights are so dim that they can still see each other, but no one else can see them without coming right up to the table. It reminds Bones of a dinner theater while the show is in progress. Booth picks up the water pitcher, notices it's empty and sets it back down.

"Booth!" says Bones, unexpectedly, leaning forward so she's leaning against the edge of the table. She reaches over and touches his arm to get his attention. When Booth looks up from the pitcher, he sees that she's staring out onto the dance floor, squinting for real, a serious expression on her face. He follows her gaze, and sees what he knows she must be looking at. It's Dr. Bing, from the astronomy department at Haverford College. He's draped over a bleach blond in a miniskirt, red Fuck-Me pumps, and a tight, nylon top. If she weren't holding him up, he'd probably fall flat on his face. Good thing he's not very tall.

Booth scans the rest of the bar, looking for Bing's buddies, or anyone else he may recognize.

"Over there," says Bones, suddenly, pointing at the entrance to the bar, just as Hubbard and DiAngela walk in. The two men stop right inside the entrance, their eyes wide open as they wait for them to adjust to the incredibly low lighting. After a moment, Hubbard takes three steps forward, raises an arm to point toward the dance floor, and says something over his shoulder to DiAngela. The two men slowly make their way through the throngs of sweaty, gyrating, female forms. Along the way, they lose site of Bing, and stop to look around again.

Booth and Bones sit in silence, watching all three men, waiting to see what will happen. They haven't lost sight of Bing. His lady friend has taken him to the opposite side of the dance floor to sit down at an empty table. Her concerned hand on his shoulder, she's leaning over him, appearing to ask him a question, which he seems not to comprehend.

"How much you wanna bet those two are here to collect Bing, sober him up, and get him home? He's in pretty rough shape …" says Booth.

"Why would he be here on ladies night? I thought he was married," says Bones.

"He is. He's the **cuckolded floozy**, remember?"

"Oh yeah. How could I forget?" she says, nodding. Neither of them has taken their eyes of the men since they became aware of them. "What should we do?"

"Let's just watch for a while … see what happens," says Booth. He scoots back over next to Bones, and they continue to sit in silence, watching. "Was there anything we needed to talk to them about ...?" he says, talking to himself.

"Hm," says Bones, feeling like she's forgetting something.

Booth raises his eyebrows. He's remembered what they'd forgotten.

"What time is it?" asks Bones, looking away for the first time, looking toward where Booth's watch should be around his left wrist.

"You see all three guys?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Okay, don't take your eyes off of them," he tells her, reluctantly looking down at his watch, pressing the button that illuminates the crystal. "It's 11:45," he says, returning his gaze to the three men.

"We still have time, if they leave within the next hour," says Bones.

"Time for what?" asks Booth, unemotionally, not taking his eyes off the men.

"Kissing, of course," says Bones in all seriousness.

Booth lets out a sigh. "Let's just hope they collect Bing and leave. Then again, this could be a good opportunity for us to do a little casual information gathering. Did you bring any paper? A pen?"

"I'll get some …" she says, spotting the nearest waitress, and scooting out from behind their table.

* * *

><p><em>Were you surprised at what turned up here? Don't worry, the night's not over till the fat lady sings ...<em>  
><em>and she ain't even warmed up yet. Well ... okay, she's a LITTLE warmed up, but there is more than <em>  
><em>just case left on the agenda before B&amp;B hit the sack tonight. Pinkie swear! <em>  
><em>So - TALK TO ME about this chapter!<em>


	143. Good Cop, Naughty Cop

_A/N Well, well, well. Look who's crashed the party! I felt the need to break up the fluff with a __l__ittle bit of case interaction. And we learn about another of Booth and Bones' unique strategies for getting the job done. Aren't they clever? I hope it makes for an interesting read. Let me know what you __think when you're finished! ~ MoxieGirl_

**Chapter 143 Good Cop - Naughty Cop**

Bones returns to their booth with a light green order pad the size of a wallet, and a black clickable pen. Though the music has been continual, and speakers are everywhere, the wall to wall carpeting covering everything except the small dance floor, and heavy drapes hung floor to ceiling around every booth, have done a fairly good job of soaking up enough music so as not to disturb serious diners. It's a lot like being at a wedding reception in a hotel ballroom, thinks Booth. Bones and Booth have, surprisingly, been able to converse comfortably the entire evening. Well, except, of course, while Booth was having, what can only be described as a music-induced seizure three feet in front of their booth, while the DJ spun "Bad" and "Dirty Diana."

Bones makes a quick note on the pad, rips the top sheet off, and slides the pad over to Booth. Booth is still intently watching the three men. DiAngela and Hubbard are now standing in front of a wasted Bing, who is face down on the table his lady friend had lead him to when they exited the dance floor. By their postures and the tension in their faces, Booth knows the two sober men are being rude to the short blonde. They both are at least a foot and a half taller than she is, towering over her as she takes a couple of steps back, almost stumbling.

Booth shoots out of their booth and makes a B-line for the three standing in an uneven semi-circle around the hunched-over slob, drooling on the table top. He walks up behind and to the right of DiAngela, between DiAngela and the blonde shortie, slapping his hand on DiAngeal's shoulder, catching him by surprise. DiAngela jerks around toward Booth in a flash. If Booth hadn't anticipated this response, he would have been knocked over by the force of DiAngela's large frame.

"Hey guys!" Booth says in greeting. His voice is friendly, but his eyes are cold and serious as steel.

"Oh … Agent … Booth, is it?" says DiAngela, attempting to regain his composure, forcing a friendly expression onto his face. He holds out his hand for a handshake. Booth, his hands on his hips, stares at DiAngela for a moment before taking his hand and pumping once, staring into DiAngela's eyes. DiAngela senses something suggestively … threatening … in Both's eyes, but isn't sure what. With the look, Booth has established that he is the Alpha male in this three man pack.

"Yes, and you are … Dr. DiAngela, correct?" Booth says, interested to see if DiAngela will correct him.

"Just DiAngela. Gary," he says, nodding, forcing a smile again. What is he trying to cover up, thinks Booth, suspicious.

"Dr. Hubbard," says Booth, extending his hand. They shake. Hubbard nods, saying nothing. He's sweating and rednecked. He's obviously upset. "And who do we have here?" Booth says, turing toward the short blond who is brushing invisible lint from her top and skirt. By joining the group and putting his hands on his hips, Booth has widened the semi circle, creating enough distance between the men and Blondie, that she now stands in a bubble of safety from her aggressors.

"Janine. Janine Brocco," she says, a faltering smile on her face. She shakes his proffered hand. She offers a shaky, yet barely discernible smile of appreciation.

"Pleased to meet you, Agent Booth, she nods, almost bowing. "Is Agent your first name, or are you selling insurance?" she says.

Booth starts to laugh, but then realizes she's serious. "My first name is Seeley. And I **am** an agent, but not an insurance agent, though I can understand why you'd think that," he says, chuckling, smiling, trying to put her at ease. Not once did he look back to the other two men, who were most likely laughing at her expense. "So, what's going on here? What the hell happened to this guy?" he directs the question toward Janine, and advances toward Bing, bending over to look at his face. "Is that Dr. Bing?" he asks, sounding surprised.

"The one and only!" says Hubbard with disdain. This is the first thing out of Hubbard's mouth. Hubbard looks like he just got caught doing something his mommy told him he shouldn't. "He got served with divorce papers this afternoon. About two hours after you left my office," he explains.

"Looks like he didn't take it too well," says Booth, straightening up, furrowing his brow, grimacing, one hand on his hip, the other scratching at the stubble on his chin. "And how do you figure into this picture, Janine?" he asks, turning back to her.

"Oh, we're friends," she says, giving nothing away.

"Friends?" says Booth, raising an eyebrow. Bones walks up behind him and attempts to wedge herself between Janine and Booth. "Did he come here with you?" asks Booth, ignoring Bones intentionally.

Janine looks at Bones, and loses her concentration, doesn't answer Booth.

"Oh, excuse me," says Booth, moving over, making room for Bones, but moving her over between himself and DiAngela. Though he's not happy about the arrangement, he needs to have Janine's undivided attention. "Janine, gentlemen, you remember my partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan from the Jeffersonian Institution in D.C."

"Why do they need a doctor at a museum?" asks Janine, not taking her eyes of Bones. "The Jeffersonian** is** a museum, like the Smithsonian, right?" She looks to Booth for confirmation.

"You are correct," answers Bones, extending her hand. "While I am a doctor, I am a scientist, an anthropologist, rather than a medical doctor. My degree requires far more study, and a much higher intellect than that of a medical degree." Bones' voice trails off as she notices a slight shake of Booth's head. This is not the time for making a distinction between … whatever.

Bones and Booth exchange a glance. Bones understands his subtle message, and makes a decision, turning toward Hubbard and DiAngela. "Dr. Hubbard, Mr. DiAngela, would you like to join me at our table for a moment? Let's let Agent Booth see what he can do for Dr. Bing. He's very well known down at the police department, and can probably get the whole fire department here in fifteen seconds if that's what's necessary," she assures them.

The men are obviously conflicted, reluctant to leave Bing, but interested in a chance to stare at Dr. Brennan in that revealing cobalt blue top. They follow Brennan toward the corner booth. Seeing that it is too small for four adults, she veers to the next booth, twenty feet away. Fortunately, the table is clean and there's enough room to seat six, if three sit on the bench. As Brennan pulls out a chair, she gestures to two places for the men to sit down. Hubbard takes the bench, DiAngela, a chair, but not the one next to Brennan. He doesn't want to leave this place with a bullet in his ass. Though Agent Booth has not said Dr. Brennan belongs to him, DiAngela is nobody's fool, and he keeps his distance. But he still looks. Wow, he thinks, smiling at her.

* * *

><p>"So, what brings you two … or three," she says, returning his smile with a very slight one, nodding back toward Bing, "… out here tonight?" she asks.<p>

"Oh, Bing didn't come with us! His girlfriend, Janine," he says, with a scowl, "called us a half hour ago wanting us to come pick the ass hole up and bring him home."

"Hm," says Bones, looking from Hubbard to DiAngela.

"He found out today that his wife wants a divorce," says DiAngela, by way of explanation for Bing's inebriated state. The men look at each other for a moment, then both roll their eyes, shake their heads. "Idiot," says DiAngela.

Hubbard shakes his head. "I knew I shouldn't have hired that tally wanker. He has great credentials, Dr. Brennan. He just can't keep his pecker in his pants!" he whines.

"By pecker in his pants', I assume you are talking about his penis, which he takes out far to regularly, though not just for the elimination of liquid waste?"

The two men stare at her, mouths hanging open, trying to process what she just said. Finally, it's DiAngela who answers.

"Yes, he's a man-whore, Dr. Brennan," he says, nodding, looking around for a waitress. He's needing a drink.

"Is the wife equally indiscriminate with her choice of sexual partners?" she asks DiAngela, remembering Hubbard mentioned that he, DiAngela, had spent a number of sessions rolling in the clover with Mrs. Bing a while back.

"She has a tendency to … uh … behave like a single woman … if that's what you mean, Dr. Brennan," he says, raising an eye brow. "What's good for the goose …"

"… Is good for the gander," finishes Brennan, familiar with this euphemism. "Though that euphemism, in the majority of instances, is backward, and therefore, inaccurate. If you mean to say that the female may dally with impunity if the male has already committed the same offense … then it would be more accurate to say, _what's good for the gander, is good for the goose. _Think about it before you use it again, gentlemen," she says, then glances over toward Booth who is now standing up from where he was sitting with Janine, chatting beside the slobbering head of Dr. Bing.

Brennan wishes Booth would return soon. She is not comfortable with meaningless small talk, especially with two men in their 50's who can't stop stealing glances at her form-fitting, neckline-plunging cobalt blue top … which she wore for Booth's benefit alone. She tugs on the v of her top, pulling it up as far as it will go without drooping or puckering. She then crosses her arms over her chest and slides back in her seat, just as Booth looks like he's heading for their table. Half way there, Booth turns and walks the perimeter of the dance floor, heading for the hostess station. Probably needs to make a phone call, she guesses. As she watches him, that's exactly what he does.

* * *

><p>When Bones, Hubbard, and DiAngela walked away from Booth, Janine, and an unconscious Bing, Booth and Janine exchanged uncomfortable glances.<p>

"Janine," says Booth, gently, leading her to one of the chairs at Bing's slobber table, "You two seemed to be dancing rather close together, even to the fast songs."

Janine exhales, smirks. "I guess you could say we are more than friends, but I am not the only 'friend with benefits' in Clyde's little black book, if you know what I'm sayin,'" she says, leaning forward, exhibiting a little more cleavage than Booth feels comfortable sitting across from. How is it that some women can display a little cleavage and it is alluring, sexy ... while others display more cleavage and it's just gross? How can more of a good thing not be good at all? It's in the presentation, he decides, and the rest of the package. Same body parts, different women, different messages.

He leans back in his chair. Janine is cute, but would most likely be considerably more attractive if she washed all the war paint off her face. Though if she did, she'd probably look sixteen years old. Or maybe 21? Booth wonders to himself.

"How long have you and Clyde been … um … friends, Janine?"

"About three years, off and on," she says, leaning back herself. She's disappointed that her implants cast no spell over Agent Booth. _Probably married,_ she thinks with a smirk. _No ring. Hm. The Dr. anthro-strologist, maybe? Oh, who gives a shit, I've got enough explosive diarrhea going on in my life right now. Why did that bitch have to serve Bing with divorce papers all of a sudden? Everything was going so well with Clyde. Now I'll have to cut him off. **Next!**_she says to herself, while continuing to give Booth the once-over.

"Are you seeing him now?" asks Booth.

"Not so much lately," she lies, not wanting to be involved in whatever slop is coming down Clyde's pipeline at the moment. "Not since I graduated last Spring."

"Were you one of his students?"

"Secretary, temporary, covering the permanent secretary's maternity leave. That was three years ago," she says, confidently. "You didn't think a gal with a bod for sin, could also have a brain for business, huh, Agent Booth?" she says lasciviously, winking at him, and leaning back further. She scoots her chair back and points her knees in opposite directions, which pulls her skirt taut across her thighs. If she had gum in her mouth, she would have popped a bubble right about now. Or maybe presented a menu with prices for services to be rendered.

The City of Brotherly Love, thinks Booth. Hmm.

"Ever go on any of his trips to look at … micro stars … with him?"

Janine laughs with her mouth open, revealing several silver crowns covering the last of her molars on each side, up and down, and a permanent bridge she's probably had since the braces were removed. Her mouth, circled in bright red lipstick, is too big for her face. Her teeth match her mouth. Long and sharp. Any man would be a fool to let those teeth near any body part he doesn't want to end up bleeding. But, to each his own, he thinks. Bing apparently had no problem with them. Ick.

"You've heard about those little 'trips' of his, huh? Screwing on the college's dime. Actually, I think NASA pays for some of it. God Bless America!" she says, throwing her hands up, laughing again.

Booth closes his eyes for a moment, the bile in his mouth all of a sudden tastes sour. He needs some water. Or a beer. That would do it.

"Janine, I'm actually here, in Philly, on official police business, so consider this a professional curiosity …" he says.

Janine raises an eye brow, slowly pulls her legs back together, sits up in her chair, and straightens her skirt. She crosses her legs. "Go ahead, Agent Booth."

"How old are you?" he asks, laying the light green pad on the table, the pen in his right hand, poised to write.

"According to my birth certificate, or according to my driver's license?" she says, laughing.

"According to your birth certificate," he says, staring straight at her.

"Twenty," she says, "But I'll be twenty-one in two months, so I'm practically legal."

He writes her name, Janine Brocco, the numbers 20 to 21, and the words, 'former secretary' on the pad. _Interesting. Like Aleesha Grimes, Janine is young and spent a good deal of time in the department. Hm, interesting,_ thinks Booth.

"What state do you have your driver's license in?"

"Inebriated, usually," she says, giggling at her own joke. Seeing the lack of humor in his face, she adds, "Illinois. But it's expired. A year ago. Sorry."  
>"Doesn't matter to me, Janine, but you better pray you don't get stopped by those cars with pretty red flashing lights on their hoods. They'd have no problem giving you free room and board for a couple days."<p>

Janine shoots him an "I don't give a flying fuck" look.

"You never did say if you and Bing, Clyde, came here together tonight …" says Booth, looking up from his pad.

"We did **not** come here together. This is _Ladies Night._He texted me two hours ago. Said he needed to see me. I said, forget it, I'm out with the girls. He begged and I felt bad for him, so I told him he could come over here. He was already half in the bag when he got here."

"Did he tell you why he needed to see you?"

"Not till he got here. If he'd told me, I would have dumped his sorry ass like a radioactive spider."

"Have you ever seen Clyde get angry, display any aggressive, or otherwise unusual behavior?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," she says, thinking. "He's just your average poor-me-I'm-married-to-a-bitch sorry ass hole. Say, do you think you could handle him tonight? I'd really like to get back to my girlfriends …" She scoots her butt to the edge of the chair like she's ready to flee the scene.

"One more question. Two actually. Did you know Aleesha Grimes?"

"Nope. Like I said. I got here three years ago. Heard about her though. Spooky," she says, shivering.

"Were any of your friends employed by Clyde's department at Haverford? Any of them his 'friends-with-benefits'?"

"No and no," she says. "Can I go?"

"Sure. After you put your contact information on this piece of paper for me …"

"Ahh, Agent Booth, you _do_ want to see me again," she says, giving him what he's sure she thinks is a seductive smile, but falls way short. She writes down her information and takes off across the dance floor. Booth, heads toward Bones and the men, then gets an idea and veers around the dance floor, heading for the hostess' station in stead.

* * *

><p>Booth calls Benton, who answers after two rings.<p>

"Benton?"

"Yes?"

"Booth."

"Evening, sir."

"Listen, I got a little situation and I need a favor," says Booth, "Nothing illegal has happened, and I want this off the record."  
>"I'm your guy, Agent Booth," replies Officer Benton.<p>

"I knew I could count on you, that's why I called. Listen, I'm over at the hotel. In the bar. I've got an inebriated customer who I'd like to see get home safely," he explains, looking at his shoes. He swears he can hear Benton standing up, at attention, from a sitting position and smiling into the receiver.

"Not a problem, sir. I'd be happy to send Officer Angelus Scarpeti, if that's alright. He's getting off duty in about ten minutes. Is that soon enough?"

"That would be fine, Benton," says Booth. "I'd take him myself, but I've got an opportunity to do some casual interviewing of two suspects who happen to be this guy's friend. They came to the bar to take him home, but I want to keep them here for a bit."

"You said you're at your hotel bar? Oh ... _ladies' night,_" says Benton, grinning. "And the name of the … customer?" asks Benton.

"Dr. Brennan is here with me … we're reviewing the case notes before we leave tomorrow," says Booth. _Why am I explaining this to him,_Booth asks himself. "It's Dr. Clyde Bing, from Haverford College. One of the physics professors."

"Oooh. Sure. Scarpeti knows Bing. This will not be a problem. I'll have him change into his civies and drive his own car," says Benton, then pulls on his bottom lip, thinking. "May I ask, who are your two detainees there with you?"

"This is not officially official, Officer Benton," explains Booth. "This is just a casual conversation. With Dr. Flynn Hubbard and Gary DiAngela."

"Uh huh. Okay. Message received."

"Thanks Benton," says Booth, looking over at Bones sitting across the table from the two baby boomers. "And Benton, tell Scarpeti no one is to know he was sent there. He's just showing up, coincidentally."

"Got it," says Benton, hanging up.

Booth hangs up on his end, thanks the hostess for the use of the phone, and turns to make his way back to the booth where Bones is doing her best to entertain DiAngela and Hubbard. Approaching, his stomach does a little flip-flop as Bones looks over and smiles at him. He returns the smile, but keeps it professional ... except for his eyes. He can't hide what his eyes are saying to her._ I cannot wait to kiss those lips again,_he thinks, wishing he could bend down and taste them right now. His throat is dry all of a sudden, so he swallows, sliding into the booth bench between Bones' chair and Hubbard. A professional distance from each of them.

Taking out the light green pad of paper, he scribbles some notes on two sheets, folds them up, and hands them to Bones.

"Would you take this to the hostess station and give it to a gal named Paulette?" he asks Bones. "She's waiting for someone who needs to receive this information. Tell her it came from me."

"Okay," says Bones, getting up and leaving immediately. She does as he asks, introducing herself to the lovely middle-aged woman wearing a gold hotel name tag with "Paulette" engraved on it. She introduces herself.

"You are expecting a visitor?" she asks, making sure this is the correct Paulette. The woman indicates yes. "This is from Special Agent Seeley Booth. Can you see that this visitor receives this message?"

"Absolutely, I will see to it myself," Paulette says with a smile. She takes a legal sized envelope with the hotel logo on it out from under her hostess podium, inserts the light green pages, and licks the flap's adhesive to complete the seal. On the outside of the envelope, she scribbles in black ink that takes a couple of seconds to dry once it's on the page. _"For OAS from SASB,"_it says. Bones smiles at Paulette.

"Also, could you send a couple of pitchers of ice water, a pitcher of whatever beer most frequently ordered by men, and four clean cups to our table?"

"Sure, Sweetie," says Paulette, winking at her. A genuine, charming, heart-warming wink. Almost as if Paulette had reached out and hugged her. Brennan doesn't know why this woman is so nice, but she appreciates it. This has been an emotional night so far. It feels good to receive such a kind gesture from a friendly female face.

"You are very good at winking," says Bones, giving Paulette a bright, warm smile.

* * *

><p>"Agent Booth, how's the investigation going?" asks Hubbard.<p>

"It's going," answers Booth, a perfunctory smile across his face.

"Any solid suspects yet, or are you still on a fishing expedition?"

"Oh," says Booth, leaning back and sighing, this is casual. "We're always fishing." Another smile.

"How about you guys? Are you here "fishing" on ladies' night?" he asks in a suggestive tone.

The two men chuckle. This is guy talk.

"We were actually on our way to Dixie's, on the other side of town, when we got a call that Bing was in a whole lot of pain over here and needed a sober cab," Hubbard explains, smirking. "Idiot!"

"Looks to me like he's not feeling any pain right now," comments Booth. All three of them laugh at Bing's expense.

"He will be in the morning!" adds DiAngela. They all laugh again. "Do they serve beer here, or do you have to go and get it yourself," he says, craning his neck to look toward the waitress station.

Bones returns to the table, smiles equally at all three men, and pulls out her chair next to Booth. Right behind her is a waitress with an oval tray about the same size as the table they are seated at. On the tray are two large pitchers of ice water, two stacks of cups, two cups each, and a pitcher of Miller Genuine Draft.

"Are you, by any chance, named _Teresa,_" says DiAngela to the waitress as she sets the glasses and the pitcher of beer down on the table._"Mother Teresa?"  
><em>  
>"Very funny, sir," the waitress replies, chuckling. "That is actually one I have <em>never<em>heard," she says, giving him a sparkly little wink.

While DiAngela is flirting with the waitress, Bones leans in Booth's direction, maintaining a professional distance, and whispers toward his ear.

"Paulette placed your note in a sealed envelope. Well, actually, she sealed it _after_ she put the note into it. Then she addressed the envelope to **OAS**. When they leave, I am going to bite you," she says, all four statements in the exact same tone. She does not touch him. She does not look at him.

**"AOS"**stands for Officer Angelus Scarpeti. He will be arriving, off duty, in plain clothes, to collect Dr. Bing, allowing us a couple of extra minutes with Hubbard and DiAngela. I bite back, Naughty Cop," he whispers back toward her ear. He does not touch her. He does not look at her.

"Understood," says Bones, under her breath, still not making eye contact.

"The water is compliments of the bar," says the waitress. "The MGD is complements of a donor who wishes to remain anonymous."

The men exchange glances, surprised at their luck.

"Shut the front door!" says Hubbard.

"No lie," says the waitress. "Can I get any of you anything else?"

"Do you, by any chance have some peanuts?" asks Hubbard.

Booth leans toward Bones' ear. "Are we paying for that pitcher of beer? You are the most beautiful woman in this bar." Exact same tone, and behavior as the previous interaction with Bones.

Bones, blushing and trying to suppress a smile, leans toward Booth. "I can't think of anything to say back," she whispers, unemotionally. "The beer will be billed to your room. I love your zygomatic arches," she says, closing her eyes, and shaking her head in an 'I blew it' gesture. She turns her attention back to the waitress and tries to will her capillaries to contract.

"We have some peanuts in the back, handsome. We usually only bring them out on cribbage night, but for you," she says, looking directly at DiAngela, "I'll go the extra mile." She shines an 80 watt smile at him. She leaves the table making a show of swinging her hips as she makes her way to the other side of the bar.

"I think that little sashay was for your benefit, DiAngela," says Booth, grinning, filling a glass with ice water, and bringing it to his lips. All thee guys laugh. Booth smiles to himself, waiting for Bones to drop the bomb, and speed things along.

"You may think you are too old to procreate, Mr. DiAngela," says Brennan. _Here it comes,_thinks Booth, bracing himself. "But I assure you, male fertility can persist throughout adulthood and into old age, baring injury or prostate complications," says Brennan, encouragingly, as a wave or red begins slowly creeping up DiAngela's neck. He looks at Booth. Any normal guy would send Booth a "help me" look, but DiAngela is a cool customer. He may not be able to control his capillaries, but he's not going to let it show in his expression.

"With today's pharmaceutical support," Bones continues, "impotence is no longer a barrier to successful copulation." She takes a sip from the full glass of ice water Booth hands to her. It still makes him a little uncomfortable, but, as the saying goes, "if you can't beat them, join them," right?  
>Booth is smiling to himself, imagining what the other two men must be thinking. He's used to these tidbits of seemingly random information from Bones. Especially when he's asked her to use them to make a suspect uncomfortable. Booth and Bones have learned that these little biology lessons can come in handy during interrogations. It's their version of "good copbad cop," but they call it "good cop/naughty cop." They used the same strategy earlier with Slade on the topic of steroid use, and you saw how well that went! A moment ago, Booth had given Bones the signal when she returned to the table. Tonight, her job is to make the two men uncomfortable as quickly as possible, see if she can get them to reveal something interesting.

DiAngela and Hubbard aren't sure where her comment came from or how it relates to … _anything_… but they are too polite to mention it.

"I'm only 54 years old, Sweetheart. And still fully functioning, I assure you," DiAngela says chuckling a little uneasily, but trying to hide it, though he's blushing rather evenly from his neck up to his eye sockets, an smirk on his face.

"Then you should have no problem successfully inseminating that waitress. When a female deliberately wags her hind quarters toward a male who displays good breeding potential, it signifies openness to engaging in sexual intercourse," she explains, turning to watch the thirty-something waitress still sashaying across the bar. "I only bring this up, Mr. DiAngela, because this waitress has perfectly aligned and shaped hips that were made for bearing many offspring.

"Interesting," says DiAngela. All three men chuckle. DiAngela drinks a full glass of beer in one swallow.

* * *

><p><em>Here's what I want to know ... did this transition smoothly from fluff to case? Does B&amp;B's Good CopNaughty Cop sound like something they might really do as a strategy to shake things up a bit? Did you enjoy this chapter? LEMME KNOW, FOLKS! And thanks for all your wonderful reviews so far ... it really is what makes it worth while to spend the time writing ... okay, honestly, I'd probably write it even if no one ever read it ... because I'm addicted to Bones!_


	144. Chapter 144 A Hostess Named Paulette

_A/N The interrogations continue, Bing gets picked up, we find out more about Scarpati's methods. More case, and more case. Jsut gathering the facts, ma'am! Hope you enjoy it! ~MoxieGirl_

**Chapter 144 ****Bing, Hubbard, DiAngela, Scarpeti, And A Hostess Named Paulette**

"So, what brings you two out here to ladies night?" asks Hubbard, looking from Booth to Brennan.

"We've been staying here while in Philly. Needed somewhere to eat," says Booth.

"We started out in the restaurant, but it was freezing cold in there, so we moved in here before ordering," says Brennan.

"You two are welcome to join us at Dixie's, if you want. It's more of a mixed crowd …" says DiAngela.

Bones and Booth exchange a practiced glance, nothing personal in it. Bones shrugs.

"Thanks for the offer," says Booth. "We've been sitting here reviewing the case. The next couple of days are going to brutal, so we debrief whenever, and wherever, we can."

DiAngela glances at Hubbard, raising an _'I told you so'_eyebrow, a smirk on his face. "I bet you do," he says under his breath so only Hubbard can hear him, a sly, wolfish, grin on his face.

Hubbard kicks him under the table. DiAngela grimaces back at Hubbard, and looks back over at Booth and Brennan. Well aware of the kind of lewd comments men like DiAngela like to make, and assuming he just made one, Booth shoots him a condescending look._ 'Grow up, jerk off,'_it says.

Booth turns to Hubbard, "Mind if I ask you a question?"

"Shoot," says Hubbard, then follows with, "Wait, I don't mean,** SHOOT**- shoot. As in with a gun. I mean, ask me anything you want," he says, a little frazzled.

"You said all you guys go on these … convention trips? The professors in your department?"

"Well, it depends upon if you have the grant money, if you are expected to present a paper or poster, if you need to meet with another professional who is planning to be there …"

"Does everyone go together, or do some of you go and some stay?"

"It really depends, like I said," says Hubbard, sounding cagey.

"Your guys usually have these … presentations … to give?"

"We usually have at least one person attend each meeting. We have to stay visible, or we'll be forgotten, perceived as not doing any real science worth investing in."

"Where have these conventions been held over the last eight years?"

"All over the place. There are at least two meetings a year," says Hubbard.

"Try to remember."

"Geez …" he blows out a lung-full of air. "Well, D.C. … there was one here in Philly a while back. Austin, TX. Boulder, CO. Washington state. Germany," he says, searching his memory. "I can get you a list, if you'd like, Agent Booth …" he offers, half-heartedly.

"Yes, I would like that, thank you. Do you happen to know who, from your department, attended each of those meetings?" Booth continues listening to Hubbard, but catches Bones' eye. As she's looking at him, his eyes dart over to DiAngela. Bones nods slowly as if she's responding to Hubbard's comments. Message received. Raising her glass of water, she puts it to her cheek, pretending to cool herself down. What she's really doing is creating a barrier so no one but Booth can see her eyes. Seeing what she's doing, he flicks his eyes to Hubbard and DiAngela, who aren't paying much attention, really, then sneaks a look back at Bones without moving his head. Her look says,_ "I miss you already."_It's a look of resignation and disappointment, and acknowledgement of their commitment to duty. She doesn't miss his reaction, only because she knows him so well. His brow furrows ever so slightly, his eyes flash soulful for two seconds, he drops his chin a millimeter in acknowledgement. She now knows he understands. Message received. The whole exchange takes about five seconds.

"The itineraries for each of the meetings preceding 2009," Hubbard is droning on, "will be difficult to find, but I can give you the program schedules for the last couple I attended …"

Brennan stands up, acting bored. She excuses herself to visit the ladies' room. All three men watch her walk away. She does NOT sashay.

"Could you be a little more subtle, guys?" asks Booth, watching them continue to watch the disappearing back side of his partner. _"Class up,"_is what he means.

"Why do the Feebs get the hot assistants?" says Hubbard, shaking his head.

"Dr. Hubbard, she is my partner, not my assistant. She was a world renowned forensic anthropologist years before she started consulting for the bureau. She's doing us a favor, not the other way around," says Booth, with a grimace. "She deserves your respect." He looks away from them, empties his glass of water, and reaches for the pitcher of beer.

"No offense intended," says Hubbard, apologetically.

"Sorry," says Booth. "It's been a little stressful lately. Can you imagine working next to that," he nods toward Bones' disappearing back side, "for sixteen hours a day?" he says, blowing out a frustrated puff of air, and shaking his head. He's dropping the professional facade. This is part of the Good Cop script. He dislikes saying these things, but he doesn't know how else to make DiAngela think she's available, so he'll seek her out. Bones needs to interrogate him alone. _Forgive me, Bones,_ he says to himself, looking in the direction she went. _Here goes nothing ... and Lord, keep her safe for the next fifteen minutes,_he thinks, doing a mental sign of the cross, then blowing out a lengthy sigh before continuing.

"We've been partners for over five years. Neither of us is involved with anyone else, but she just won't give it up," he says, feigning exasperation, focusing on his glass of beer.

"Maybe you respect her too much," says DiAngela, smirking, still. "Women enjoy respect, but they also like to keep their options open. Maybe you should loosen the leash a little, Agent Booth. Let her think you're not all that interested." The voice of experience.

Booth shrugs. "Eh, she's my partner. We've got a good thing going. Don't shit where you eat, right?" he says, grinning up at the other two men. All three of them chuckle.

"I think I see someone I know," says DiAngela, getting up from the table and disappearing into the throng. Exactly what Both wanted. Now he can grill Hubbard alone.

"There he goes again," says Hubbard, wistfully. "He has always had a way with the ladies, that guy. Even back when we were in short pants. I don't know how he does it." Hubbard takes a long draw on his glass of beer.

"Is it true you're married, Dr. Hubbard?" asks Booth.

"Flynn. Call me Flynn. I was. Married. Married the first woman I ever loved. Worked my fingers to the bone for her. Then she left."

"What happened, Flynn?"

"I don't honestly know," he says, looking up at Booth, shrugging. "Truth be told, I never looked at another woman, never wanted to. I'd take her back in a heartbeat, if she'd have me … but that's never going to happen. C'est la vie, I guess," he says, chuckling too brightly, to cover up his emotional admission.

Nobody says anything for a moment. They both look out at the people milling around the bar, making connections, getting shit-faced. Booth notices DiAngela and Bones have connected up at the bartender's counter. He looks back at Hubbard, who is staring into his empty beer glass. Booth refills Hubbard's glass and tops off his own glass, which he has barely touched.

"You seemed kind of upset over the whole Bing-Brocco situation over there," says Booth, nodding back over where Bing is still face-down at the table.

"Bing? Oh, he's a good kid. Heck of a scientist. You know, he finished in the top 5% of his class at NYU, but lost a fellowship there because he couldn't keep his hands off the dean's daughters!"

Booth raises his eyebrows in mock surprise.

"Did you hear me, Agent Booth? I said daughters, plural. Now that he's tenured, I can't get rid of him. Keeping him out of the news for lewd behavior once a month is hard work! Fuckinging idiot! Do you know how many people would have killed for that position at NYU?"

"Interesting choice of words, Flynn …" says Booth.

"I suppose, in your line of work, that means something, huh?"

Booth stares at Hubbard. No response necessary.

Hubbard blows out another lung-full of air. "If you want to know if Bing would ever kill anyone … I seriously doubt it. He's a lover, not a fighter. Literally," he says, snorting. "When he's sober," he adds at the last minute.

"Alcoholic?"

"No. Not really. Just gets shit-faced about once a month and does something stupid. He once woke up, in the planetarium, hung over. Couldn't remember anything from the night before. Couldn't even find his car. Till he stumbled out of the building onto the lawn, and there it was, right on the lawn, where we had the ceremony the other day, idiot!"

"Why'd you hire this guy, Flynn?"

"Excellent credentials. Smarter than most the people I know. Except Enrique. Enrique could run circles around Clyde, in his sleep."

Booth whistles, not taking his eyes off Hubbard. "And Bing was top 5% at NYU?"

"Yep."

"So that puts Larrinaga somewhere up in the stratosphere?"  
>Hubbard chuckles, gives Booth a smile, the wrinkles fanning out from the corners of his eyes creating the illusion that there's a twinkle in there somewhere. And a fondness for Larrinaga.<p>

"You'd never know, looking at him would you," Hubbard says after a moment. "He's what you call a unassuming personality. Doesn't blow his own horn. I don't think even HE really appreciates the quality of the brain matter between his ears. He could be somewhere else making three times what I pay him, but the guy … _loves_… teaching and research. He's also committed to a certain kind of life he wants for Carmen and the kids."

"Yeah, we tried to steal him away from you back when we were working on Anthrax," says Booth, chuckling sheepishly.

"Smart man, Booth. I guess I can't say I'm surprised. But I'm glad you were unsuccessful." They share a smile.

"Look, Agent Booth, about what I said before, back at the office. The truth is, Carmen and Enrique are a solid couple. I give him crap … about his shrine to his family … and about Carmen … because I'm on the down side of fifty and my future walked out the door on me a while back. I don't think I ever had what Enrique has. Wish I'd realized it while there was still time to do something about it, but I didn't. I got lazy. Worked too much. Didn't pay enough attention to what was most important in life."

"The FBI psychologist would say that the problem was that you didn't make your family the most important thing in your life. Your work was."

Hubbard laughs resignedly. "He'd most likely be right. The job is less demanding than a wife. Marriage ended up being hard work - in an area I knew nothing about - sharing feelings and communicating! It was easier to immerse myself in what I know, what I'm an expert at …"

How much has this guy had to drink, wonders Booth. He's sharing a lot more than I've asked for. Hm.

"Did you say Bing accompanied you to Puget Sound, in Washington?"

"Yep. He did. All of us went. It was right smack dab in the middle of spring break. No classes."

"Anything strange happen there? Anything odd, out of place?"

Hubbard stares into the amber liquid he's swilling around in the glass, as if his memories are floating there.

"Agent Booth, I can't remember what I had for breakfast," he chuffs. "But I did used to keep a trip journal. You know, to keep track of expenses, write down observations, record facts or questions. It may jog my memory …"

"Do you recall anyone bringing back any odd shaped packages … or making unusual purchases?"

"You mean, like, something the size of a dead body?" asks Hubbard, chuckling, then stopping, realizing it isn't funny. He grimaces suddenly, embarrassed by his callousness. "Sorry," he says.

"No," answers Booth. "Something much smaller. Maybe packaged oddly. Anything. We're still fishing. Collecting information. You never know when something will end up important."

"If there was anything strange, I would have documented it in my journal. To tell you the truth, I fancy myself somewhat of a fiction writer. I notice all kinds of little details, and write them down. Hope to publish one day … " he explains to Booth, shyly.

"Could you dig up all of your travel journals from 2006 forward, let us borrow them for a while? There might be something very important there."  
>"I don't know. I'd hate to lose track of those journals, Agent Booth. All my story ideas are in there …" He seems genuinely concerned, rather than deceptive or guilty.<p>

"Do you have a photocopier in your office? Or a scanner?"

Hubbard furrows his brow. "Sure."

"Just bring the journals to your office. I'd prefer to have Officer Benton or one of his guys do the scanning, or copying."

"Okay," says Hubbard, uncertainly.

"If you'd like, Officer Benton can sign a non-disclosure agreement promising not to write a book based on your notes …" Booth assures him, smiling.

Hubbard relaxes visibly, and sighs, smiling. "That would be great," he says. "Where on earth did Gary go?" he says, looking around the bar. "We really should get going …"

As Hubbard stands, Booth does the same.

"It was nice running into you … even though these aren't the best of circumstances, Agent Booth," says Hubbard.

Booth shrugs. "What you gonna do?" he says, extending his hand. "Listen, Dr. Larrinaga holds you in very high regard … if that means anything to you, Flynn."

Hubbard takes his hand, smiles gratefully, and walks into the din to find his friend.

"Flynn," shouts Booth, toward the departing back of the professor. Hubbard hears him and turns around, retracing his steps back to the table. His eyebrows raised in anticipation of a final question. Booth remarks to himself how much Hubbard's demeanor has changed from when Booth first approached the men this evening. He's fairly relaxed, now. The embarrassment of Bing's juvenile behavior was upsetting Hubbard earlier. But that's gone now. And so is Bing. Scarpeti must have come and gone while Both and Hubbard were talking.

"Does anyone in your department hunt?"

"You mean … like … animals?"

"Yeah, deer, rabbits, ducks. You know, Bambi, the Easter Bunny, Donald duck," says Booth. They both laugh for a minute. "I never got into it either," says Booth, acknowledging that neither of them are hunters.

"Uh … Enrique has no interest in it. Bing is from Illinois, a hunting family. They go twice a year, or so he says. I never understood the entertainment value in killing animals for pleasure."

"I know what you mean," says Booth. "Get season tickets to the Flyers … now, that's SPORT, right?"

"You got it!"

"What about him," Booth says, nodding in the direction DiAngela went when he walked away from the table.

"DiAngela? Faints at the sight of blood. Pretty big guy. Football player. Biggest pansy when it comes to blood. It's actually pretty hilarious to watch," he says, chuckling, a twinkle in his eye. See ya, Agent Booth," he says, making a move to wave as he turns and leaves for the second time.

"Take it easy, Flynn," calls Booth, walking over to the booth he originally shared with Bones, sitting down, and glancing at his watch. Quarter to one in the morning.

* * *

><p>Some time earlier, Office Angelus Scarpeti arrived, presented himself to Paulette, who he recognized from church, collected Booth's note from her, and was escorted to what was left of the inebriated professor splayed across a square table, topped in brown, faux wood laminate.<p>

"I see you sat him in the dignity-free section," he says to Paulette. They both laugh.

Scarpeti places two fingers on Bing's jugular, finds a healthy pulse, says something more to Paulette, then sits down across the table from the comatose drunk. Paulette returns a moment later with a pitcher of icewater, no cups.

"You might want to move back, Paulette. This isn't going to be pretty," he says, laughing.

"Thanks for the warning, Ange. I have work to do anyway. Let me know if you need anything," she says. "And thanks for being the sober cab tonight." She smiles that friendly, warm smile. Scarpeti is a good guy. Paulette is a nice woman. Nothing more.

Once the area is clear, Scarpeti pulls up the back of Bing's collar, and dumps the pitcher of ice and water, mostly ice, into the gap between fabric and skin. Bing barely moves.

"Paulette," says Scarpeti back up at the hostess station. "I need another one …"

This time, when Scarpeti pulls on the back of Bing's collar, he yanks the man back in his seat so he's sitting up straight. This pitcher goes right into Bing's lap.

"WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK?" roars a dizzy Bing.

Scarpeti yanks Bing up by his collar and his belt buckle. Not hard to do since the guy is no more in control of his own body parts than Pinnocchio when he still had strings.

"Okay, Sleeping Ugly, let's get you to the can," says Scarpeti, dragging the soaking form toward the entrance of the bar, and out into a public restroom where they won't be gawked at by bar patrons.

Scarpeti, still holding Bing up by his collar and belt buckle, picks him up and lays him across the three sink counter top, lining him up so his head is dangling into the last sink divot. Returning to the bathroom door, Scarpeti turns the metal semi circle bolt, locking the door.

Bing is passed out once again. Scarpeti turns on the cold water in Bing's sink, but doesn't engage the plug. He pulls Bing under the stream, and leans back against the stall divider to open the envelope from Booth.

Booth's note includes instructions and a brief list of questions. Scarpeti is not to harm Bing, or put him in jail. He is to relieve him of the contents of his stomach, revive him, interview him using the questions Booth provided, and then deposit him at the homeless shelter of Scarpeti's choosing.

"I don't know what you did to piss off the gods today, my man, but you must have royally screwed the pooch, if these questions from Agent Booth are any indication," he says, chuckling.

After a couple of minutes under the cold water, Bing moans. Scarpeti lifts him off the countertop, drags him over to a stall, positions him on his knees, and grabs him by the hair on the top of his head. Digging around in his pocket, he pulls out the instrument Benton recommended he bring with him, a seven inch tongue depressor from the clinic at the station.

"This is going to hurt you more than it's going to hurt me, poor bastard," he says, making a disgusted face, then poking the flat wood far enough down Bing's throat that his body goes into barfing convulsions.

"There you go," says Scarpeti, rubbing Bing on the back, just like he would for one of his five daughters. "Get it all out."

"Good job, professor," he says, after fifteen minutes of hurling on the professor's part. "Believe me, you'll thank me in the morning. That much poison would have had you praying to the porcelain gods for hours if I hadn't sped things up for ya.' He drags Bing back up to the sink and splashes cold water on his face several times. "Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?" he asks Bing, who is now conscious, not very happy, and experiencing a world of hurt all over his body. Even his hair hurts.

"Thought so!" says Scarpeti, slapping him aggressively on the shoulder and yanking him upright. "Let's go for a little ride …."

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later, after collecting a dry set of clothing from his own house, Scarpeti drives Bing to the parking lot of the WaWa convenience store closest to the Gospel Rescue Mission homeless shelter.<p>

"Now, Dr. Bing. Clyde. Can you hear me?"

"YES! You stinking bastard!" he answers without opening his eyes. They are probably blood shot from all the drinking, or all the hurling, either one.

"Now, that's no way to speak to the man who just saved your life. Do you know how little alcohol it takes to poison yourself?"

"No …." answers Bing, his eyes opening in two swollen slits. He used to know this number …

"Neither do I, but you were getting close. Don't thank me, just make a donation to the Police's Ball this fall, got it?"

"Where are we?" asks Bing.

"A more interesting question, Dr. Bing, is how many times did you hook up with Aleesha Grimes and why didn't you give that information to Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan? You think it's such a big secret? You think no one can see what a sick bastard you are? You think because you have 'doctor' in front of your name, you deserve the same respect and admiration as people in the medical profession who save lives? Huh?"

"HELP! I'VE BEEN TAKEN AGAINST MY WILL BY A LUNATIC!" shouts Bing toward the closed window, right before dry heaving and banging his head on that same window.

"You poor bastard. You don't know how good you have it. Poor sick bastard," says Scarpeti. "If it weren't for Agent Booth, I'd kick your ass all the way back to the bar, then back here to the Mission just to knock some sense into you … but I'm a man of my word."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Scarpeti?" says Bing, looking over at Scarpeti from his slumped spot in the passenger seat.

"Oh … so you remember my name, huh?"

"Of course, you're the prick with the five gorgeous daughters … "

"WATCH IT, jack ass! I know where you work, and I will hunt you down, cut off your nuts, and feed them to you through a straw, if even one of my girls mentions they've met you, or even heard of you!"

"So. Aleesha Grimes. How many times. And why's it a secret?"

"Only the once. Who else knows?"

"Including you and me? Only two."

"Oh shit!" says Bing, hitting himself across the eyes, and rubbing his hand all over his face.

"Yeah. Pretty clever, huh? I'm a lot smarter than I look, diarrhea wad."

"I'm so screwed," says Bing, forlornly staring out the passenger side window.

* * *

><p><em>That Scarpeti is a sneaky dude. What do you think he knows about Bing? Are you still interested in the case, even after so much fluff? Do you even remember what the case was all about since you're probably juggling several fanfics at the same time? If I were to make this story downloadable for a Kindle or Nook, would you be interested. B&amp;B are not my characters, so it would be free, of course! That's my favorite price range anyway! Let me know your thoughts!<em>


	145. Chapter 145 Smooth Operator

_A/N I hope you enjoy this next chapter! we've all had one of these conversations, and done a little inventory like Bones does, haven't we? ~ MoxieGirl_

**Chapter 145 Smooth Operator**

"So, Dr. Brennan …" says DiAngela, sauntering up to her at the bar.

"Mr. DiAngela, hello!" she says, giving him a bright and inviting smile, but not overdoing it. "I was just on my way back to the table. I've just ordered myself a drink, can I get you one?"

"How about I buy YOU that drink, and have one myself? Bartender, make that two," he says, holding up bunny ears.

"Oh, that's sweet of you, Mr. DiAngela, but really not necessary …" she demurs.

"Oh no, I insist," he says, waving his Amazon credit card at the bartender.

"Well, in that case, who am I to deny you that pleasure?" says Brennan, smiling sweetly, thinking about the implied social contract when a woman allows a man to buy her a drink. This contract is much like the mating ritual of the domesticated canine. When a female dog is in heat and approached by an interested male, she will allow him close enough to experience her scent. If she finds she is not interested in him after all, she rejects him by sitting down, laying on her side, snapping at him, or walking away. If she is interested, she will demonstrate her receptivity by remaining near the male, or by giving him access to mount her.

The implied social contract entered into when a human female allows a human male to buy her a drink is that she will remain in his extended personal space for a fifteen minute period, long enough for each person to make an assessment of sexual compatibility. Bones recalls the six tenets employed by human males and females when assessing sexual compatibility.

1) In making such an assessment, the two experience each other's scent, gaging their attraction to the other's particular mixture of sweat, breath, lingering personal hygiene products, laundry detergent, and the environmental aromas lingering on their skin and clothes from wherever they spend the majority of their time. _Booth's scent is knee-weakening fantastic, thinks Bones._

2) They observe the comparative physical proportions of the other's body as a whole. Where does the potential mate fall on the golden ratio? Is it the same, higher, or lower than their own location on that scale?_ Booth's proportions are very pleasing to look at, thinks Bones. He's not quite as high on the golden ratio as I am, but who wants a man to be prettier than his mate?_

3) They consider the potential mate's size and proportion in comparison to their own. Is he tall enough to dance with comfortably? Can I lift her? Will he rip me apart? Will I appear large and manly standing next to her? _Booth's height is complementary to my own, thinks Bones, being just a couple of inches taller than I am. He's a perfect fit for dancing, hugging, walking, and making love, most likely._ That last thought messes with her capillaries.

4) They assess visible socioeconomic factors. Does he have an expensive hair cut, watch, and jeans? Does she look like she's invested money in her appearance? Does he look professional, like he has a successful career, or sloppy, like he's between jobs or just changed out of his McDonnald's polyester jumpsuit? On his key chain, does he have a Lexus or a Saturn car key? _Booth does very well financially. He has a lucrative and promising career, and is respected by his peers and superiors alike,_ she muses. _He has good taste in clothing, home and office decor, and hair styles._

5) They consider the deference with which they are treated by the potential mate. Are they making eye contact, or rolling their eyes toward tier friends? Do they say thank you? Do they use swear words? Are they lewd or suggestive inappropriately? Some like one end of the spectrum, others prefer the other end. _Booth is a perfect gentleman,_ she thinks, _very polite, respectful, adoring. Sigh._

6) Finally, they assess the overall virility of the potential mate. Can he protect me from a charging lion? Will she bare me healthy children? Will he be aggressive and demanding sexually? Will she be generous and receptive sexually? _Booth protects me regularly, thinks Bones, and we've already experienced impressively high levels of sexual chemistry._

As swift-minded as Brennan is, she reviews all the tenets in the time it takes DiAngela to slide his Amazon card across the wood countertop toward the bartender. She smiles appreciatively at DiAngela when their drinks arrive, and allows him to lead her to two empty bar stools six feet from where they ordered their drinks. They each climb up into a seat and place their drinks on a small square napkin placed in front of them by a different bartender.

"It's nice to see your lovely face again, Dr. Brennan," he says. He'd already given her the once-over before approaching her. He likes to be familiar with the terrain so he can choose the appropriate climbing boots. He'd made an assessment of her in Hubbard's office earlier today, but in this environment she seems more open to interaction.

She is certainly dressed more for play than for work tonight, thinks DiAngela. The plunging neckline, the clingy fabric, the well-designed jeans, the high healed black boots. She's obviously a thoroughbred. No wonder Agent Booth can't figure her out, she's out of his league.

Black is one of DiAngela's favorite colors, the other being brunette. His next two favorite colors are pink and blonde. He can tell Brennan isn't the pink and blonde type, though her hair isn't terribly dark or light. Maybe his new favorite colors will be light chestnut and cobalt, he thinks. Considering her attire, and Agent Booth's comments, he makes an assessment: _Dr. Brennan is toying with Agent Booth._ Why else would she dress like this to meet him for dinner, yet refuse to let him sample to sorbet? _Agent Booth is a bigger fool than I thought,_ thinks DiAngela. _What a sap. Nice guys are slow and stupid. No wonder women relegate nice guys to the friendship section in the buffet of life. What women really want is a man. A grown-up. Someone to make the first move._ With these thoughts bouncing around his grey matter, he repeats Hubbard's question from earlier.

"So what brings you to this fine establishment on a Friday evening?" he asks.

"Well, first it was Booth's rental car, then the elevator, and then, actually I brought Agent Booth here. No one really brought me … " she says, sounding confused and not very bright. "Oh, you'll have to excuse me, Mr. DiAngela …"

"It's Gary. Call me Gary," he says.

"Gary," she says smiling, acting embarrassed. "Sorry, I tend to take things quite literally, so when you asked what brought me here, I thought you really meant, what brought me here …"

"It's okay, Dr. Brennan …"

"Oh, you can call me Temperance," she interjects.

"Temperance. What a beautiful name," he says, then leans his head to the left, looks her in the eyes and, in a deliberate, poetic voice, quotes John Milton, the author of "Paradise Lost," among other things:

"But if there be in glory aught of good,  
>It may by means far different be attain'd<br>Without ambition, war, or violence;  
>By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent,<br>By patience, (and) temperance."

"Ahh," says Brennan, delighted. "Paradise Regain'd: Book III. John Milton. Impressive." She's nodding at him, grinning. "English literature major?"

"English literature student. Also, psychology student, art student, accounting student, economics student, medical student, mass communications student. The list goes on," he says, smiling and taking a sip from his glass. He hangs his head over his glass, then looks up at her moving only his eyes, smiling with only one side of his lips. It's a charming look. A lesser woman would have melted.

"Professional student?"

"Nonprofessional student. Never finished anything."

"So what's the logic in that?"

"Degrees are for people who need them. I don't need one for what I do …" he says, shrugging adorably, putting the small red stirring straw in the corner of his mouth. He's really cute, she thinks to herself. Charming.

"And what is that?" she says, leaning her forearms on the bar and hunching over her own drink,

returning his look with a sultry one of her own.

"Everything. Nothing."

"Ohhooo. Elusive. Man of mystery," she says, nodding, stirring her drink with her short red straw.

"It's not that interesting, really. I'm the sole heir of a wealthy businessman. The only thing I'm professional at is leaving things undone," he says, chuckling at his own cleverness.

"Really?" she says, smiling at him.

"Really. You?"

"Forensic anthropologist, remember?"

"Right."

They both do that kind of laughing that a couple does when they feel some chemistry, are pleased about it, and now they have to make small talk until someone makes a suggestion. I'm pretty good at this, thinks Brennan, delighted.

"So … you and the agent?"

"What? Agent Booth?" she says, like he's made an absurd suggestion. "The _Catholic_ boy?"

"He's a little … "

"Yeah," she says, laughing, rolling her eyes, chuckling.

"Ever …?"

"Thought about it … but …" she shrugs, noncommittally.

"Got it …" he says, chuckling, nodding. "So, would your relationship with the Catholic boy scout preclude me asking you to accompany me to the dance floor?"

"What about the hippy waitress?" she asks, making like she's looking around the bar for her, but she's really looking over to see how Booth and Hubbard are doing. They are deep in conversation, so she turns back to DiAngela.

"She's not really my type," he says, grinning.

"What's your type?"

"Tall. Sexy. Confident. Smart … temporary."

"Hm," she says, raising her eyebrows. She puts her straw between her teeth and chews it.

"Chewing on straws is a sign of sexual frustration," he says, teasing her.

"You're chewing yours, as well," she says back, lifting an eye brow, maintaining eye contact the whole time.

"Looks like we've got something in common," he says.

"You are a smooth operator, Gary," she says, shaking her head, grinning. "I like to play, Gary, but not with players."

"You should try it. You might like it …" he says, teasingly.

"Tried it. Didn't like it," she says, pursing her lips, slowly looking up into his eyes from her glass. "How well do you know Hubbard and Bing?"

"You wanna talk shop? Okay. I can look without buying," he says. "Especially when the vendor is as sweet at you."

Brennan laughs, pretending to be charmed. She does a mental eye roll and forehead slap. _Man, this guy is unbelievable,_ she thinks. She knows he has not given up yet. Thinks he still has a chance with her. This is to her advantage. _Well, he's not going to get what he wants, but I am certainly getting what I want._ She doesn't say anything. Continues playing with her straw.

"Okay," he says, catching the bartender's eye and ordering another round.

"None for me," she says. "I'm working tomorrow and already way over my limit."

"Grew up with Hubbard. He's an okay guy. Hasn't always made the best choices. Wife. Bing, for example. But he's a loyal friend, I guess."

"Divorced, right?"

"Hubbard? Yes, for a while now."

"Amiable divorce?"

"Amiable enough."

"What happened?"

"The usual. Kids grew up and left home. She decided she never had a life. Now she wanted one."

"She remarry?"

"No, but I understand she dates a lot."

"Did you have sexual intercourse with her?"

He chuckles, looking sideways at her. "No."

"I don't believe you," she says, grinning flirtatiously.

"Believe what you want," he says casually.

"Always do," she says, noncommittally. "Think he'll ever remarry?"

"Hubbard? Nah. I think he's off women for a while," he says, staring into the mirror behind the bar. "He'd rather go fishing or play chess. He goes to these chess tournaments four to five times a year."

"So, he's good?"

"Spooky good." DiAngela looks back at her.

"Hm. Interesting," she says, thinking. "You play?"

"Nooooooo. Too much thinking for me," he says, making a face.

"You ever been married?"

"Yep. Thirteen years," he says, reaching into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet, choosing a credit card sized photo and handing it to her. The photo is a black and white with a white border around the perimeter. The woman in the photo is beautiful, and young. Maybe twenty-four. She's wearing a nurse's uniform and smiling for the photographer.

"But you're not married anymore?" she asks, handing the photo back to DiAngela. He returns it to his wallet, lifts his butt off the stool, and slips the wallet into his back pocket again.

"Would be, but she died. In 1995. Cancer. Sucked the life right out of her," he says, forlornly. "I still miss her," he says, placing a hand on his back pocket for a moment.

"Oh, I hear you're not short on female companionship," she says, moving her glass toward the opposite ledge of the bar. She's just about finished here.

"What can I say? The ladies enjoy my company," he says, grinning sheepishly, but she knows it's an act. Or, at least she thinks it is. Regardless, she can see the appeal. He is very cute. Almost handsome. And very charming. Smooth. Their fifteen minutes are more than up.

"Have any kids?" she asks.

"Yes! A daughter. Beautiful girl. Best thing that ever happened to me. Thirteen when her mother died. Training to be a nurse, like my wife. She certainly didn't get it from me," he laughs. "I faint dead away at the site of bodily fluids that aren't ever supposed to be on the outside of a body." He shrugs, laughing at himself.

"You must be very proud of your daughter," she says.

"As a peacock," he says. She sees Hubbard approaching from the mass of women crammed around the dance floor.

"And Bing? What about him?"

"My professional opinion?"

"Sure, if you've got one."

"I do," he says, chewing on his straw again, his teeth clenched. "Douche."

Brennan nods. She expected that response, or something like it.

"Pleasure chatting with you, Gary," she says, stepping down from the bar stool. She extends her hand. He takes it, but doesn't shake it. He raises it to his lips, and kisses it, looking up into her eyes.

"You are smooth, I'll hand you that," she says, chuckling, moving back toward Booth who is alone, and has returned to their original table. She can't help smiling at the prospect of getting back over there next to him. Now, if DiAngela and Hubbard would just leave …

* * *

><p><em>Wadya think?<em>


	146. Some People Are Deluded Beyond Belief

A/U Hey - more on Scarpeti and Bing. Hope you haven't just eaten ... ; ) ~ MoxieGirl

**Chapter 146 Some People Are Deluded Beyond Comprehension**

The fluorescent lights from the storewide glass walls of the WaWa convenience store reflect off the front windshield of Scarpeti's refurbished Crown Victoria. He'd acquired this baby for a steal at the policemen's auto auction two years ago. Though it had been repainted to look civilian, the scent of police work still clung to the seat covers, dash, and felt-covered interior. Sweat, blood, cigarettes, doughnuts, gum, fast food wrappers, electronics, lubricant used to keep the scanner's cradle hinges smooth-rotating, sturdy rubber casings of spiral cord attaching the dispatch receiver to the steering column. Manly scents.

Despite a thorough detailing before being delivered to the auction block, these scents remain, making Officer Angelus Scarpeti feel at home. Feel like a man. With a wife and five daughters, Scarpeti considers this car his only haven. This car, that is, and the shed out back where he keeps his tools, motorcycle, snake aquarium, collection of vintage police motorcycle helmets, and personal firearms. Oh, and his own bullet casting equipment … the Pro-Melt bottom-pour furnace, melting pot, side-pour dipper, sizer-lubricator and molds, barrels of scrap metal, tin, containers of antimony, and boxes of bee wax.

"When and where, Bing. The details will set you free," Scapeti grumbles at Bing, who's still hunched in the passenger seat. Bing reaches up for the door lock. "Un huh, nope," says Scarpeti, "Not on my watch." Before Bing can wrap his fingers around the pop-up lock, Scarpeti jams his finger on the universal door lock lever, locking all four doors, rendering them inaccessible by anyone but the driver.

"That Aleesha was a tease. You know the kind," Bing scowls.

"Enlighten me, Romeo, pretend I'm a virgin. What the hell happened?"

Bing sits mute, staring out the front windshield. He's hunched down so low, from the outside of the car an onlooker would only see his eyes and the hay stack of blond hair on the top of his head.

"Dickwad!" screams Scarpeti, smashing his fist into the ceiling of the car, "The sooner you spill, the sooner you take off on your own recognizance. Come on, I ain't got all night!"

Bing looks like he might have fallen asleep.

"You need some encouragement?" asks Scarpeti, reaching under the driver's seat and pulling out his personal .45, checking the barrel for rounds, slamming it shut again. What the hell? Bing doesn't know about Booth's instructions. Doesn't know he's protected … for now.

"Quit waving that thing around," dickhead, "complains Bing, rubbing his hand over his whole face.

"Man, you don't get it do you," says Scarpeti, reaching over and grabbing the front of Bing's shirt, yanking him toward the middle of the front seat. Getting right up in Bing's face, Scarpeti's spittle lands on Bing's cheeks and nose as Scarpeti screams. "They got their finger on you for murder! Do you know that, pretty boy? They got evidence today that puts you in danger of losing a whole lot more than that tight piece of ass you married," he screams, right into Bings face, spittle still flying from his lips, collecting in the corners of his mouth. He shoves Bing back toward the passenger side, knocking his head against the window once again.

"Jesus!" shouts Bing, reaching up with his right hand and rubbing his cranium, then looking at his hand to see if there's blood.

"Listen, these D.C. folks don't know about your past. They don't know about you. But I sure do. And I could easily tell them, unless you give me what I want," he says, pausing to see if this has any affect on Bing.

Bing has begun to get worried. He sits up straight for the first time since Scarpeti laid eyes on him over at the bar. His face is beginning to pale.

"Alright. Alright!" Bing shouts back. "You got any aspirin?" he whines.

"Not for uncooperative suspects," he says, shaking his head.

"I didn't kill anyone …" he says, staring forward. "I just screwed her. Once."

"I know you didn't kill her, Jerk Off, you don't have the balls," he says, sarcastically. "But the feebs don't know that. They don't know what a screw-up you are. The **only** reason I don't drop your ass at the station with a note pinned to your shirt saying, 'I'm the fuck face who killed the Grimes girl,' is that I'm highly motivated to see the real killer behind bars! That girl was an innocent victim of a crime only a real man could have committed. Believe me, I know," he spits toward Bing. Saliva flies from his lips and lands in Bing's ear. Bing flinches, but refrains from wiping it away like a baby, though he's thoroughly grossed out. "So you better man-up, or, I could just share what I know …." he says, shrugging his shoulders, sitting up, gazing through the front windshield. He acts like he doesn't really care anymore.

"As a matter of fact, why not?" he says, starting the engine. "I've got better ways to spend my Friday night. Don't know why I'm wasting my breath on you, asswipe." Putting his hand on the gear shift and engaging the reverse, Scarpeti flings his right arm over the seat back, craning his neck to peer out the back windshield, and puts his foot on the accelerator.

"Where are we going now?" says Bing, starting to panic.

"Station," Scarpeti tosses over as he faces forward to drive out of the parking lot. Like I said, I got better things to do. And this isn't fun anymore."

The closer they get to the station, the more agitated Bing gets. He can't decide between taking his lumps from this turd, or facing the blinding light of the police station, and taking his chances there. A known evil is better than an unknown one, right? Sweating, his head starting to itch, he makes the final decision.

"ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT!" he screams.

Scarpeti makes an abrupt U-turn, slamming Bing against the passenger side door for the third time in ten minutes. He pulls the car into the lot of a closed department store.

"Talk. You've got five minutes," he says without even looking toward Bing.

"When I first saw her, the girl. Aleesha. I said to myself, I gotta get me some of that juicy piece of ass. It took me a while, but that's exactly what I did, eventually. She was so hot. She wouldn't give me the time of day, like she was better than I was, and that made her even hotter. But she liked Ricky. I mean, what the fuck? He couldn't find his ass with a flashlight, right?" Bing looks to Scarpeti and gets no response. Not even a flicker of a facial muscle. Bing can see Scarpeti's pulse in the jumping vein stretched across his skull to the right of his eye.

"Go on. And I don't need the bedtime story version. Give it to me straight. And fast. Four and a half minutes left," he says, looking at his watch, picking up a used toothpick from the floor and sticking it between his lips.

Seeing this, Bing makes a disgusted face. _This guy is rough all over,_ he thinks.

"Okay - some guy dumped her. Some guy she was really into. And she was depressed. Left class crying and all. So I figured, here's my chance, right? So I followed her to a bar where she met her friends…"

"Was this before she had a thing for Larrinaga, or after?"

"It was before. She wasn't doing much work for him yet. Wasn't even taking one of his classes, I think. She was in my 101 lecture. That's where I noticed her. I'm not much older than those students, you know. I'm not a pervert."

"Uh," chuffs Scarpeti, "Yes, you are a pervert. History has a way of repeating itself, doesn't it Mr. Bingbong? And I don't believe in rehabilitation. Waste of taxpayers money. So, continue, and don't say anything stupid." He chews on the toothpick, picking a sliver off of his tongue and wiping it on his pants.

"It just so happened we were having a department happy hour at the same bar, so I had an excuse to be hanging around there," he says, sounding pathetic, weak. He leans over to pull down one of his socks and scratch the top of his foot. He's still wearing the wet clothes. "When can I change into dry clothes?"

"When I drop you off, ass hat."

Bing sighs. "I kept my eye on her the whole time she was at the bar. I sent some drinks to her and her friends. Anonymously. Didn't want her to suspect." Scarpeti rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, and looks out his side window, shaking his head. _Fucking idiot,_ he thinks. _Girls are smarter than that._

"When everyone was clearing out, I offered them all a ride. They'd walked from campus. In February. In Fuck-me pumps and miniskirts. No coats," he says, still amazed about what these girls would do for convenience's sake. "I figured they were planning to hitch a ride from someone anyway, right? So I drove all the girls home. Some to dorms, some to apartments or houses. Made sure Aleesha was the last one in the car."

"Sounds like this is a possible rape situation, Bing. Why am I not surprised?"

"Rape? **RAPE?"** shouts Bing. "Look at me! I don't need to rape anyone, Scarpeti, I can get tail whenever I want it.

"Except Aleesha's. And maybe your wife's, huh, Bing?"

Bing snorts. "You don't know what you're talking about." He's disgusted, shaking his head. He finally shoves his finger in his left ear, then wipes it on the car seat. "You have no fucking clue."

"So what happened when you drove her home?"

"Consensual adults doing consensual things," he says, lifting his shoulders and letting them fall back down.

"In the car, or in her house?"

"It was an apartment. In her apartment."

"Anyone else see you there? A roommate?"

"Nope."

"When'd you leave?"

"Right after. I didn't want to talk. I just wanted to get what I came for …"

"Revenge?"

"Yes … NO! Don't put words in my mouth!"

"You are quite the piece of work, Bing. And to think parents pay tens of thousands for their children to listen to what you have to say. Man," he says, sighing, disgusted. "Can anyone witness to the fact that you went back home that night?"

"My wife, but now's not a real good time to be asking her questions about me."

"Your wife have any idea about your ... obsession ... with Aleesha Grimes?"

"She'd seen Aleesha at a faculty student picnic. Had her pegged as trouble from the get-go. Maybe that's why I was interested in her ..." he says, looking back out the side window. "After that, she went straight back to ignoring me. That was rude. Really rude, after I'd comforted her the way I did … " his voice trails off, remembering the sting of the slight.

"I'm sure you did," says Scarpeti, oozing sarcasm. "Unfortunately, the only person who could corroborate your story just happens to be a pile of bones now on a steel slab in Washington D.C. So you better pray whatever they found today to incriminate you comes up empty."

Scarpeti glances at the light green sheets of paper with Agent Booth's handwriting across them. He mentally checks off all the questions, but one.

"So ... what is the deal with you and your wife?"

"What deal? There's no deal. We're two married people who have problems like all other married people."

"Except that you aren't!" says Scarpeti, incredulous, chuckling at the absurdity of Bing's comment.

"Hey - we're good people ..."

"OH MY GOD!" Scarpeti can't believe his ears. "What the hell have you been smokin,' dude? No one is like you! No one wants what you have! Sure, you're wife's stacked ... and she's hot ... but I hear she gives it away for free. On a fairly regular basis, I might add. Always has."

"What is your fucking problem, Scarpeti?" scowls Bing, shooting arrows out of his eyes at the big man across the car seat from him. "Not getting enough at home? Jesus!"

He barely gets the last word out before he gets a sledge hammer wrecking ball fist across his left zygomatic and mandible. CRACK!

While Bing is still reeling from the punch, he feels the car bounce, hears the driver's side door slam shut, and feels the cool air when his own door is yanked open. Scarpeti grabs Bing by the collar and yanks him out of the car, turns, and throws him on the ground. Scarpeti opens the back car door and grabs the dry clothing his wife had left for him. The old clothes were going to Goodwill anyway. Throwing the clothes on top of the Bing heap, he rounds the car and gets back in the driver's side. Before starting up the car and speeding away, Scarpeti shouts out the window something that no PG-13 rated story can do justice to. It was that nasty.

* * *

><p>Scarpeti is a man's man. What did you think? Do you still like him?<p> 


	147. Chapter 147 Screwed

_A/N Okay - some of you readers said your ready for a little more fluff. Really? REALLY? I haven't overdosed you YET? Well, good. Cuz we got more fluff on the way ... eventually! ~ MoxieGirl_

**Chapter 147 Screwed**

In her peripheral vision, Bones is aware of Hubbard and DiAngela walking toward the entrance of the bar, then exiting. Walking toward Booth, she glances over at the table Bing used to be draped across, and sees that Bing is also gone. As she reaches their table, the one she and Booth shared, she heaves a heavy sigh of relief. She smiles at him, but it's a disappointed smile. He scoots over as she bends at the knees and drops onto the bench to his left.

"How ya doing?" he asks her, putting his arm around her and squeezing her left shoulder in a massaging manner. She can tell Booth is tired as well. It has been one hell of a l-o-n-g day. They both lean back in the booth, silent.

"Well, hell," she finally says, looking over at him, smiling weakly. "So much for privacy and romance."

"Hey, we still have happiness and love, and a little time left for kissing," he says, referring back to Parker's definition of romance. He smiles at her, shakes her sideways a little, then pulls her closer and kisses her forehead.

"That was a LOT of activity in a brief amount of time," she says. "I guess that's good for our case, right? Did you get what you wanted from Hubbard?"

"Pretty much. You wanna debrief here, or make notes later, then get it into old Rockefeller in the morning?"

"You know what I'd really like to do?" she says, a pitiful expression on her face.

"What's that?" he says, smiling at her, amused by how this tone of voice makes her sound like a tired child.

"I'd like to turn back time, and leave this bar right before I noticed Bing on the dance floor. But I am well aware that time travel is an impossibility," she says, chuckling weakly.

"You seem tired, you wanna pack it in, head to bed?"

She furrows her brow, turns toward him. "I'm not so much tired as really disappointed, you know? And I'm disappointed that I'm disappointed. The more data we collect for a case, the more energized I usually am about it. But tonight, not so much," she says, wrinkling her nose, looking in his eyes. "I didn't want to think about this case for one second tonight. I do have the energy to dance to another five songs in your arms, but I know we don't have that much time … and that is the most disappointing of all to me."

Booth sighs. Nods. "I feel you," he says, reverting to the Jersey Shore vernacular they sometimes play around with when the expression suits their needs. I don't want to waste any more time on this case tonight either … but you know as well as I do, that we have to download asap, or we'll miss something."

"Should I run upstairs and get the Rockefeller?" her whole face is an urgent question. If we're going to do this, lets do it now and quickly, is her message.

Booth blows out a lung full. Looks around the bar a bit, trying to decide. She waits patiently, then picks up his wrist to check his watch.

"It's ten to one in the morning. Bar time in Philly is two a.m., you said?"

"Unless it has changed since I was a kid. A kid of legal age, I mean," he says correcting himself when he notices the look she gives him.

"Okay, I'm running," she says. "Keep the seat warm for me. I'll be back before you can name all the bones in the human body … wait … that won't work. You don't know all the bones in the human body! Before you can name all the state capitals, alphabetically." She notices a blank look on his face. "I'll be back before you can name all the teams in the NHL who have made it to the Super Bowl."

"No NHL teams have made it to the Super Bowl."

"**How** is that possible?"

"The Super Bowl, that's for football!" he laughs.

"Well, okay, how about naming the thirty franchises in the NHL, followed by who was pitted against whom in whatever is the biggest, most exciting, all encompassing competition between the hockey teams. That's the Stanley cup, isn't it?" she says, proud of herself for finally coming up with something he's interested in.

"You've been paying attention! I'm impressed."

"I pay attention to everything you say, even though it may not appear that I do …"

"Okay - run!" he pushes her along her spine as she turns to exit the booth. She takes fifteen steps away form the table, then runs back, grabs his face and kisses him firmly and quickly on the lips. "Now, go. Go!" he encourages her, smacking her on the butt when she turns back toward the bar entrance.

* * *

><p>Running to the elevator, Bones smacks the call button, and rubs her backside where he had smacked her. It was a good smack. Strong. Wide. Firm. It kinda hurt. She chuckles to herself. She enjoyed it. She's just not used to having anyone in her life who thinks it's okay to smack her in the butt. It's actually kind of exciting, she thinks. Putting one hand on her hip, she bows her head as she waits, attempting to suppress a giggle, covering her mouth with her other hand, peeking around to see if anyone's looking.<p>

Pushing the elevator call button repeatedly, and getting no response, she searches for access to the stairwell. Spotting it at the end of the hall, she flings the door open and runs, two steps at at time, up the first seven cement steps, turns the corner, and scales the next seven. She does this all the way to the third floor, but is then disoriented. She's used to coming out of the elevator and going straight to her room. Searching quickly, she finds the elevator in her mental floor plan, reorients herself, and shoots down the hall to the right. Less than one minute later, she has the schemata binder in her hand, and is searching for the blue-lined white pads of paper, and a couple of pens.

"Holy crap! Where'd I put them?" she yells at the room, spotting them right inside the door where Booth had left them when he helped her open her door immediately after those amazing first kisses. Tossing the bulky Rockefeller Schemata onto the bed, she grabs two pads of paper and two pens. They'll just make notes and transfer them later, she decides.

Grabbing her room key card, Bones yanks her door open and runs back down the hall toward the stairwell.

* * *

><p>Two minutes after Bones runs out of the bar, Booth hears an announcement from the DJ that surprises him.<p>

"Ladies! It has been one exciting night, hasn't it? The bar will be closing in five minutes. Please remember to tip your hard-working waitresses, and thanks so much for spending your evening with us!"

"What the hell?" says Booth, out loud. He spies Paulette walking past and calls out her name. "I never thought they'd shorten bar time in Philly. It used to be 2 a.m.!"

"Bar time is still 2 a.m., Agent Booth, but hotel bars have the option of closing at one o'clock. It discourages the younger crowds from hanging out here. The college crowd would rather be somewhere they can stay until two. This change has decreased our vandalism and theft rates by 40% over the last three years. I take it you were not aware of this change?"

Booth is shaking his head, shocked. Bones is not going to be happy about this, he thinks, his heart sinking. He's not happy about this.

"Sorry," she says, seeing his expression crumble. "I should have told you earlier," she says apologetically.

"You didn't know …" he excuses her from culpability. We're screwed. Until Tuesday, he thinks. Copulating Donkey Turds! Bovine excrement! Crap, crap, crap! As the last expletive floats out of his brain into the ether, he looks up to see Bones, running toward him, her hair disheveled, her cheeks red, breathless from the exertion.

"Bones …!"

"I was going to bring the whole binder, but I decided against it … scoot over," she says, finding him sitting at the edge of the bench as if he was about to stand up.

"Woah, woah, woah, listen …"

"So I just brought these two pads of paper," she gives up on him scooting over, and goes to the other end of the bench to climb in beside him, slapping the pads and pens on the tabletop. "I figure we can capture all we gathered tonight, then organize and transfer it to the Rockefeller tomorrow morning over breakfast."

"We have a problem," says Booth. "Just listen for a minute … or less, if you can. We don't have much time."

"What do you mean? We should have about an hour. We can get this written in fifteen minutes and get on with our … lives!" she says, confused, disbelieving. He's not really listening to a word she's saying, and that annoys her. Taking a moment to really look at him, she realizes he's quite distressed. Almost guilty.

"No. No, no, no. I'm really sorry … we've …" he's shaking his head.

"Booth, what is it? You're scaring me! What's wrong?" she's concerned now, on the verge of panic.

He's still stunned about this new information, and didn't have time to process before Bones rushed in.

"The bar is closing at one, not at two." he says, looking intently into her eyes, and keeping his voice calm, hoping it will help her process more quickly than he has been able to. "At one a.m." he repeats. "That is in less than five minutes."

"What? No! It closes at two a.m. That's Philly bar time. Two a.m. That's what you told me. That's in one hour and five minutes. We're in the same time zone as D.C., right?" she says, looking out into the bar, then down toward his left wrist. "Are you sure your watch is correct?"

Taking a deep breath, Booth purses his lips, and shows her his watch. At the exact same moment, the overhead lights increase in brightness until the whole place is lit up. The party is definitely over. They both look upward and watch as the atmosphere is transformed from warm and romantic to cold and ghastly. People's skin beings to appear green, and uninviting. If, thanks to a beer goggle-induced illusion, two newly introduced people were considering hooking up for the night, they may reconsider, faced with the ghoulish pall reflected in the bright light of reality. Not so for Booth and Bones, of course, but others are not so lucky.

They sit in their booth, speechless, both of them staring out at the exiting patrons. Each looking as dejected and forlorn as if a lover had just sailed off on the Titanic, leaving them on the pier alone. After a moment, as reality begins to set in, they turn to each other, still dazed.

"Dang it all to hell!" says Bones, still unbelieving. Booth just nods, then shakes his head. Sighing. Grimacing. Biting the inside of his lip.

"Crap," he says, dejectedly. Another heavy sigh.

"I don't know about you," says Bones, "but as much as I know we ARE technically still in this bar, and we could, conceivably, still share a couple wonderful REAL kisses, I'm just not comfortable engaging in that kind of activity with the whole world watching."

"It's not private anymore," adds Booth. He nods, shrugs.

"Nope," she says, sighing, looking down at the pads of paper, then back up at Booth. "Well, hey!" she says, trying to cheer up. "The world isn't over, right?" Her attempt at smiling falling short, she scoots closer to Booth, pulls his right hand over onto her knee, and wraps both of her arms around his arm, leaning her head on his shoulder. "We just really have to focus on the case now, right? And our frontal lobes …"

"And our comfortability with intimacy," he says, putting his left hand over her right, which is resting on his right hand, still on her knee. "And we didn't say we couldn't kiss at all - just not the REAL kissing, right?"

She nods, her head still leaning against his shoulder, her eyes focused on their overlapping hands. He has such strong hands, she thinks. I've always liked that. She puts her left hand on the top of the pile, sliding her fingers between his. He wraps his fingers around hers.

"Well, let's blow this pizza stand," he says. He notices she's not making any effort to move. "Hey," he says quietly, removing a hand from the pile to lift her chin up so he can look in her beautiful, clear eyes. "We are doing the right thing. We've got lots of time … for all kinds of affection, okay?" he says. "And then, in a couple of days ..." he grins and wiggles his eye brows at her, mischievously.

Bones grimaces, looking in his eyes, which she can actually see more clearly right now for the first time in several hours. She's seen this tender look in his eyes hundreds of times. She surrenders her disappointment, and smiles at him. They both lean into each other at the same time. As she closes her eyes and kisses him tenderly, she senses the urgency in his response. He turns toward her, almost in front of her, creating a barrier between them and the rest of the bar. An onlooker might think he was alone in the booth, turned to search for something between the cushions.

Placing his hands on her hips, he pulls her body up against his, while leaning into her at the same time. His kisses become more passionate, more exploratory, more serious. She is breathless. She's made it clear how she feels about this kind of kissing, and that's his motivation. Tuesday is three days away. There are still two minutes on the clock here at the bar.

"Screw it," she says against his lips, pulling him closer, wrapping both of her arms around his neck, kissing him back. "We were cheated, robbed."

"Yeah, screw it," he says, completely enveloping her in his arms, squeezing her tightly. He sighs, slowing down, pulls away to look in her eyes. "Let's get out of here," he says.

* * *

><p><em>What's going to happen next? You're going to read the next chapter, that's what - If I can get it us here fast enough AGH!<em>


	148. Chapter 148 Recess

_A/N Well ... With a lead in like the last chapter, I couldn't keep you waiting too long ... that would just be cruel and wrong. So, here you go. If anyone with military experience has any corrections for me ... please let me know. I like to be as accurate as possible. Enjoy! ~ MoxieGirl_

**Chapter 148 Recess**

"Agent Booth? Agent Seeley Booth?"

Bones and Booth both swing around to face the front desk when they hear a female voice calling after them.

"That's me," says Booth, looking over at Bones, then walking toward the desk.

"I have a message for you, sir," she says, holding out a small, rectangular pink piece of paper, folded in half lengthwise. Her gold name tag indicates that her name is Cassandra. "You are to call an Officer Angelus Scarpeti at the number on this piece of paper. Anytime. Day or night. The message was left by an Officer," she looks down at the paper again to confirm the name, then continues. "Officer Ronald Benton of the Haverford police department. He said you would be expecting his call?"

"Yes. Thank you," he says, taking the note from her outstretched hand. "Is there a house phone in the lobby somewhere that I can use?"

Cassandra smiles warmly and brightly up at Booth, then at Bones. "Sir, I am pleased to tell you that we do have a house phone. Actually, it is something we are quite proud of … our house phone. Allow me to bring you to it." Cassandra opens the middle drawer of a small bureau at one end of the front desk area, extracting a small manilla envelope. Walking out from behind her station, she lets her colleague know that she'll be gone for a couple of minutes.

"Follow me, Agent Booth and …?"

"Dr. Temperance Brennan," Brennan offers. Cassandra smiles.

"Thank you, Dr. Brennan," she says, "Please follow me." She briskly walks down a long hallway, takes a left, and walks the length of another hallway toward an open set of large French doors. On the other side of the French doors is a large, plush study filled with deep chairs and leather couches. It reminds Booth of Bab's Coffee House in Laurel where he and Bones took a much needed break before heading back to Haverford after meeting with the Grimes,' Bonita, then Chicka the other day.

Looking back at the two following her, Cassandra moves to the side without slowing her pace, and speaks toward Brennan. "I am a fan of your work, Dr. Brennan," she says, grinning ear to ear.

"Oh! Are you an anthropology enthusiast?" Brennan exclaims, glancing over at Booth, making an impressed face, complete with raised eyebrows and a confident grimace, the corners of her mouth turned down. She smiles toward Cassandra, who takes them to the far corner of the room.

"Well …" starts Cassandra, flicking her gaze to Booth, then back to Brennan. "Actually, I'm a fan of your romance novels."

"Wha - I haven't written any romance novels," Bones says, glancing over at Booth, who is looking anywhere but back at Bones. "My books are forensic anthropology procedurals, revealing the … ground breaking criminal investigative practices … the innovative tactics developed by a team of the most … brilliant scientists ever to partner with the criminal justice system. My books detail the … creative process, the … intricacies of deciphering wound pattern analysis, bone trauma replication, bone scatter trajectory," she continues, oblivious to the surprised reaction plainly visible on Cassandra's face. "I've worked diligently to provide examples of some of our finest and most impressive crime scene management and criminal investigative techniques. My books are … resplendent with cutting edge forensic odontology, osteology, and entomology … forensic science taken to heights it has never before seen, or utilized, anywhere near it's full potential."

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I must be thinking about a different Dr. Brennan. I was referring to the sizzling hot romps centered on the life and experiences of Kathy Reichs … please accept my apologies, Dr. Brennan. Here we are!" Cassandra, cheerily ignoring the stunned expression on Brennan's face, opens the manilla envelope, slides a small key onto her palm, and hands it to Booth.

"Where's the phone, and why do I need this key?" says Booth looking around.

Cassandra waves her hand to indicate an old fashioned red phone booth behind her. "We acquired this beauty at an auction in London about six years ago," she explains, taking the key back from Booth, inserting it into the keyhole on the sliding door, and returning it to Booth's outstretched hand. Admiring the well-maintained sliding door, Cassandra pulls on the handle and reveals the interior. "Isn't she a beauty? And she's fully functioning. We call her "The Tardis!"

"Oh! I know what that refers to," yelps Brennan with glee. "Dr. Who, the British science fiction television program about a time lord who flies around the universe in a sentient time machine called the TARDIS!"

"Absolutely correct," Cassandra chimes in, delighted to be able to agree about something with the famous author. "Dr. Who actually travels in a blue police box, so we've taken some liberties. It's a charming find nonetheless, isn't it?"

"Charming," says Booth, wanting to move things along.

"We keep it locked to dissuade inappropriate use of the phone. Step inside, Agent Booth," she says. Booth steps inside the mostly glass box.

"Do I need to insert quarters or anything," he says, looking around for a slot. Instead of a pay phone, however, there's an old fashioned wall phone with a receiver attached by a long coiled cord.

"No … just pick up the phone, dial '9' and then any outside extension. You can return the key to the front desk this evening or tomorrow morning, if it's more convenient. We only have about two patrons a month asking to use this phone. Everyone has cells these days," she explains with a laugh.

"We have cell phones," says Bones. "But we left them in our rooms, and don't want to retrieve them. We're not ready to go to bed yet." An uncomfortable silence follows that last comment, as Booth and Cassandra exchange glances, then avoid eye contact.

"Well, I'll leave you to it!" she says, turing to go.

"Cassandra," says Brennan, "How late does this … room stay open? We have some business to finish. I was wondering if we could sit here for a little while?"

"Stay as long as you like, Dr. Brennan. This is open all night. If it's too bright in here, turn off some of the lamps. We like to keep it cozy in here most of the time. I don't know why every light has been left on …," she says, wrinkling her nose and shrugging, then making a hasty retreat.

Booth places his phone call and gets Scarpeti after two rings. "Bones, can I have one of those pads of paper and a pen?"

She walks back over to the phone booth and gives them to him, then turns to survey the room. It looks a lot like the old gentlemen's smoking lounge. Taking in a deep breath through her nose, she swears she picks up a faint aroma of cigar smoke. After turning off six of the eight lamps around the periphery of the room, she plops the remaining notepad and pen on the coffee table, and she sits down carefully on a very long, red leather couch, finding, to her delight, that the cushions are much softer and deeper than she'd anticipated. Sighing, she decides to zip off her boots and toss them under the coffee table. For a moment, she turns sideways, plants her elbow over the back of the couch, and, leaning her cheekbone on her fist, she closes her eyes to rest … just for a moment.

The next thing she knows, she's being awakened by someone kissing her on the lips. Her eyes fly open to find Booth leaning over her, supporting himself with one hand on the back of the couch. With the other hand, he's holding her chin up for the kiss.  
>"What? What, what?" she says. "How long was I out?" She's a little disoriented, but comes around quickly.<p>

"Just a couple of minutes. I got a detailed report on Bing from Scarpeti, the Officer who removed him from the bar," he says, sitting down next to her on the couch.

She notices he's turned off one of the two remaining lamps and closed the french doors leading into the lounge. "Booth, we hardly have enough light to write down our notes," she begins to complain.

"We'll do that in a minute," he says. "First I want to take a little break."

Bones turns her head, and looks at him sideways, through squinting eyes. "The bar is closed, Romeo. The rules must be obeyed …"

"I'm not planning to break any rules. I just thought it would be nice to take a moment and … relax, before doing our brain dump. As soon as the paperwork is done, there's nothing left to do but go to our rooms and hit the sack. I'm just trying to prolong our time together. Nothing illegal, immoral, or fattening. Promise," he says, raising his hands as if she were pointing a gun at him.

"Hm," she says, considering. "Okay … but remember, if you push me, I can't be held responsible."

"I will take full responsibility … " he says, chuckling, nodding.

"Okay," she says, not sure what he expects her to do at this point. Booth stands up and takes her hand, but instead of helping her to her feet, he pulls her toward one end of the couch so she's practically lying down. He then kicks off his own shoes, sits down next to her reclining body, and stretches out beside her. She is nestled between his warm, pleasingly firm body and the back of the couch.  
>"I'll bet you got in trouble as a kid for playing with fire, didn't you?" she says, raising one skeptical eyebrow at him.<p>

Booth leans his head back and laughs. "The trick is never getting caught," he says, a sly look in his eyes.

"You are quite sneaky," she says, letting loose a deep throaty laugh. She's feeling an internal panic. Or is that embarrassment? Or … arousal? That last word still makes her blush uncomfortably. Maybe it's all three at the same time. It starts in her chest and moves south. The sensation is like the warmth of direct sunlight traveling across your skin as it reemerges from behind a dense, passing cloud. One minute you're cool, enjoying a gentle breeze, the next, your skin and clothing rapidly heat up. Before you know it, you're sweating in places not even exposed to the sun.

Booth leans away from her so he's partially lying on his back. He raises his right arm, sliding it between Bones and the back of the couch, and pulls her toward him. _Sternum, thoracic cage,_ she says to herself. She lays her arm across his chest, and rests her cheek below his clavicle, then scoots down further to a more comfortable position, not against a bone, as she closes her eyes._ Pectoralis major, clavicle, manubrium._

"See, isn't this nice?" Booth says, wrapping the fingers of his other hand around the arm she's laid across his chest. He closes his eyes, a pleased smile on his lips.

_Radius and ulna, mine. Carpals, metacarpals, and phalanges, his. Wrapped around humerus, bicep, mine._ Another voice in Bones' head is repeating a quote listed in her book of pop culture, the same book that informed her about the Tardis. _"Danger, Will Robinson!"_ it's saying now, quoting from 'Lost In Space.' She tells the voice to shut up, and smiles up at Booth's relaxed face.  
>"You enjoy tempting fate, don't you?" she says, lifting her head, blowing in his face, laughing, then laying her head back down. He chuckles, lifts his own head, and blows on her face without opening his eyes. Grinning, she rubs her cheek against his pectoral muscle, feeling a responding flex beneath her cheekbone, and sighs, closing her eyes again. <em>Zygomatic arch, pectoralis major, yum.<br>_  
>After a moment, Booth opens one eye, and peeks down at her, looking at the arm across his chest, his fingers wrapped around her bicep. He sighs, tightening his right arm around her, slipping his hand into her back pocket. From where he's situated, and thanks to that fabulous neckline, he has the perfect view of the blessings God has bestowed on Bones for the purpose of nourishing her own offspring. Sighing, he muses how cleavage, when pressed up against something firm and relatively flat, becomes more defined, the curves more pronounced, the volume appearing to increase. <em>God is brilliant,<em> he thinks, wondering if he dare reach over and trace the path on her skin where it rises up to meet the edge of his own chest. _What would she do? And then, what would I do? And then where would we be? And what about … oh shit! Why am I torturing myself? **Because I just can't help it** …_ he thinks. _No, that's not it. I know exactly what I'm doing, and why I'm doing it. It has been a long six years, and these last couple of days are going to be … whew … long, and charged with sexual tension._ Looking down again, he imagines just burying his face ... right there. Maybe this type of relaxing wasn't such a good idea after all. _Don't think that,_he tells himself, not wanting to let go of her. Squeezing his eyes shut and breathing in the scent of her, he drags his chin back and forth through the hair covering the crown of her head, and finally leans his jaw against her forehead.

When Booth finally stops fidgeting, Bones thinks, _'mandible, cranium,'_ trying to relax. Then, just as she's about to drift back off, she senses a shift. Booth has readjusted his position so he's completely on his side, facing her, both of his arms wrapped around her. She doesn't dare open her eyes. She tries to pretend she's fallen asleep. She doesn't think he's asleep, but he hasn't opened his eyes, and his body feels very relaxed. She, on the other hand, is wide awake and on full alert. She's listening to his heart beat _… thrum, thrum, thrum …_ and the air rhythmically flooding into his lungs and then smoothly being expelled, all in one fluid motion, a moment later.  
>Both of her arms now pressed up against his chest, she runs a couple of scenarios, and comes to the conclusion that if she were to attempt to release one of her arms, it might disturb the calm, and cause him to shift once again, which she doesn't want. As it is, she's completely immersed in his scent, wrapped in his wonderful arms, pressed up against his chest in a way she never has been before. At least not like this. And … she's on the verge of breaking the rules. Pfft.<p>

Throwing caution to the wind, she pulls her right hand down along his chest, dragging her palm vertically over his tee shirt toward his belt. Her arm finally free from the elbow down, she wraps it around his waist, attempting to appear casual. She thinks she's being clever. What she doesn't see is the smile creeping across Booth's face.

After waiting several moments to further continue the ruse of casualness, she slips her hand under his tee shirt at the waist, and slides it up the middle of his bare back. Sensing no resistance or response from him, she traces a slow, deliberate pattern down his spine, then back up again. _Ohh, smoooooth,_she thinks. Yowsa. And that's … just … what … she … needed, a little skin on skin. Cuddling in closer and smiling contentedly, she rubs her cheek into his pectoralis major again. She sighs … more loudly than she intends, realizing she'd actually been holding her breath ever since she first touched him above the waist of his jeans, underneath his tee shirt. Now, she can relax.

Unfortunately, this has the opposite affect on Booth. Her little excursion up his bare back, down his spine, and then back up again where her hand is now creating a slow burn through his trapezius … is messing with the circulation in other areas of his body which he doesn't have much control over ...

Most people don't realize that the trapezius muscle extends longitudinally from the occipital bone, or the lower part of the cranium, to the lower thoracic vertebrae, or, half way down the the spine. It then reaches out and attaches to the scapula, or shoulder blade. This is not a small muscle. And we all have two of them across our upper back. Booth's are now on fire, and it's spreading dangerously.

The United States Armed Forces uses an alert system known as defense readiness conditions, or "defcon." This system prescribes five levels of preparations, in graduated levels of states of alert, for the U.S. military. The defcon conditions increase in severity from DEFCON 5 (least severe) to DEFCON 1 (most severe) to match varying threatening situations. The descriptions and 'exercise term' are listed below.

**LEVEL EXERCISE TERM DESCRIPTION  
><strong>**Defcon 5** (Fade Out) Lowest state of readiness  
><strong>Defcon 4<strong> (Double Take) Increased intelligence watch and strengthened security measures  
><strong>Defcon 3<strong> (Roundhouse) Increase in force readiness above that required for normal readiness  
><strong>Defcon 2<strong> (Fast Pace) Further increase in force readiness, but less than maximum readiness  
><strong>Defcon 1 <strong>(Cocked Pistol*) War is imminent (*no kidding, people, I don't make this shit up!)

Booth, who is particularly sensitive to skin on skin contact, finds himself sliding from defcon four, past defcons three and two, and landing smack down in the middle of defcon 5, cocked pistol. As I said, not my terminology, folks. Look it up on Wikipedia yourself.

Sitting up suddenly, Booth says, "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Time to get to work!"

"Wha …" says Bones. "What? That wasn't restorative at all! I think I need another fifteen minutes or so …"

Booth looks at her, skeptical. Registering the smirk on her face and the gleam in her eye, he realizes that she knew exactly what she was doing as well. Instead of saying anything to him about the fact that he was getting under her skin, she gave it right back. _Point made,_his expression says.

Turning to face the coffee table, a hand on either side of him on the couch cushion, Booth pauses, then stands up, pulling his tee shirt back down over his belt. He flicks on the two lamps closest to their conversation pit. Plenty of light for making notes. Sitting down in a matching leather chair adjacent to the couch Bones is still lounging on, he reaches over and grabs the pad of paper he's already filled with notes from his conversation with Scarpeti.

Bones rolls over on her side, stares up at him. "Hm," is all she says, smirking, then smiling to herself. She grabs her empty pad of paper and her pen, sits up, and begins to make her own notes.

"Okay," she says, "what did Scarpeti have to say about our man Bing …?" She looks up at Booth, whose face has an expression that can only be interpreted one way: **YOU STINKER!"  
><strong>  
>She gives him an innocent, yet coy, glance back, pretending to make a couple of notes. Then she can't help herself, so she giggles. Booth shakes his head in a 'What am I going to do with you?' manner.<p>

"Get to work, Romeo!" she says, in a 'you think you're all that,' tone.

"Christ," says Booth under his breath, smirking, then looks at his pad, waiting for the blood to return to his brain so he can read what he's written on the first blue-lined sheet of paper.

* * *

><p><em>Now I'm off to a book study group - for a book which I haven't even opened because I've been too busy writing my own story!<br>__Hope you enjoyed our little "Recess," as the title of this chapter suggests._


	149. Chapter 149 MadMan

A/N This is the very first chapter of its kind in THe When and the How: A Bone to Pick. WE get to see something that you rarely, if ever, get to see on the show. I hope you aren't squeamish! I am curious about your reactions to this ... ~ MoxieGirl

**Chapter 149 Madman**

Waiting to make sure the last couple leaves the bar, Madman hops in his car and speeds away from the curve. Those two from the FBI are still clueless about his involvement in the Grimes murder. Why did he have to plant her bones so close to the observatory? When he learned about the ground breaking ceremony, he should have done something to interfere with it's location - or at least delay the project until he had a chance to relocate the proof of his nasty little hobby. No problem though, this only makes things more interesting. It's about time he had some excitement after the long hours researching, practicing, and attending meetings and lectures.

This does complicate things, though. What is he going to do with the bones now being cleaned by his wonderful, beautiful, insatiable dermestidea colony? They will be finished with this set in about twelve hours. His companion victim is probably getting off work at that greasy little diner he likes to frequent when he's in town. He'll have to get her between tomorrow and Tuesday if he wants to continue the ritual. If he doesn't stay within the timeline, the miracle will be compromised, and his loved one will be doomed to a life of … living hell.

Pulling the old blue pickup into the alley behind his second house, a home he purchased under an assumed name ten years ago, he flips off the headlights and finds his way to the back driveway of the little white cape cod. Pulling into the gravel patch, he cuts the engine and sits thinking for a moment. The truck's engine emits an occasional irregular "tick … tick" as the engine block cools.

What to do next? He's expected at his regular home in less than an hour. At least, that is when he said he'd be there. Staring at his keys, still dangling from the ignition, he thinks about the bone remnant that used to hang there along side his keys. It was important to him. His good luck charm. He finished kicking himself over and over for having lost it years ago. He feared that he may have dropped it when he was burying the Grimes girl. Wouldn't they have mentioned the finding of an extra bone in the news? Wouldn't that have shown up in the papers? How can he get that information without seeming too curious and raising suspicion? He really needs to get that thing back.

He also needs to pack for his next trip. It's time to do a little reconnaissance on the third victim. He likes the girl in Arizona. The girl in Nevada was promising as well, but her schedule is too irregular. He doesn't want to have to work that hard with the messy part of this business.

He'll have to stay in touch with his contacts here in Pennsylvania. Good thing he has friends in high places!

He decides not to get out of the car. Leave the lovelies to do their work on his victim uninterrupted. He'd much rather visit when all of the meat is gone. Blood, guts and gore are a necessary evil, but not his favorite part of the ritual. Reigniting the ignition, he slowly backs out of the small gravel patch behind his cape cod, stops, and crawls through the alley toward the quiet, unassuming, residential street.

Thank the goddess those two inquisitive busybodies are leaving the center of his operation tomorrow. The further away from Pennsylvania they are, the less likely they are to put two and two together and figure out his entire scheme. The ritual must be completed, if his love is to be saved. And that will require at least two more victims!

* * *

><p><em>AN Dum, ta dum dum DAAAAAA! Are you quaking in your Jimmy Choos f-me pumps?_  
><em>Not that any of us can afford them! I just had an eyegasm looking on their website to <em>  
><em>research for this little exit note for you. Oh, to have the feet for pumps again!<em>


	150. Chapter 150 Oh, Mallard!

A/N Folks, I hope you enjoy this next chapter. You said you wanted more fluff. Well, we got a little bit of both here. Enjoy the heck out of it - I know I did while writing it! ~ MoxieGirl

**Chapter 150 Oh, Mallard!**

Booth and Bones spend fifteen minutes in silence, each scribbling down their own observations from their interactions and private conversations with Bing, Hubbard, and DiAngela this evening.

"Let me know when you're ready," says Booth. Tossing his pad of paper and pen onto the coffee table, then stretching his arms and legs, finishing by crossing his legs and resting his feet on the coffee table, his hands behind his head, elbows in the air.

"Just one more minute," says Bones, absently, without looking up. Her feet are balanced on the edge of the coffee table, her legs bent at the knees, providing an effective angle for her to rest her pad of paper on her thigh while recording her own notes. The top three quarters of her first page is already filled with factual information about all three men, gathered from DiAngela. The remaining fourth contains her observations. On a whim, she's filled the top of the second page with several sentences that can only be described as _theories._ She's trying her hand at making leaps of judgement. Taking what she **heard**, what she **saw**, and making guesses at what the combination might mean.

Waiting, Booth watches her out of the corner of his eye. In the light thrown by the few lit lamps in the room, she's even more beautiful than usual. He looks at her in the same way a person might observe a masterpiece at the Louvre, a famous art museum in Paris. After reading about the art, and looking at the pictures, you're finally there in person staring at the genuine article, and it's better than you ever would have dreamed. His stomach does a flip, and his lips can't help smiling a happy smile.

"Stop smiling at me like that, Booth," says Bones, without even looking up.

Booth chuckles. "Get used to it, Bones," he tosses back.

She looks up at him, shooting a twinkle in his direction. She smiles, then looks back to her second page and finishes writing. She flips her first page back to the top of the pad.

"Okay, I'm ready," she says. "Let's discuss."

"Ladies first," he says.

"Okay. DiAngela. Fifty four years old. Currently single. He followed me fairly quickly after I left to use the restroom. D'you 'naught cop' him?

"Yep," says Booth, not wanting to dwell on it. He never tells her what he says when he does this. "D'he make a move?"

"Yep. Several. He wants to have sexual intercourse with me, and he called you a boy scout."

"Bones, every man in the bar wanted to have sex with you … and I did happen to be a boy scout at one time."

"But not all of them asked me to have sex with them … and I'm fairly certain he meant it metaphorically, the boy scout comment, I mean."

Booth stares at her, waiting for her to continue. His toes are wiggling back and forth inside his colorful socks.

"He says he could tell that I'm sexually frustrated."

"Wow," says Booth, shaking his head, amazed at how quickly some guys make their move. "How did that enter the conversation?"

"I was chewing on my straw," she says, raising an eye brow at him. "He also asked me to dance. That was code for 'have sexual intercourse later, I'm fairly certain."

"Hm."

"I turned him down, of course, though that might have been fun …"

Booth stares at her, saying nothing. No reaction showing in his eyes or demeanor. His toes stop wiggling.

"You know ... in the name of research," she adds defensively, not looking at him, but smiling down at her notes, knowing there's no way that comment didn't bother Booth. "The pump had already been primed, thanks to you. Maybe he could have helped me … relieve … a little frustration."

"Sarcasm?"

She looks up at him now, raising an eyebrow, the 'you have to ask?' look.

"Moving right along …" prompts Booth, wiggling his toes again.

"Married thirteen years. Wife died of cancer in 1995. She was a nurse. He still carries a black and white photo of her in his back pocket."

"He showed it to you?"

Bones nods, and continues.

"One daughter. Thirteen when her mother died. That would make her … twenty-nine now. Also studying to be a nurse. He uses an Amazon credit card. Don't know if that means anything, but I did notice it. Fairly intelligent. Quotes John Milton. Attempted several areas of post-secondary study. He listed psychology, English literature, art, accounting, economics, medicine, mass com, and insinuated there are more.

"If he becomes a person of interest we'll check into his transcripts. Is there any way to find out everywhere he attended school?"

"When you submit a college application, you usually include a transcript. But he's gone to so many, what's to say he was truthful?"

"Good point," says Booth, nodding thoughtfully, playing with is bottom lip now.

"Dad was a self-made man. Loaded now. Says degrees are for people who need them …"

"DiAngela or the father says?"

"DiAngela himself. Offers that in partial explanation for why he hasn't completed an actual degree."

"Interesting."

"He said something else … what was it?" She closes her eyes and imagines the bar scene again, trying to remember. "Oh yes," she says, her eyes still closed, "he said something about being an expert at not finishing anything. Something like that."

"Father still alive?"

"He didn't say. I have no proof of this, but based on the way DiAngela spoke of his dad, I'd surmised that Dad is either deceased, or not on close terms with his son."

"What made you think that, Bones?" he asks, furrowing his brow, staring at her intently.

"Well," she says, sighing, biting her lip, thinking. "It was the way he described himself." She looks over at him, shaking her head. She straightens out her legs, crossing them, resting them on top of the coffee table. She fits her left foot into the curve of the sole of his right foot, leans her foot into his. His toes stop wiggling.

"Described … himself?"

"Yes," she says slowly, recalling his exact words. "He said, _'I'm the sole heir of a wealthy businessman.'_ Doesn't that seem detached?"

"I see what you mean. If he and DiAngela Sr. were close, he'd have said something like, _'My dad built half the Wal-Marts on the East coast.'_ But he refers to his father as _'a wealthy businessman.'_ And he's not an _'only child,'_ he's _'the sole heir.'_ Interesting."

"That's what I thought. Now, I don't know if this was just a line, or if it means anything, but he said he likes **temporary** women."

"Hm. What was the context?"

"He asked me to dance. I said no …"

"You flat out said no, and that didn't stop him … interesting," says Booth, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair, his temple on his fist.

"Actually, I said something about not being interested in players. He didn't deny being a player. He actually suggested I might enjoy being with a player …" she says flatly.

"Amazingly confident. Not easily deterred," he says, nodding in thought.

"Correct," she says, then returns to the previous point. "So I said, what about the waitress who seemed interested. He said she wasn't his type …"

Booth snorts. Bones chuckles.

"Let me guess his type," says Booth, "Tall, beautiful, smart … sophisticated."

"That's _your_ type. DiAngela describes his type as Tall. Sexy. Confident. Smart … and temporary. Hear the difference?

"Ah hah. He's … what would you call that … suggestive? Presumptive? Hm."

"I'm telling you, Booth. He's very smooth. He could have someone disrobed and in bed before she even noticed they'd left the bar. I bet he's quite … skilled … sexually … if his pick up lines are any indication. He draws you in by speaking in low tones. He's direct without being direct. It's an effective ploy. Not threatening at all."

"Psychopath."

"Booth," she says, leaning her head to the left and staring into his eyes, "a man can be smooth, sexy, and confident, without being a psychopath," she says, disagreeing. "You fit that description, but you're not a psychopath."

"As far as you know …" he says, winking at her.

"Ha ha ha," she says, sarcastically. She looks down at her notes again. "It is not in my nature to make assumptions, but I have some … _observations, or theories._ Would you like to hear them?" she asks, uncertainly, flipping over the first page and tucking it around the back of her pad of paper.

"You mean, **more** of them? That stuff about his … skills. That was not based upon observation or first hand knowledge," he corrects her. "Sure. What else do you have?"

"Fine," she begins, stepping over his correction. "There is little or no bases for this, but I don't think he's the type of guy to go for very young women. He likes a more confident woman. We have it from Hubbard that DiAngela had a thing going with Bing's wife, right?"

"Yes."

"Well … I have a feeling he may have had an affair with Hubbard's wife as well," she says, biting the side of her lip.

"Interesting," he says, eyebrows raised, "Okay. Say more," he prompts, absently rubbing his foot back and forth over the top of hers.

"On the topic of Hubbard's divorce, DiAngela said it was amiable enough, but that she wanted a life she'd never had."

"Okay?"

"Why would DiAngela know that? Would a man, Hubbard, confide that particular detail, even to a friend?"

"Good question. It makes Hubbard sound like a loser. I don't think Hubbard would have admitted that to anyone he wasn't **paying** to listen to him talk."

"A prostitute, you mean?"

"No. I was thinking a shrink."

"Oh. Yeah," she says, looking back at her pad of paper. "The ex-Mrs. Hubbard fits the profile of mature and probably smart … if she married a PhD. What else do we know about her?"

"I'll have to look it up in the Rockefeller tomorrow. You may have a good point. Good work."

"Wonder if he ever made a play for Carmen?" she says, flipping the first page back over the second and tossing her pad onto the table.

"I doubt it, he's too smart, unless she opened the door, and I just can't see that happening."

"Right," agrees Bones. "She'd castrate him if he approached without an invitation."

Booth nods in agreement. "Do you think she would have extended one?

"Well," she says, pondering the possibility. "She did say she and Enri had a very rough patch a number of years ago. And that Enri is a faithful kind of guy. But what about her? She's more extroverted. More emotional."

"And if her needs weren't getting met at home … "says Booth, moving his head from side to side like a see-saw. "She's a passionate woman … DiAngela is smooth, and complimentary, provocative. Likes mature woman - which she certainly is …"

"And intelligent. And if she was 'temporarily' disgruntled …"

"Interesting … as much as I hate to admit it." They both ponder the possibilities for a moment.

"Just a couple other things DiAngela said. This time about Hubbard and Bing," she says, breaking the silence and looking to Booth for the go ahead. "He says Hubbard makes poor choices, and that Bing is a douche."

Booth sighs. "Tell us something we don't already know, right?"

Bones nods. "Your turn." She stretches her arms, puts her hands behind her head, elbows in the air, slouches down further on the couch.

"Okay." Booth stands up, takes a step around the coffee table, and plops down on the couch right next to her. His weight on the cushions almost bounces her over onto her side, but she recovers quickly. If her elbows weren't in the air, they'd be sitting shoulder to shoulder. As Booth stretches his legs out, crosses them, and rests them on the coffee table next to hers, she drops her right hand in her lap, and her left across the back of the couch behind him. They are both now looking over his notes.

"In a nut shell …" he begins, "Scarpeti has the following to say … Bing _did_ have sex with Aleesha.

"Really?" Bones' eyebrows shoot up almost to her hairline. "I didn't expect that."

"I had a feeling. The man's a walking erection. If Aleesha was as hot as everyone says, how could he not have noticed? And remember that Hubbard made some comment back at Haverford that Bing was jealous because she wouldn't give him the time of day? When he's got literally hundreds of coeds at his disposal, why get hung up on the one who rebuffs him? Textbook behavior of a spurned lover. Apparently it was only once with Aleesha, and **apparently** she was drunk. He gave her and her friends a ride home.""

"That begs the question … was it consensual?"

"No way to know, really. He says it was. There are no witnesses. Correction, no LIVE witnesses."

"Hm. It doesn't fit her pattern. She seems to have been very methodical." Bones starts wiggling her toes now.

"He says it was when she was mourning her break-up with that guy she was crazy about. Remember she used Enri as a palate-cleanser to get over someone else?"

"So this was between that other guy and Enri?"

"That's what he told Scarpeti. It wouldn't make sense any other time, if you think about it," he says, looking sideways at Bones, who is absently running her fingers through his hair now. It feels really good.

"As to an off-the-record criminal past, Scarpeti suspects there is one. But again, there's nothing on record. Scarpeti says he put the fear of God into the guy, pretended to have some knowledge about Bing's past, and Bing crumbled like a cracker."

"I like this Scarpeti guy. Have I met him?"

"Not yet, but you'd get a kick out of him."

"I don't know what that means …" her fingers stop moving.

"You would enjoy his personality, Bones. The man's as big as a bear, as scary as a bear, and as sweet as a teddy bear. Has a house full of daughters. He's a man's man, if you know what I mean."

"Ohhooo," says Bones, nodding knowingly and smiling, remembering a conversation she had with Angela back in Chapter 103. "Is he a ball-scratching, game-watching, beer-swilling, light-your-own-farts-on-fire He-Man?"

Booth breaks out laughing, almost choking. "Yes! That's exactly what he is!" He sits forward, choking for real. Bones slaps him on the back a couple of times.

"Are you okay?" she asks, not sure if she should be concerned.

"Caught me off guard there," he says, still laughing and choking. "Something went down the wrong throat." He's still laughing.

Bones chuckles, impressed that she got the he-man thing right, and enjoying hearing him laughing, though she's hoping he doesn't choke to death. She smacks him on the back a couple of more times. When he calms down, she rubs his back until he leans back against the couch cushions.

"Okay?" she asks.

"Yeah," he says, laughing again. "Where did you hear that? No. Let me guess …"

"Angela," they say in unison, then both laugh.

"What would we do without our GirlWonder?"

"We wouldn't have nearly as much fun, that's for sure," says Bones.

"You got that right. Okay …" he looks back at his pad of paper, wiping some spittle from the front page, smearing the ink. "Where was I?"

Bones isn't paying attention to the notes, she's running her fingers through his hair again. "Your hair is a lot softer than it looks," she muses out loud, looking at the hair between her fingers. She lays her head on his shoulder, looking at his note-covered pad of paper

"Hubbard said Bing lost a fellowship at NYU for diddling two daughters of a VIP. But he's smart. Top 5% of ... something, meaning REALLY smart."

"He's not smarter than me," she tosses off. "Or any of my people ..."

"And get this, Enri is even smarter than Bing … don't have any number on him, though. Hubbard just commented something about intelligence in the stratosphere. I wonder if that's an astronomy term." Booth stops talking for a moment, enjoying the scalp massage. He then continues. "Apparently, Bing has monthly binges that Hubbard feels he has to rescue him from."

"Drinking or sex binges?"

"I'm fairly sure it was drinking, but who knows what else goes along with it? Oh, and Hubbard thinks Bing might be **protected** somehow. Something political or money related. Wonder what his financial situation is ..."

"Oh," exclaims Bones. "How did I forget this? DiAngela said Hubbard doesn't hunt, but he fishes. Get this, he's a quite accomplished chess player too. Travels to competitions several times a year. That may mean something, huh?"

"Interesting. Hm. Time will tell, I guess," he says, looking over at her, his eye brows scrunched together. He's thinking.

"I smell something burning," says Bones.

"Right," he says, smiling absently. "I wonder exactly where he goes for those tournaments …" Staring straight ahead, his mind wanders. Something about chess and something else Hubbard said. He can't quite put a finger on it. He uncrosses his legs, loops his right foot under Bones' left calf and catches her foot between both of his, squeezing her foot. He's still thinking about Hubbard and chess. Bones slips her other foot between his feet. Well, actually, between his legs, at this point, because she now has to rest her feet on the edge of the table or risk cutting off the circulation in his right calf.

Bones yawns and stretches, her arms in the air, then lays her head back on his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his right arm.

"Hubbard is going to get us information about who in the department has attended the … whatever …. conventions … for the last six to ten years," Bones pulls his right leg over so it's right under her knees, and flips herself around so she's kneeling in front of him now. Booth continues with his notes. "And, he has kept travel journals for many years. He's going to let us borrow them."

"Um hum," she says, as if she's paying rapt attention. Bones climbs up onto Both's lap, straddling him, her knees digging in between the seat and back cushions. She takes the pad of paper out of his hand and tosses it on the floor behind the couch, over by the Tardis. "Hm?" she says.

"Hubbard fancies himself a writer," he says, looking up into her serious face. "Takes these journals with him on every trip he takes. Makes notes of his observations." Bones rocks back and fourth slowly on his lap a couple of times, still listening to the words coming out of his mouth.

"Astronomical observations?" she says, her arms stretched out, bracing herself against the back of the couch.

"All kinds of observations. People. Experiences, I assume. Anything out of the the ordinary. Wants to write fiction, and what are you doing?" he says, looking up at her face, wondering to himself why he hasn't stopped her yet. _Because it feels damn good, that's why._

"Just a little metallurgical* research," she says. "Tensile** strength and such."

"I have no idea what that means," he says, closing his eyes, pushing back against her once with his hips. Reaching up, he digs his fingertips into her hips through her jeans, pulling her just ... a little ... bit forward, then letting her rock back.

"He's actually going to let us take his journals?" she says, her voice growing more quiet, sounding a bit like a sigh.

"No," he says, opening his eyes and staring up at her, trying not to stare at the creamy skin right in front of face. "He's going to let us photocopy …" she puts her hands over his and moves them up onto her skin, above her belt in the back of her pants. He drags his fingertips across the small of her back, sending a shiver to places unmentionable. She rocks back and forth a couple of more times, and arches her back. He sinks his fingers into the skin under her belt and jeans, then about four inches lower. She leans forward and sinks her fingers into his hair, bending down to chew on his ear.

"Now you've done it," he says. In one smooth move, he wraps an arm around her waist, picks her up, and flips her over onto her back lengthwise on the couch. His arm still wrapped around her waist and hanging on tightly, he's partially laying across her, and his lips are buried in her neck, chewing on the tender skin that leads down to the V in her neckline. "What is a "met allergy" and what does it have to do with Christmas trees or "tinsel," or whatever?" he asks between bites.

"You're going to have to look it up, Man of Steel, because ... I'm having ... a hard time ... thinking ... all of a sudden," she says, her hands flying under his tee shirt and up his smooth bare back. "Ohhhhhhhhhhh," she sighs, arching into him, her breathing becoming deep, slow, and audible. "What … the … hell … youshouldbestoppingmeeeee," she chuckles into his ear.

"Does it have anything to do with … Kryptonite, and where have you … you've got some Kryptonite hidden somewhere, don't you?" he says, thrusting the free hand into one of her front pockets, and dragging his chin across her exposed skin.

Now, Bones has never been one to use much profanity, but with half the weight of Booth pressing into her, with his hand conducting a thorough search of the contents of her empty front pocket, and with his stubble-covered chin grazing her skin along the neckline edge of her plunging cobalt blue shirt, all she can think of is that one swear word that starts with an "F" and rhymes with a farm animal that could also be called a mallard.

After allowing herself to enjoy several moments of dopamine-releasing sensations underneath Booth, Bones bucks up with her hips, disconnecting their bodies at the midsection. She's got a firm grip on the back of his belt and another around his neck. In one swift move, she performs a lariat,*** and lands them both on the floor beside the couch.

"WHOA!" emits Booth, laughing and full of wonder and surprise. "You are freakishly strong!"

Raising herself up on her arms, she gazes down into Booth's surprised face and chuckles. "This is usually the part where my shirt comes off, if it's not already," she says, sitting up straight, putting pressure just below his Cocky belt buckle. Crossing her arms, and grabbing hold of the cobalt blue hem, she frees herself from the confines of her shirt, and tosses it behind her, further surprising Booth. She lays back down on top of him, hovering a centimeter above his lips.

"Who's the naughty cop now?" she whispers, chuckling, then pulling herself up to graze the ridge of his ear with her teeth. To her surprise, Booth starts complaining.

"You're drooling on me, Bones. Bones!"

She doesn't let this stop her. "What's the fun if you don't get a little wet," she whispers.

"BONES! YOU ARE DROOLING ON ME! WAKE UP!"

Booth just looks at her, shaking his head. He'd fallen asleep as well, awakened by a line of drool dripping down his arm toward his elbow.

As she gradually becomes conscious, Bones feels a cold sensation against her chin. She's drooled all over Booth's sleeve, and down his arm. They are still sitting side by side on the couch, legs outstretched and intertwined at the feet. Her arms are wrapped around his left arm, and her head has been leaning on his shoulder this whole time.

**"Wow,"** she says, breathless, wiping the saliva from her chin, and breaking into a fit of giggles. "Holy Copulating Donkey Turds!" she exclaims. "I'm going to go through an entire box of straws between now and Tuesday night ..."

* * *

><p>*<span>Metallurgy<span>: noun. the branch of science and technology concerned with the properties of metals and their production and purification.

**Tensile strength: is the maximum stress that a material can withstand while being stretched or pulled before necking, which is when the specimen's cross-section starts to significantly contract. God bless Wikipedia, once again.

***Lariat: In wrestling, a lariat is when an attacking wrestler runs towards an opponent, wraps his arm around their upper chest and neck and then forces them to the ground.

* * *

><p><em>Gotcha, didn't I? Was it good for you? Why don't you tell me ALL about it?<em>


	151. Chapter 151 We Were Robbed

_A/N This is one of my favorite chapters for reasons that will become obvious. I hope you enjoy it too ... _= )

**Chapter 151 ****We Were Robbed**

"Sorry about your shirt sleeve," says Bones.

"Eh, what's a little drool between friends," he says, smiling, bending over and wiping his wet arm off on her pant leg, then leaning back beside her, smiling. They are shoulder to shoulder, companionably sitting on the couch.

"Gross, Booth!"

"Hey. It was your drool!" he says chuckling. "When did you pass out? What was the last thing you heard?"

"Something about Hubbard's diaries? He's a writer of sorts?"

"Funny, you were still talking to me at that point. Though very shortly after, you were mumbling, then not responding at all."

"I'm surprised you were able to rouse me just now. Once I'm out, I'm usually **_'down for the count.'_** How's that for a boxing euphemism, huh? Huh?"

"I got it, Bones," he says smiling into her eyes.

They sit in silence for a moment, just looking in each others eyes. It's not a smoldering exchange. It's more like one of those, 'I really enjoy your company' looks. They both know that this evening, or morning, by now, is coming to an end and there's nothing they can do about it.

"Your comments were incorporated into my dream," she says. "It was very strange."

"What kind of dream was it? What happened?"

Bones snorts, laughs. "Not the kind you tell your mother about," she says, snorting again.

"Oh … really?"

"Yep," she says, and it's obvious she isn't saying anymore. "I'm pretty tired, Booth. Maybe we can review the last couple of notes tomorrow over breakfast, or on the plane?"

"Sure," he says. Still watching her, a gentle smile on his face. "My God, you're beautiful."

She leans her head to the side, toward him. "How much of that is because of the golden ratio, and how much is because you are in love with me?" she asks, smiling at first, then flinching on the inside. The second part of her comment takes her by surprise, even though she was the one who said it out loud. She feels a stab of panic … or controlled excitement? _Breathe it out,_ she reminds herself. Isn't this exactly what this whole evening has been about? At this point, there's no longer music playing, no dim bar lighting, no more red walls and white table cloths. It' just the two of them. Alone. Together. Working, and talking. And Booth is in love with her. He's in love with her.

Booth doesn't flinch. He's still sitting beside her, shoulder to shoulder. And he's looking at her, saying nothing at first. _What is he thinking?_ she wonders. It feels awkward for Bones. This isn't exactly 'the light of day,' but it does feel less like a dream than that whole bar experience did.

Finally Booth opens is mouth, never losing eye contact.

"As the world is concerned, you are probably about a 9.85 on a scale of one to ten," he says. "But to me, because I know you, and, yes, because I am in love with you … on a scale of 1 - 10, I'd say you are about a twenty-five."

Bones feels like an elephant has just put his foot on her chest. She can barely breathe. _He just said that he is in love with me. Booth ... is in love with me._ She forces herself to take in a deep breath, then to exhale. Her heartbeat has GOT to be audible, and probably visible, as it is beating wildly inside her thoracic cage. Clearing her throat, she rasps, "Twenty-five? Is that all?" then clears her throat once more. She smiles timidly into his eyes, looking for an answer to questions she didn't just ask._ Is this real? Is this going to last? Is he going to stick around? Will I hurt him? Will he ever stop loving me?_

Booth continues looking into her eyes. Without missing a beat, he says, _"Twenty-five million,_ is what I meant." His heart is pounding out a tattoo on the inside of his thoracic cage as well. He'd looked for a reaction to him saying out loud, right here, without the music and the dim lighting ... that he's in love with her. His unasked questions are not too different from hers. _Will she run? Can I handle this? What is this going to be like when we get back home? Do I dare kiss her right now?_

Booth raises the arm she's been leaning against and puts it around her. Leaning toward her so his lips are up against her ear, he whispers, _"Twenty-five million."_ He chuckles, then kisses her right where her mandible meets her neck. Reaching up to her face with his left hand, he continues kissing her neck.

Bones shivers. She closes her eyes and leans her temple on his jawbone. She feels so loved that she could cry. She knows this evening will eventually end, and she almost does start crying. "I find I am feeling a heaviness in my chest. Like … sadness, loss" she says, unable at first to lift her face from his, it feels so heavy. "I don't want to leave you." She swallows, dragging her jaw across his. He's still planting little kisses on her neck. "I don't want to go back to my room. Or you to go back to yours. I know it's stupid. We're adults, right?"

"Teenagers, in adult bodies," he says, he leans away to look at her. "That's why it feels stupid. But … it's okay. It's going to be okay," he assures her, nodding, smiling. For a moment, they sit looking into each other's eyes. He can see the sadness there. He doesn't want to leave either. He also has an overwhelming sense of gratefulness to her. For still loving him, for not giving up on him, even when he was going through the internal turmoil of this whole last year. His expression goes from compassion, to appreciation, to humility ... for everything she is for him that he knows he is not worthy of. No man is._ Isn't that what love is?_ he thinks, leaning forward and rubbing his nose against hers, then kissing her lips. _It's being given grace when you don't deserve it. It's a blessing. I feel profoundly blessed. _

Bones sees the look in his eyes and gets lost in it. She wants to hide away with him, not share him with the rest of the world. But she knows that's not how the world works.

"As selfish as it may sound," she says, reaching out, touching his lips, then following her right hand with her eyes as she lays it on his chest so she can feel his heart beating under her fingers … "As selfish as this may sound, I don't want to tell anyone at home about this." She looks from her palm and fingers resting on his pectoralis major, up to his lips, then timidly up into his eyes. She has a slightly pained expression on her face.

"I know. You have to maintain a certain … authority with your team …"

"No, that's not it …" she says, shaking her head, grimacing.

"So … you just want to see if this sticks before going public?"

"No," she says slowly shaking her head again, concern in her eyes. "That's not it either …"

"Then … what is it?" he asks. Surely she isn't ashamed or embarrassed by being with him?

"It's just that," she starts, sliding her hand from his pectoris major up to his neck, then up to his face, where she runs her fingers over his lips, back and forth, whisper soft, several times. She is mesmerized by the sight of** her** fingers … on **his** lips. "It's just that …"

Booth reaches up his left hand and encircles hers. Kissing her fingers, he then takes them and rests their hands on his thigh.

"What?" he says, quietly, "You can tell me. What is it?" He's wondering if he should be concerned.

"It's just that," she begins again, sighing, "Right now, this is **ours.** And I want it to be be **just** ours. I don't want to share it with anyone. I don't want to invite anyone else in. I want it to be just ours … for a little while." She looks up into his eyes, supplicatingly, biting her lip.

"Hm," he looks at her, still quiet. Is there more to it than that?

"It's just … Once we get back, if we let this out … everyone will want in … want details … want to share it with us. They want to say things … make assumptions about what happened out here in Philadelphia. I don't want to be asked about it," she says, timidly. "How could anyone understand what's going on between us?" She pauses, searching his eyes, hoping he's not upset. "Only we know what's is happening here. Only you and me. And this is ours. I don't even want to tell Angela, you know she'll want details. But right now, those details are _mine,_ and I don't want to share them … with anyone _but you," _she says, whispering by this point. "Okay? Say it's okay, Booth."

Booth breaks into a smile. "It's perfectly okay. If that's really all there is."

"That's all," she says, shaking her head. "I promise you. That's all there is."

"Well then. It's settled," he says decisively. "What's ours is ours. And it's no one else's damned business." He realizes as well that she probably needs to ease into this new facet of their relationship at her own pace. He nods. "Okay. And when we're ready … when WE want to … "

"We'll let the tiger out of the trunk …"

"Or, the cat out of the bag," says Booth, chuckling.

"So … what this also means is no hinky-pinky at work," she says, watching for signs of comprehension in his eyes.

"No hinky-pinky? … you mean hanky-panky?" he suggests, nodding comprehendingly, laughing.

She nods, laughing as well. Then gets quiet, sighing. "One other thing …"

"Hit me with it," he says, still grinning from the hinky-pinky confusion.

"When we are ready … to go public," she says, pausing for a moment. "There's someone I think we should tell before anyone else."

"Yeah, Sweets. He's going to have a field day with this," says Booth, rolling his eyes and chuckling.

"No,"she says, looking at him, a serious stillness in her eyes, "Parker."

Booth is surprised, then he nods. "Wow," he says. "You are absolutely right. Absolutely right."

"Because, in a way … in a very _real_ way … " she says, swallowing, black tingles running down the back of her neck. "He is the only one who has any real … right," she says, narrowing her eyes and looking at him to gauge if he understands, agrees.

He's still nodding. "It's not that I haven't been thinking about Parker …" he says. "I already know he loves you."

"Yes, but remember what he told me about feeling lonely, even when he's with Rebecca and her boyfriend? Or when she was with you and … anyone else?"

"Except when I am with you, right?"

She nods.

"So, Parker is first," he says. It's a statement.

"Parker is always first," she says.

Booth is overwhelmed by her generosity, her understanding. She knows what Parker is to him. Booth leans toward Bones and kisses her firmly on the lips. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her three more times, firmly, on the lips. These are all regulation kisses, no rules broken, but nice nonetheless, and filled with sincere appreciation.

"Thank you, Bones," he sighs, hugging her to his chest. _Wow,_ he thinks. _I am blessed way more than ..._

Releasing her after a moment, he smiles brighter than she's seen him smile in quite some time. She chuckles. He hugs her again, then kisses her lips once more. This time, he lingers, and wants more, but he can wait. He sighs. Kisses her one more time.

"Are you losing you resolve to buy me a house?" she asks, chuckling, opening her eyes after their last kiss.

"Bones, I am a strong and convicted man, but I am human. And ... I think it would be a good idea for us to get off this couch and out of this room," he says, leaning back into her neck and giving her a little raspberry. She laughs.

"Agh! Stop it!" she yelps, pushing him away and hopping up from the couch. "That tickles!"

He grabs her around the waist and pulls her back down onto the couch with a bounce. "Agh! Booth!" she screams. This reminds her of the roughhousing she and Russ used to do when they were pre-teens. It's fun, energetic, and playful. But with Booth, it's more affectionate … he tickles her with raspberries on her neck and arms. Russ used to pin her, face down, on the ground with her arm behind her back until she screamed, "You win! You win!"

"Booth!" squeals Bones, "You're asking for it, Bucko! You know I never step down from a challenge." After a tussle, she finally gets hold of his wrists, but he twists them free from her grasp. In the process, he lands another raspberry, this one on her cheek. She rears back, a wild look in her eyes. "You are going to get it!" she shouts.

Booth, thinking he's the cleverer of the two because he grew up with a brother too and has had lots of practice in the art of roughhousing - grabs a pillow form the other end of the couch and holds it up to shield his neck and face.

Before he knows what's happening, she grabs the hem in the front of his tee shirt, throws it back, and lands three really good raspberries on his ribcage before Booth starts screaming, "Time out! **TIME OUT!"** while laughing hysterically. "**That** ... is cheating!"

"Wha - how is that cheating?" she counters, incredulous, her hair messed up, her face red from the rambunctiousness of their tussle. "How … is that _CHEATING?_ You were just losing. That's all! Are you a sore looser, Booth?" she screams, her eyes growing large in mock surprise. "**You are! Booth is a sore loser!"**

"No, I'm not! **No, I am NOT a sore looser!"**

"Then how is that against the rules? There are no _RULES_ in horsing around, in roughousing! I've never heard any **rules**!" They are both still laughing. She's batting at his defensive pillow and he's using it like a shield. "Tell me the rules, Mr. Man of Steel! Or is it … Man of Tin Foil?" She breaks into a fit of giggles.

Booth tosses the pillow over the couch, waits for an opening, and lunges at her. He throws back her top so she looks like she's wearing a halter, and smashes his face into her abdominal muscles. "One raspberry. Two raspberries. Three raspberries. And another one, for the win!" he screams, hopping off of her, throwing his arms up in the air, and dancing around like a boxer at the sound of the bell.

Bones, lying on her back on the couch, screeches throughout the whole attack. Once he's begun his victory lap, it still takes her several minutes to stop laughing.

"I demand a rematch," she screams. **"_YOU_ CHEATED!"**

"Ah ah ah ah aha! What did I hear you just say? What was that?" he says, cupping his ear in her direction. "Weren't **you** the one who insisted **there are no rules** in horsing around?"

She shoots him the stink eye, and tosses her pad of paper in his direction.

Eventually they both regain their composure. Booth peeks at his watch. It is late. Early, rather. They begin to pick up their belongings, and to return the room to the state in which they found it. Booth locks the Tardis. Bones, wondering where the hell those pillows came from, tosses them onto one of the other chairs, and drags the coffee table back to it's original indentations in the carpeting.

As they walk down the hall and take a right to continue toward the front desk, Booth says, "I still won."

"No you didn't."

"Yes, I did!" he says.

"No, you didn't!"

"Oh, but I did!"

"You are such a cheater!" she accuses.

"There is no cheating …"

"Rematch! I demand a do over!"

"You're the sore loser," he says, shaking his head in mock pity.

"We'll need someone to officiate."

"Can we use jello?"

"The referee has to be sentient, Booth!"

"No, I mean, can we have our rematch is a vat of jello? With whip cream?"

"I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer!" she says, rolling her eyes. "This is what I get for getting mixed-up with an alpha male …"

Booth returns the key to the front desk. He and Bones turn the corner and wait for the elevator doors to open. They are both tired. Bones is a little anxious. She closes her eyes, pushing the anxious thoughts out of her brain, noticing it's getting easier and easier to do.

Booth looks sideways at her. She's standing two feet from him, her arms crossed over her chest, gripping her white pad of paper. She's now staring off into space, a half smile on her lips. He knows she's not looking forward to saying good night. He isn't either. He knows in his heart that things will work out. He will make sure that they do.

"Hey," he says, moving over toward her and taking her hand. "We'll see each other in the morning. I'll come get you for breakfast, okay?"

She nods, rests her chin on the top of the pad of paper and smiles looking sideways at him, a twinkle in her eye. "I'm pretty impressed that we've stuck to our after-bar agreement," she says, grinning at him.

He nods, saying nothing. '_It's not over 'til it's over,'_ Pops always told him. Now, they just have to get up to their floor, and lock themselves inside their rooms.

The elevator doors slowly slide open. They walk across the threshold, no longer holding hands. They stand side by side, looking up at the numbers above the doors. There are ten floors in the hotel, their rooms are on the third. Booth steps forward and punches the number three.

"I suppose I should be grateful that you are so good at resisting temptation, or that I'm not as irresistible as I thought I was," says Bones, sneaking a peek over at him. "Because from here on out … until Tuesday ..."

"You **are** irresistible, Bones. I'm just freakishly strong," he says, teasing her and chuckling.

"Can anything break through that armor of yours?" she asks.

"Pretty much nothing," he says, continuing to chuckle, looking over at her, then back to the doors. It's obvious they are trying to avoid any serious eye contact for fear of the slippery slope. They are getting close to their bedrooms, and that will be the ultimate test.

"Good, then I can count you to stick to your guns, no matter how much I tease and taunt you. Because you know I will," she says, coquettishly. More seriously, she adds this final comment, "I had a really great time tonight, Booth, and I'm looking forward to tomorrow. A lot of tomorrows." She turns her head to look up at him, reaching out for his hand again.

"Me too," he says, smiling at her, taking her hand and squeezing it, meeting her gaze at last. "And as for teasing, go for it. You will be amazed at my stamina, my focus, my …"

As he's enumerating his defenses for her, Bones drops her pad of paper and pen to the floor. Booth bends down and picks them up for her. When he turns to hand them to her, she throws herself at him, grabbing him by his tee shirt, forcing him backward to the elevator wall, and finds his lips with hers.

"We were robbed," she whines sorrowfully against his lips between kisses, as if attempting to appeal to his sense of righteousness. "We were told bar time was 2 AM. That's gotta count for something, right?" He is so caught off guard, he drops both pads of paper and the pens, and wraps his arms around her, pressing her the rest of the way to him. She feels so good. So solid. So real.

"Mmmmmm," she whimpers at the sensation of the whole length of their bodies pressed against each other once more.

He's overwhelmed by the cool metal elevator wall on his back juxtaposed against the warm, firm, squishiness being pressed into his chest, and the passionate sweetness of her soft, desperate kisses. He is powerless to resist the taste of her, which is fine because he's not interested in resisting.

"We were robbed," he concurs, weakly. "Or, is this a test?" he asks, half-heartedly, returning her kisses with his own equally enthusiastic ones. "Cuz I think I just disgraced myself."

"I won't tell anyone, if you don't," she says, backing away a tiny bit, and pulling him toward herself so she can wrap her arms around him. She's going for that skin on skin she had a sample of earlier. In her haste, she scratches him on the small of his back as she pulls the hem of his tee shirt out of the way.

"Ouch!" he yelps, but it doesn't slow either of them down. Her teeth biting at his bottom lip, enjoying the sensation of stubble against her chin and nose, his mouth tastes like salt and sugar all at once. These are not regulation kisses. These are plenty illegal. "We were robbed," he says again. "And that's just not right."

"We were robbed," she says, nodding as if to say _'and that's final.'_ Bones runs the delicate inside of her forearms up and down the smooth, warm, skin of his back, emitting a carnal sigh from deep, deep inside her.

"Wow," he says, for the fourth or fifth time, his eyes closed. The waves are crashing on the shore of Jesus Christ and all the Saints right there in his arms, and he feels the ground moving under his feet. Even if he wasn't in a moving elevator, he'd be shaken. It's a good thing she's pressed her body up against him, and his back is up against the wall again, because that's the only way he's able to stay upright.

Just as the world stops moving, she steps up on her tiptoes and takes her warm, moist, urgent kisses along his jaw line. She takes his face in her hands and gives him one last, deep, wet, and warm, yet abbreviated, kiss and backs away, far enough to look into his eyes. He feels drunk, dizzy. _What the hell just happened?_ he thinks to himself. He then realizes that the glorious pressure against his chest, his belt buckle, his thighs is lessening, pulling away. As she pulls away, he feels a force pulling him toward her, like gravity, but then he regains his balance and is able to stand on his own two feet. She backs out of the elevator, clears her throat, trying to sound normal and detached, but failing, and says, "In case you were wondering," she says, "that ... is what you will be missing ... until Tuesday." She smiles a nervous smile as the elevator door begins it's slow, mechanical glide to the other side.

Booth is still stunned, but coming around slowly. Stepping forward, he smacks his palm against the edge of the elevator door the moment before it closes completely. He grabs her by the belt buckle, and gently, but forcefully pulls her back into the elevator and into his arms. He punches the button for the tenth floor. As the doors close, he slides both his arms around her and tightens them until she can barely breathe. She thinks she's going to lose consciousness from the intensity of what's going on inside her body. He looks in her eyes for a moment, then begins kissing her neck hungrily, starting by her ear, avoiding her lips. He's breathing hot, heavy, moist air onto her neck, sending black sparkly tingles up and down her spine. Suddenly she has the sensation that her bra is on way, way too tight.

He leans back just enough to see the affect he's having on her. Her eyes are closed, her face in the tense grimace of a person lost in a moment of passion.

She's breathing slowly and deeply, and the only thing she can hear is the rush of blood in her ears, that and whatever sounds inside her chest that are finding their way to the open air. Somewhere, at some time, the elevator must have stopped at the tenth floor, because she becomes aware that they are descending again.

Booth inclines his head and kisses her from her left ear, down her neck, and right along the edge of that V-neck top, that tantalizing, plunging, neckline that has been taunting him all evening.

When he reaches the V of her top, he blows slow, hot, moist breath down into what is hidden beneath the cobalt blue fabric. What goes through her consciousness as a result is an urgent, desperate need to get her clothes off. She needs, desperately, to be touched ... under that cobalt blue top ... or she'll go crazy. She shivers involuntarily as he starts his ascent back up to her other ear. When he makes it up to her right ear lobe, she leans her cheek against his and feels her heart beating so fiercely, she thinks her brain might be swelling. Her head is too heavy to lift and she whispers, "Kiss me. Kiss me Booth, on my lips," she whispers, attempting to turn his face toward hers. "Please."

He lets out a little chuckle into her ear, and whispers, "No."

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Booth starts walking her backward toward the door, putting out a hand to keep it from closing on them.

"That," he says, "That … is what you have _to look forward to ... _" then pushes her back over the threshold to the other side of the mechanical sliding doors.

As she backs away, he notices something pink poking out of her waistband.

"Are those my panties?" he says, leaning forward and pulling on them.

"Yes," she says, leaning a hand on the wall next to the elevator doors, letting him take them without resistance. "I've had them hidden in there the whole night," she explains, chuckling weakly. "And here's something else for you," she says, reaching into her bra and pulling out a damp slip of light green paper the size of a bar drink order pad. She leans in to hand it to him, then backs away. Later he will read it and remember that he'll never know what it says unless he has someone translate it for him. No way he's going to look it all up himself, he can't wait that long. Inside is written:

**_"Un día, nos vamos a duchar juntos. _**  
><strong><em>Y ese día, cuando nosotros estemos por fin solos, <em>**  
><strong><em>voy a enseñarte cuanto te quiero."<em>**

"But what about the tee shirt you owe me?" she challenges him.

Looking straight at her, booth reaches behind his head with both hands and grabs hold of the back of his tee shirt. Pulling it over his head, he tosses it at her.

"Oh my," she says, as it flies into her face and she catches it. Before pulling it off her head, she fills her lungs with the scent of him, and almost passes out.

"I think I'll ride the elevator for a while," he says, stepping back, all the way back, and leaning heavily on the back wall. The doors slide closed for the final time between them.

He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall, feeling finally like he's on solid ground again. He remains like that until his pulse and breathing are somewhat back to normal. Opening his eyes, he notices that he never indicated a destination floor, so the elevator isn't going anywhere. He takes one long stride forward and punches the round button with the number ten. The elevator starts moving upward once again. Booth leans on the side of the elevator with the mechanical panel. At the tenth floor, the doors open. No one gets on except the tenth floor hallway air. He punches the button for the lobby. The elevator goes down to the second floor. An older man gets on, grimace-smiling the perfunctory acknowledgement at Booth. Booth shoves his hands into his pockets, backs up toward the back of the elevator, and returns the greeting. The gentleman leans over to look at the electrical panel, then leans back, satisfied that they are already heading to the lobby.

When the doors open, the gentleman steps out, holds the door and nods at Booth, waiting for him to exit. Booth shakes his head no. The gentleman gives Booth a wide grin from ear to ear, a mouth full of perfectly aligned dentures. "I hope she's worth the wait, son," he says, winking. He gives a little nod to Booth and lets go of the door. As the door closes, he hears the old guy say wistfully, "Ahhh, to be young again …"

* * *

><p>As the elevator doors slide closed in front of her, Bones has the thought that she is going to be hung over in the morning. Drink lots of water and take an aspirin, she advises herself. Then she remembers that her disorientation is not from alcohol, but from dopamine. <em>Oh<em>, she thinks, _maybe I'll be fine._

Taking one step forward, she lays her face and one hand against the cool metal of the closed elevator doors. It feels wonderful on her burning cheeks. As images of what caused her capillaries to completely freak out flash across the inside of her eyelids, she smiles weakly, sighing.

"Wow."

* * *

><p><em>I don't know about you, but my own capillaries went crazy while I was rereading this to edit it.<br>But that's just me, I'm HOT BLOODED! (wink)  
>Yowsa! <em>


	152. Bedtime For Bones

_A/N After that steamy elevator scene ... we gotta throw a little cold water on the story ... but how long will that last? Enjoy this chapter! ~MoxieGirl_

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><p><strong>Chapter 151 Bedtime for Bones<strong>

Brennan stares at the carpeted hallway as her feet take her back to her hotel room from the elevator lobby on the 3rd floor. If an elephant had walked down the hall toward her, she wouldn't have noticed. Standing in front of her own door, she glances over at his. Soon he will stand right there, doing exactly what she's doing now,_ though he will be shirtless,_ she tells herself. Covering her nose in a fist full of his tee shirt, she inhales, filling her lungs to capacity. If she weren't aware of the resilient nature of the human body and all of it's processes, she would have thought that by now her capillaries would be exhausted from this evening's workout. But, true to form, here they go again … her blood running laps through her sub dermal arterioles. She puts a hand to her cheek and estimates at least a 2 degree rise in temperature

Sighing, she uncovers her face and notices she has her key card in her other hand. She must have gotten it out of her back pocket, but she doesn't remember doing it. What she does remember, is Booth's warm hand in that pocket when they were taking their brief break before making their separate notes about the evening "interviews." _What made him think it would be harmless to cuddle on the couch like that?_ That had surprised her. _Talk about tempting fate. Oh, who cares,_ she tells herself,_ it's not like either of our brains were fully functioning for the last couple of hours anyway._

Once inside her room, she tosses the key card on the bedside table, Booth's tee shirt on the bed, and walks serenely into her bathroom. Stripping down while brushing her teeth, she turns on the shower head, and waits for the water to heat up. Leaning against the counter top, she bends over and spits into the sink. Standing up straight again, she wipes some toothpaste off her lower lip and looks at her face in the mirror.

"Wow," she says to her reverse image, breaking into a silly grin, shaking her head. Her reflection, in response, gives her a satisfied _"Well, I'll be damned,"_ look. Moving closer to the glass surface, Brennan notices some broken blood vessels on both sides of her neck. Running her fingers gently over her skin, she recalls how they got there, and can't help smiling, taking an inventory of the damage. "It was well worth it," she says, nodding. Closing her eyes, she plays back the memory of how his lips, his teeth, felt on her neck, how it felt to be held close, and serenaded on the dance floor, their bodies pressed together. She thinks about her dream. She relives the sensation she had of letting go of the edge of a very deep pool into, which is how she felt when she kissed him in the elevator. She was floating, and then hanging onto Booth. She did not want to let go of him. The intensity of this memory takes her by surprise, and she's overwhelmed for a moment, unaware that several tears have been collecting in her lashes. When they reach critical mass and tumble down her cheek, she shakes herself, as if to loosen the stranglehold these emotions appear to have on her.

"Here we go," she says, massaging the few loose tears into her skin, her hairline. "I hope you are ready for this."

In response, her reflection's face morphs gradually from excitement, to fear and angst, and finally to peacefulness. "You're going to be just fine," her reflection assures her. "Just fine."

Before turning away from the mirror, Brennan wraps her arms tightly around herself, gripping her triceps with each opposite hand. She lifts her right shoulder, resting her cheek and ear on her trapezius and deltoid muscles. For years after her parents abandoned her, and after Russ took off, this was the only kind of hug she received. It still comforts her, though, it occurs to her for the first time, since Booth entered her life, she hadn't had much need for it. That is, until Hannah appeared on the scene, then disappeared, leaving a trail of wreckage behind her. Those had been some long, tough months.

"Thank the universe they are behind us now!" she says, noticing that with the peacefulness comes a pang of sadness, of missing him already. Exhausted, she shakes off this barrage of wishy-washy sensations and walks over to the shower curtain. Testing the temperature and finding it too hot, she flips the knob almost to the opposite end of the spectrum. A cool shower is what she really needs anyway. Stepping in from the opposite end, she walks toward the shower head, looking forward to the rejuvenating effect of the cool water. Standing in front of the stream, a hand on either side of the shower head, she leans forward, letting the water wash over her, as she imagines steam escaping from her body through the top of her head. "Now, THAT'S what I'm talking about," she says, borrowing a phrase from her partner.

Out of the shower and dried off, her hair wrapped in a towel, she finds Booth's tee shirt and slips it over her head. From her suitcase she grabs a pair of panties from her suitcase, the last clean pair. This is another pair from the snarky set Angela gave her. On the back of this silky, light purple pair is written printed:

_**Congratulations!**_

_**If you are close enough to read this,**_  
><em><strong>you're at the top of my 'to do' list today!<br>**_

Noticing her cell phone on the bedside table as she crawls toward the pillows, she picks it up and reviews the list of numbers of the people who called while she was out. Angela. Rebecca. Hodgens. Benton. Angela again.

"Hm," she grunts, laying the phone back down, pulling back the bedspread, and sliding in between the cool, comforting sheets. And that is the last thing she remembers doing the night she made out with her partner, Seeley Booth, in the hallway, in the bar, in the study, and in the elevator. Sighing a happy sigh, smiling a satisfied smile, she drifts off to sleep. That is, until the middle of her third REM cycle, when her demons come knocking at her subconscious, and she's jarred awake by the sound of her own cries, and the pounding on the door that adjoins her and Booth's rooms.

"Bones! Bones! Open up!" he's yelling and pounding, panic in his tone. "Don't make me shoot this door open!"

Jumping out of bed, worried about what is going on, she runs to the door, unlocks it, and flings it open. Booth is standing there poised to fight. In one hand he's got his gun, in the other, his cell phone. He quickly removes the magazine from his gun, throws both pieces onto the bed behind him, and rushes at Bones, grabbing her, crushing her against his chest. "Oh, thank you, Sweet Jesus!" he says, rocking her back and forth.

* * *

><p><em>And ... the plot thickens.<em>  
><em>What do you think happened? <em>


	153. Chapter 153 Bedtime For Booth

_A/N Dear Readers, it is enormously satisfying to be recognized by your peers for doing well something that you absolutely love doing, and you have poured your heart into. Writing about these characters is its own reward, of course, but praise is hot fudge chocolate on top of my Ben & Jerry's New Your Double Fudge Chunk. So inspiring has been the review of one reader, manicpixiedreamgurl, that I'm compelled to give her what she's asked for. Here is the next chapter, one day early. Thank you _**manicpixiedreamgurl**, and all you other fabulous readers who take the time to let me know what you think! **~MoxieGirl**__

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><p><strong>Chapter 153 Bedtime For Booth<strong>

Booth rides the elevator to the tenth floor one more time, then punches the button for the 3rd floor. Leaning back against the far wall of the elevator, both hands low on his hips, he stares at the floor, thinking about everything and nothing. Mostly nothing. When the elevator call bell chimes, he pushes himself upright without touching the wall, stands in the middle of the elevator for a moment, resting his chin in his right hand, scratching at the stubble growth. Can I think of any excuse not to go to my room this instant? he says to himself. Get a 20 oz. bottle of diet Coke for the morning from the hotel shop, put it in the fridge over night. No, the hotel shop closed at ten PM. A drink at the bar? A jog around the block? The bar is closed, remember? That was the whole reason for the …

Truth be told, the bar closing earlier than they had anticipated ended up making for a perfect ending to a long, wonderful evening together, he thinks, smiling to himself. As for a jog? Now that would be perfect. A cool breeze, no one out but the cicadas and crickets, shadows of oak and beech tree limbs dancing along the sidewalk. Punching the button for lobby the second time in five minutes, Booth waits for the doors to open. passing the front desk, he waves at the night shift clerk who pauses, an odd expression on his face. What? Like no one ever went for a run in the middle of the night? thinks Booth. Approaching the double glass doors of the hotel entrance, he catches a glimpse of himself. "Holy crap," he says out loud, finishing the thought silently inside his own head, he says, "I don't have a shirt on." Duh. Without stopping, he makes a U-turn and heads back toward the elevators, shaking his head and laughing at himself once he rounds the corner away from the front desk.

The evening air would not be very kind to a shirtless man at 2:45 in the morning anyway, right?. This is Haverford, PA, but it's along the Main Line, a straight shot from Philly. Who knows what element lurks under cover of night here these days? I don't have my gun, he thinks, knocking one foot against the other where his ankle holster is usually seated. I have to get a more comfortable holster if I'm going to carry the 9mm Glock under jeans more often. The sound of the elevator door sliding open is a welcome relief. Punching the button with the faded number three, he leans forward, waiting for the doors to close. "Come on, come on, come on," he says out loud, punching the 'close door' button, hoping no one else comes along needing a ride. Finally, the nested doors slide shut and he's alone with his thoughts again.

Staring straight ahead, he replays the sound of Bones' voice as she said, "We were robbed," the first time. His eyes close slowly at the memory. Wow, he thinks, sighing. The way she said it … it made him feel … what do you call it? How do you describe it? It tore at him, struck him in the gut. Hearing her plea for him like that summoned his raw instinct to do whatever necessary to protect, comfort, and respond to her. His previous resolve was worthless in that moment. And he was clear that they did nothing wrong. He wasn't a guy trying to see how far he could get on a first date. He wasn't a teenager groping the neighbor girl under the bleachers. He was a man who loves and respects this woman, a woman who loves and respects him, and wants him. She wants him. And, unless his touted power of perception had abandoned him, which was highly unlikely, she was desperate for him. Is that possible? How could they have come this far in four days? This doesn't bring a smile to his face. It's not the winning of a conquest, a competition of wills, a bid for power over another. She was falling to her knees for him, figuratively. That humbled him. Matured him. Cured him. He could do nothing else but fall to his knees right along side her, figuratively.

Is it like this for most people, he wonders. He thought he'd been in love before. Thought he'd met his match before. But it had never been like this. It had been a mere shadow … of this. The possibility that this could not be real, might not last, was in the back of his mind, but getting fainter and fainter every day.

Walking down their hallway, he slows down, but passes his own door and stands in front of hers. It's only been fifteen minutes since he left her outside the elevator, his bunched-up tee shirt half covering her face. He listens, and considers knocking on her door. Maybe just to tell her how thankful he is that they are … sharing this experience … an experience that is 'just ours.'

Retracing his steps back to his door, he enters his own room, and tosses the contents of his pockets onto the desk. Emerging from the bathroom after a quick shower, he can't help doing the same 'should I knock on her door?' dance in front of their adjoining doors. "You miss her, don't you, you big sap?" he says to himself, though it looks like he's saying it to the door that separates their two rooms. Certainly he can't do it in just a towel, which is all he's wearing right now.

"Man, he says to himself, rubbing his eyes, "I am so screwed up by this woman. Almost walked out into the street half naked, almost knocked on her door completely naked. Get it together, Booth!" An image of himself showing up at the Hoover building in a three piece suit minus the pants, smacks him into action.

Tossing the wet towel over the bed and across the room to the bathroom floor, he digs through his carry-on for something to wear to bed. Boxers. That's all he has left. Blue and white striped boxers. Not his favorite. "Note to myself," he says out loud, slipping them on, "see if the custom tee shirt people can print on boxers as well. Or on tightie whities, that would be even better. How would this look across his ass:

**FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth**  
><strong>The Standard by Which All Other Aspiring<strong>  
><strong>Sexy FBI Agents are Measured<strong>

Hm. He'd prefer something more provocative, maybe:

**Special Agent Seeley Booth**  
><strong>FBI - Female Body Inspector<br>**

Or something REALLY provocative:

**That's not a gun in my pocket,**  
><strong><em>I'm just really happy to see you!<br>_**

Or:

**Beware:**  
><strong>Anaconda on Board.<strong>

_Ohhhhkay, that's enough. Better not quit my day job. Leave the writing of clever quips to the experts. Maybe Bones could come up with something snazzy for me? Hm. That's a thought. Besides, she'd be the one who'd have to stare at the boxers all the time,_ he thinks, provided …... hm.

This, of course, leads him to thoughts of body parts. Her body parts. Her eyes, her skin, her neck, her smile, her … voluptuous shape and all the soft parts included in that. Of course, this is not the real _order_ he thinks in, but you get the general idea.

Grabbing his cell phone, he sees calls left by Rebecca, Camille, and Hodgens. Pushing the buttons, the only message he listens to is the one from Rebecca's number.

_**"Dad, this is me, Parker. I'm really bummed you can't be home tomorrow, but I do like Mr. Jack.**  
><strong>He says we'll still fish tomorrow, but we might not catch anything because the river is dirty.<strong>  
><strong>I know you have to catch the bad guys. At least you have Bones to keep you company.<strong>  
><strong>Mom says to call her about when you'll bring me back on Sunday. I miss you.<strong>  
><strong>Mr. Jack is nice, but it's not the same as you and me. Love you, dad … Bye."<strong>_

_That kid fills my whole heart,_ he thinks. _I hope he has fun with Hodgens._ Skipping past the message from Dr. Saroyan, he listens to Hodgens' message.

**_ "Agent Booth. Hodgens. Looking forward to spending manly time with mini-Booth tomorrow.  
>Thought I'd take him for some bass on the Potomac. I have a little outboard with room for four.<br>Angela's packing a lunch for us. Planning to head out around 8. I'll have the cell. Leave a message  
>if I miss you. We should be finished around 4. Have a safe flight. Oh, and I WILL<br>make sure he wears his PFD - thanks for the fifteen reminders, pal. Later."_**

Booth chuckles. He wishes it was going to be him with Parker tomorrow. Then he thinks about Bones' comment about Parker being the only one with a right to know about their relationship. Wow. That blew him away. _She knows me so well, and she loves my kid. Wow._

Flipping shut the cell, he clicks on the tv. He surfs for ten minutes and gives up. It's 3AM. Not much on the tube other than porn and news and people selling plastic crap. No hockey scores, what the hell? Climbing under the sheets, he clicks off both bedside lamps. Lying in the dark, his hands clasped behind his head, he stares at the ceiling in the dark and starts thinking again about tonight and Bones. A couple of images float by, but he doesn't give anything much thought. He's too tired.

A little voice in the back of his brain won't stop jumping up and down, begging for attention. He knows that voice. It's the voice of trouble. It's this little Filthy Stinking Bastard that creeps out when he's feeling uncertain about something. More accurately, it's when he's **ignoring** that he's feeling uncertain. These are some of the thoughts the Nasty Bastard lobs at Booth as he's attempting to fall asleep:

**You've stood by and watched as Bones dated several men. Those relationships usually end when she pushes them away, or, the guy pushes the relationship, and she backs out. What does that mean for your and Bones' relationship? Can you live a life without the promise of a future, the kind of future you've always seen for yourself? You like to put boxes around things too. You'd like to be in a relationship that travels along a trajectory ending with a power mower and a two car garage.**

**Can you give up that dream if it just doesn't work for her? Could you live with the uncertainty of never knowing if she'll up and leave one day?**

_"Wait a minute,"_ he says to the Nasty Bastard, _"first of all, no one and nothing can make her do something she doesn't want to do. Second of all, she has first hand experience of what it is like to be abandoned. That alone is enough to keep her from inflicting the same pain on someone she loves."_

_But what if she stays with you, even if you can't make her happy, just to spare you the pain of her leaving? What if someone smarter comes along, someone she can talk anthropology with? What if her books take her away from your work together?_

_"Hey, Filthy Stinking Bastard, sure, I want to build a home. And no, I don't want Parker's childhood to be anything like mine was. He deserves stability. A home filled with love .. and siblings … and Christmas morning around the tree … the family sitting together in a pew at church on sundays. And I know Bones … we can work this out. We **will** work this out._

**Yeah, but you took a gamble on her last time because you thought she trusted you enough to give it a chance, and look what that got you. Bupkis.**

_"You are barking up the wrong tree, Filthy Stinking Bastard. You are way uninformed this time. I don't know what she and Sweets have been working on together … but it sounds like she's been doing a lot of thinking. I've seen a side of her today that I didn't know was there. A confidence. A strength despite vulnerability - a boldness in the face on intimacy which usually stops her in her tracks. So buzz off, FSB! Go find someone your own size to torture …"_ This was the argument Booth was having with the voice of uncertainty when he finally fell asleep.

His rest is short-lived, however. About an hour later, Booth is jarred awake by the sound of breaking glass. Gut-wrenching cries, intermittently drowned out by the sound of things crashing to the floor and breaking. It is **all** coming from Bones' room. Bounding out of bed and grabbing his gun, he first listens carefully through the door. For the moment, all is quiet. He's scared stiff, a cold electric sweat making his hair stand on end. He yells through the door.

**"Bones? Bones!"** Pause, listening. Nothing. **"Bones! Bones ... ANSWER ME! ARE YOU OKAY?"**

Nothing. Then a weak cry. Something is fucking going on in there and it isn't good!

**"BONES! BONES, OPEN UP! DON'T MAKE ME SHOOT THIS DOOR OPEN!" **he screams.

He hears movement and the lock clicking open. He's ready for anything. He's loaded for bear and high on adrenaline. His cell phone is ready to dial the police department.

The door flies open. Bones is standing there, looking like death warmed over, dried blood smeared across her face and down one arm. The room is a mess, but she seems to be okay otherwise.

He quickly removes the magazine from his gun, throws both pieces onto the bed behind him, and rushes at Bones, grabbing her, crushing her against his chest. "Oh, thank you, Sweet Jesus!" he says, rocking her back and forth. "What has been going on in here?"

"What are you talking about?" she says, confused, concerned, a little frightened.

Booth looks around the room. Her eyes follow his. The sheets are twisted and scattered all around the bed. There's blood on her pillows. The bedside lamps and their lightbulbs lie broken in pieces on the floor. Bones' hair is … well, it's almost standing straight up. Could this have all happened in her sleep?

"What the hell happened here?" she yelps. "Booth! **WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED HERE?"**

They stare at each other in the semi-dark, speechless.

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><p><em>If you have enjoyed this story, don't keep it to yourself. <em>  
><em><strong>Tell all your friends<strong> ... they may be secretly Jonsing for  
><em>_Bones just as much as you and I are. _


	154. Never Attack A Sniper's Girlfriend

_A/N Okay, folks it gets pretty messy after this chapter ... but perhaps not the way you might expect. Enjoy this little bit of machismo! ~MoxieGirl_

**Chapter 154 Never Attack a Sniper's Girlfriend **

In the same moment that Bones reaches down to scratch an itchy sensation on her forearm, finding that it's dried blood, they both hear a sound from the darkened bathroom behind her.

Booth yanks Bones into his bedroom, and lunges at the bed to grab his Glock and the magazine. Checking the rounds, he counts seventeen, a full complement. Next time, he thinks, bring the 9mm Glock 18 - with a 33 capacity complement.

"Bones, get into the bathroom, lay down in the tub and stay there until I come back and get you. If you hear anything," he directs in a raspy whisper, slapping his cell into her hand, "call Benton immediately. He's speed dial '8.' Do NOT, under _any_ circumstances, go back into your room. Do you hear me?"

Bones stares at him, her heart pounding, she's trying to make sense of the input jarring her senses. "Booth! I have a gun in my room," she says, trying to lunge past him toward their adjourning door.

Booth grabs her around the waist with his free arm as she flies by him, almost yanking her off her feet. He pulls her back upright until she gets her balance, and stares into her eyes.

"NO!" he says. "You will stay here! We do not know what the hell happened or how they got into your room, and you are not going to risk your life …"

"Booth, please!" she yelps. Any other time, she would have been indignant, insistent, but she is exhausted, confused, and more than a little freaked out by the notion that someone could have been in her room while she lay there sleeping and vulnerable. So, instead, she tears up for moment, overwhelmed.

"You will stay here! Crouched down in the bathtub. Make NO sounds. **CALL BENTON IF YOU HEAR ANYTHING!** Now go! **PROMISE ME!**"

For a split second, she considers arguing, but she can see he's serious enough to handcuff her to the towel rack if she resists. _"DO. NOT. BE. A. HERO!"_ she hisses at him vehemently, before running in the opposite direction toward Booth's bathroom. Before going in, she grasps the hollow, squared, metal towel rack with both hands, and yanks it out of the wall. Instead of crouching in the tub, she hides behind the door, watching through the slit at the doorjamb, her makeshift weapon poised to beat the crap out of anyone or anything that threatens Booth's safety. Flipping the phone open, she places her finger over the number eight and waits, not breathing.

Booth advances slowly and silently in bare feet toward their adjoining door, his right arm at a ninety degree angle, the Glock directed toward the ceiling, until he breaches the metal threshold separating their two rooms. Swinging the Glock firmly and purposefully to his center and perfectly horizontal with the floor, he crouches and advances slowly into the room, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the low light. Swiftly surveying the room, left to right, and satisfied that nothing with a pulse lurks there, he advances. No feet under the curtains, no shadows behind the chair, or in the dark corner of the door to the hallway. Nothing on the opposite side of the room. He glances at the carnage around the bed and redoubles his determination to beat the feces out of the son of a bitch stupid enough to threaten a woman who's in love with a sniper.

Four feet from the bathroom door, Booth pauses, no part of his body moving except the pulse rhythmically thumping along the vein at his right temple. That, and his tongue, which he absently clenches between his teeth, or sticks out of the corner of his mouth when he's single-mindedly concentrating on his target.

Breathing in slowly and silently, he shifts his weight from his back, left foot, to his front, right foot, and prepares to breach this threshold. It's a small, dark bathroom, and his target has the advantage. Booth is surrounded by a darkness less dense than that which conceals his opponent. Booth is dealing with the unknown, his target knows exactly what is going on and what his own defenses are. By now, he's also most likely figured out that Booth has military or police experience handling a weapon and clearing a space of questionable perilousness. He's surmised all of this, if he has any experience at all doing this kind of thing, based upon the thorough and fearless manner with which Booth has taken command of the situation, or acts like he has, at least.

The only thoughts running through Booth's mind right now are the input supplied by his preternatural ability to sense the proximity and severity of a threat, and his singleminded focus toward the end of disarming that threat.

The sound he and Bones heard earlier repeats, slicing a dagger of adrenaline trough Booth's left pectoris major, or breast muscle, covering his heart. Any other person would have lost control of their bowels in response to such a severe physiological response, but Booth is trained to compartmentalize these things, and remains unaffected. Taking a swift, yet silent breath in, he flips on the bathroom light and intimidates the hell out of a shower curtain and two sizable bottles of personal hygiene products which are much too large to have maintained any kind of purchase on the pathetic triangle of ledge space provided by the corners of the pre-manufactured plastic bathtub. Those two bottles are slowly sliding toward the bath drain on a slick of water droplets and bath gel. Their individual tumbles from the ledge to the tub bottom is exactly what made the noises they had heard. Even now, they continue their slow slide toward the drain. For the first time since bolting awake only minutes ago, Booth becomes aware that an occasional low rumble shakes the walls, most likely from the water pipes and a nearby flush, or an early morning shower. It's enough to coax, over a brief period of time, two non-hotel regulation sized full bottles over the edge of the inadequate ledge. As he's figuring this all out, a cake of slimy, translucent, orange soap takes a dive, and slaloms from a third tub corner ledge toward the bottled soaps. She must have brought all of these products from home. Whew. However, none of this explains the bloody mess all over Bones, the crashed and broken lamps in pieces across the floor, or the twisted and disheveled bedding.

Booth drops the Glock to his side, rocks back on his left foot to survey the bedroom, then falls forward, turning, to land seated on the toilet. Bones runs into the room. She'd been watching, concealed by the adjoining door, from the door jamb.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," he says, relieved, removing the magazine from his gun and running the back of his right hand across his forehead.

"Whew." He looks at her for the first time since he sent her to his bathroom. Since she has not had a chance to look in a mirror, she's most likely unaware that she's smeared with blood across her face, caked in her hair, and splotched on her forehead. He notices now that a coat of brown crust covers the length of her left forearm as well. Was that there before? He hadn't investigated her closely before because it was apparent by the color of the blood that she was not actively bleeding. He assumed that either her blood had coagulated, or it didn't even belong to her. Now he looks more closely at the woman standing in front of him, hardly breathing. She's pale. But not from loss of excessive blood. More likely from shock.

Standing, Booth bends at the waist, turns on the tap, and takes a long drink of cold water to remove the taste of stress from his mouth and dilute the aggressive amount of adrenaline still coursing through his system.

Placing the Glock and the magazine on the toilet seat, he takes two small steps toward Bones, who is now slumped on the floor up against the wall right outside the bathroom door. Crouching down, he looks closely at her, not touching her yet in case she's in some kind of shock. When she meets his gaze, he reaches out and touches her face, searching for a source for the blood. There it is, he decides. It's coming from her nose.

"What is it, Booth?" she says, concerned, starting to stand up. He puts his hand gently on her shoulder and speaks quietly.

"You sit here. It looks like what you've got is a bloody nose. I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure that's what's going on here. Let me get some warm face cloths."

Bones relaxes visibly. She's also recovering from an adrenaline rush.

Returning from the sink, Booth places a warm cloth on the largest collection of blood on her face, and holds it there, softening it, so he can eventually wipe it away. To the left of her nose, and extending all the way across her cheek to her ear, is what appears to be several layers of dried blood and goo. Snot, most likely. In the middle of this wide macabre red-brown brush stroke, is a void that looks like a meandering stream, or puddle. As if she had tried to clean off her face by dripping droplets of water onto her cheek rather than using a cloth or a whole handful of water. He knows what that is … it's the path of tears when released from the eye of a person reclining.

Attempting to calm her with gentle humor while alternately cleaning her face, and repeatedly rinsing, and rehydrating three wash cloths, he says, "You look like you lost a fight with Muhammed Ali, Bones."

"What?" she says, attempting to put a hand to her face. As she reaches up, he takes her hand and puts it back in her lap. She moves her tongue around in her mouth, sticking it out like a child tasting something green, luke warm, and slimy for the first time. "Blood," she says. It's a statement, not a question. Looking down, she notices it on her forearm. "What the hell?" she says, lifting both of her arms up for inspection. Then she looks toward the bed, the broken lamps, the soiled pillows.

"Do you remember what you were doing right before I pounded on your door?"

Bones looks up and to the right, thinking. "I was sleeping …"

"Do you remember anything else?" Finally wiping the last of the crusty mess off of her face, he rinses out his cloth, and starts to massage the crust off of her forearms. He doesn't say anything for a while, waiting for her to process whatever she can, and respond.

"I heard crashing noises … like glass breaking."

"Okay," he says, watching her closely as he dabs at her skin. No abrasions there. Having cleaned her up, he tilts her head up and attempts to ascertain if the nose was the source of the downpour. Yes, a little blood left in each nostril. Whew. Tossing all the soiled cloths into the bathtub, he grabs the end of the toilet paper roll and spins off a good four feet of tissue, handing it to her. "You might want to blow your nose," he says, sitting down in front of her for a moment.

She blows. Then blows again. Then blows a third time, wiping under her nose and across her chin as well. Definitely a raucous nose bleed. What caused it, he's thinking, but not saying. He takes the wad of toilet paper from her, tosses it in the toilet, and flushes.

Reaching down to her, he watches her carefully as she grabs his hand and unsteadily lifts herself up. As she stands, something clangs onto the carpeted floor.

"Oh!"

"What's this?" he says.

"Um, the towel rack from your bathroom," she answers sheepishly. "Sorry."

Out of relief more than anything, he starts to chuckle. "What were you going to do with this?" he asks, continuing to chuckle, "bonk our assailant on the nose?"

"Hey!" she says, a little offended. "I'm very good at … improvising ... using whatever I can get my hands on to maim a dirtbag … many times to your benefit!"

"I cannot deny that," he concedes, nodding. "Not much in my room to cause much harm, was there?"

"Not once you took the gun," she admits. "I was panicked, Booth. It was all I could find!"

"His testicles wouldn't have stood a chance," he says, chuckling, gripping the towel rack like a baseball bat and taking a two handed swing at testicle level, making a little popping noise.

They both sigh. She walks over to the bed, plopping down so hard that she bounces two or three times.

"So, what do you think happened here?" he asks.

She stares at him blankly, then tears up when the realization hits her. "I was having the most awful nightmare … and I must have thrashed about … " She has a dazed look in her eyes. His heart goes out to her. He pulls up the chair from next to the desk.

"You wanna tell me about it?" he says.

She shakes her head, dropping her face into her hands for a moment. Then, straightening up, she gains control of herself, shuddering to shake away her feelings.

"I was making you bleed," she says, tears again popping out of her eyes despite her determined resolve to get to the bottom of this mystery ...

* * *

><p><em>Was this what you expected? What do you think she means by<em>  
><em>"I was making you bleed ...? To find out, tune in tomorrow!<em>


	155. Chapter 155 Demons Never Leave Peacefull

_A/N Dear Readers, these next couple of chapters are a little different, you'll see why in a moment. _

_Some readers may find them hard to swallow (or unrealistic) if they've never experienced emotional trauma like B&B have. I hope none of you have had to ... but if you have, I hope that you also had someone you are willing to let see you when you've felt your ugliest and most pathetic, so you had support processing it all. This part of healing is not comfortable, which I think is why processing it is traumatic. Ironically, this is the exact part that can solidify our love for each other ... having the honor to be witness to someone else's base fear and pain ... then helping them overcome it._

_You and I, we don't have a billion viewers and advertisers to keep happy with this story - so we have the privileged freedom to write more candidly what is real, rather than what is just sexy. Those of you who can most appreciate this next chapter will perhaps never write in to comment, but know that you are not out there alone - nor are you unique in your experience of grief, self-doubt, and pain as a result of what life has laid at your feet. So there it is ... I'm done now. You may proceed. ~MoxieGirl_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 155 Demons Never Leave Peacefully<strong>

"In my dream you were bleeding, and it was my fault!" she says again, looking up at him, beginning to sob. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Booth, I'm really struggling to hold it together right now." She's sitting at the foot of the bed, Booth opposite her in the chair he's dragged over from the hotel room desk.

Booth shakes his head, a 'you don't have to hold it together' gesture. He pauses, looking in her eyes, saying nothing, just being there with her, for whatever is going on inside her head, her heart.

"I'm a mess! Look at me! Who is this mess?" she pleads. "You must be sick of me by now! This is not me, Booth!" she says, waving her arms around indicating both sides of the room, both sides of her life. "I hate this! I hate this …. All of this."

"No, no no," he says, shaking his head again, grimacing. "I am not sick of you." They exchange a heavy look. "And it is normal to have strong feelings about what you have had to go through."

"Hyperbolic privilege," she says, her face crumbling again. "Using hyperbole can be cathartic at times of extraordinary duress, I'm finding."

Booth stands up and sits beside her, to her right, putting his arm around her. She leans on him, sinking her face into his chest, sobbing.

"Oh," she yelps, backing away, shocked into silence for a moment. They stare at each other, realizing at the same time that neither of them is wearing much clothing. Booth's right hand flies to his chest where her tears are now turning cold. He follows her eyes as she glances from his hand on his chest, down to her bare legs. Looking up, they stare at each other for a moment with blank expressions on their faces, not needing to say anything.

Booth squeezes her one more time. "I'll be right back," he says, kissing her on the temple, then disappearing into his bedroom. Picking through the pile of dirty clothing in his carry-on, he grabs a pair of jogging shorts and the least offensively soiled tee shirt he can find. Slipping both on, he makes a phone call to the front desk, then grabs all three of the big fluffy pillows from his bed, and returns to her room.

Bones has disappeared into her bathroom with a pair of her own jogging shorts. Booth hears the toilet flush and the tap water rushing into the sink, followed by the same low rumble that vibrated her shampoo, conditioner, and bar of soap off the slippery ledge of the tub moments ago.

Moving the desk chair back to its original location, he tosses his pillows onto the floor at the foot of the bed. Stripping her bloody pillows and the flat sheet off of her bed, he tosses them onto the floor by the front door. Locating two trash cans, he fills them with the broken ceramic bedside lamps and the remnants of the shattered lightbulbs, setting the whole mess in the hallway outside the door. Before he gets back over to the head of her bed to check the fitted sheet for stains, he hears three swift knocks on the door.

"Housekeeping," says a young voice from the hallway.

Opening the door, Booth backs away to make room for the twenty-something chambermaid dragging a heavy-duty red vacuum cleaner, which she stands, upright, in front of the open adjoining doors. As the young woman strips the fitted sheet from the bed, drops it on the pile of linens already on the floor, and stuffs everything into a dingy fabric drawstring laundry bag, Booth decides he should warn Bones about what's going on out here.

"Bones!" he says, knocking on her bathroom door. "There's a hotel staff person out here to vacuum up the broken glass. Don't be alarmed when she turns the thing on, okay? She's also got fresh sheets and pillows."

"Thank you, Booth," he hears her say in a muffled tone.

"Are you okay in there?" he strains to hear any sounds. All he hears is sniffing.

"Bones, I'm going to open the door, is that okay?"

No reply. He opens the door a crack and peeks in. She's sitting on the toilet lid, her knees tucked up under her chin, her arms hugging her legs. She's red-faced and teary.

"Bones," he says, gently, soothingly.

"I don't want you to see me like this," she says in a quivering voice that sounds like she's holding her breath as she speaks.

Hesitating only for a second, he opens the door the rest of the way, walks through it, and sits on the edge of the bathtub to her left. He hasn't gotten this far in life without being able to recognize a silent plea for assurance.

Bones turns away from him, hiding her face.

"What the hell, Booth? What the hell?"

If he didn't know any better, he'd think she was chastising him for coming into the bathroom when she' hadn't verbally invited him. But that's not what she's referring to. He knows her well enough to understand that she does not want to be alone, really, and that she is more upset now than she has probably been in twenty years. He waits, sitting on the uncomfortable hard plastic edge of the bathtub, leaning his knee against the toes on her left foot, which overlap the edge of the toilet seat.

Without turning her face toward him, Bones drops her left hand onto his knee. Without making any sudden moves, Booth covers her hand with his own. Slipping his left hand under hers, and putting his right hand on top, he squeezes her hand gently between his own, massaging her palm. She rocks back and forth slightly, for a moment, her left ear resting atop her knees. She's still not looking at him. He hears a huge, juicy sniff, and offers her a handful of toilet paper from the roll. She takes it and blows her nose, then pushes the tissue into her closed left eye, partially to mop up tears, but partially just to hide.

He still hasn't said anything except her name since entering the bathroom. For a moment it seems as though she isn't going to say anything more either. Sometimes it's enough just to be there, and have someone there with you.

"What if you die?" she ekes out, shaking, trying not to make noise as she continues crying.

Booth pauses, his heart breaking. He heaves an audible sigh, then blows out slowly and at length. He knows where this is going. He's had the very same torturous thoughts many times over.

"It's pretty much guaranteed that I'm going to die … eventually," he says very quietly. "We all will." He knows that she, of all people, is acutely aware of this fact, but it's what you say to a person who is concerned about your mortality.

"But what if we make plans … and then you die?" She tosses the soaked tissue into the sink at her right and looks over at him. Her face is swollen and pink, tears streaming like a spring drizzle. She rests her right ear on her knee, wrapping her arms around her legs again, facing him now. Her tears flow from her left eye, over the bridge of her nose, into her right eye, pooling in her medial canthus, the angle formed at the conjunction of the upper and lower eyelids next to the bridge of her nose. Once at capacity, the pool releases a cascade of warm, but quickly cooling salt water down onto her right knee or, if ambitious, into her right ear. Bones stares into his eyes, unblinking. Who needs to blink when your eyes are already moistened beyond capacity?

"Booth," she says, not moving. "In my dream, I was hurting you." She pauses, sniffs. "I didn't mean to. I didn't want to … but there was this life-size hornet's nest. Gray in color," she says, looking at the floor with the blank stare of someone accessing a vivid memory.

"I was pushing you backward toward it. Hornet's nests have extraordinarily strong interior structures. In my dream, it was MY nest. Each chamber inside the nest was large enough for an adult human to comfortably sit inside. Angela was sitting in one, and so was Dr. Saroyan. They were chatting away like it was normal to be sitting around in a hornet's nest, talking. Like it happens all the time. Every once in a while one of them would get up and crawl into a different chamber. All the while talking and laughing … " Bones stops to think, as if following a dream as it plays out on the screen of her mind. "But when I tried to push you backward into a chamber, you were too big, and the edges around the chambers were sharp, like a cookie cutter, or an apple corer-slicer. You didn't have a shirt on, and they dug into your skin, cutting you, making you bleed. But I kept pushing," she says, squeezing her eyes shut, rivulets of tears streaming. "I tried one chamber then another, and you weren't saying anything, you just let me push you into a couple of different chambers." Her eyes are still squeezed shut. "I'm sorry."

"Bones, you don't have to apologize … for a dream. I'm fine. It wasn't … real. It's just popping sparks of chemicals, right? Collecting to form images …"

"Yes, but Sweets says those images can be driven by thoughts of what most concerns us. It may be absurd, but I find that to be accurate in this case," she says, looking up at him finally, leaning her head to the side, an apologetic, sorrowful expression on her face and in her eyes.

Laying his right hand in her hair, almost on the back of her neck, Booth wipes the tears off her left cheek with his thumb. She closes her eyes, trying not to release more tears, but failing. When she starts shaking, he puts his arms around her, awkwardly, because she doesn't uncurl her body from it's perch on the toilet seat, and he's still sitting on the edge of the bathtub. She needs to stay in a ball, with her knees up to her chest. The fetal position feels not so much comforting, as protective, safe.

After a moment of great discomfort, Booth notices that there are no more sounds of activity coming from the bedroom on the other side of the bathroom door.

"Do you mind if we move to the room? This bathtub is hugely uncomfortable," he whispers into the hair at the back of her neck, carefully unfolding himself into a standing position. He slides his right hand down her left forearm and takes her by the wrist. She doesn't resist, and eventually, slowly, stands as well. The room outside this door is clean and fresh, as if the disarray of earlier has been erased. The only difference is that there's only one bedside lamp, but the bed is freshly made and turned down. Three huge fluffy pillows stand lined up leaning against the headboard, like angled family members in a group photo.

Booth grabs her three pillows and throws them on the floor at the foot of her bed, next to his own. He knows from playing countless board games on the floor with Parker that an adult posterior is not meant to spend any quantity of time sitting directly on a hard floor. Making two side by side piles of two pillows each, he sits down on one pile, puts a third pillow behind his back, and leans back against the foot of the bed, holding out his hand to her. It feels a little juvenile, but it is a decent compromise, because hey are not getting into the bed. He's clear about that. This is not how that is going to happen.

Bones has calmed down, enough to be able to talk. She takes his hand and sits on the two stacked pillows to his left. When she leans forward, he slips her third pillow behind her back. He's doing everything for her, taking care of her, and she feels a bit like a child, but knows there's nothing she can do about it. This chafes her independent nature, but who gives a flying duck at this point?

"I have an irrational request," she says, apologetically, finally looking sideways at him. "I just need to compartmentalize for a moment, just to get through this, Booth. Can you just stick with me on this?"

"How is that irrational?"

"I need you to stop looking at me like that … just for a minute."

"How am I looking at you?"

"I just need you to put your 'dreamy' Booth face away, and give me your 'friend' Booth face, your 'partner' face. No … maybe just your friend face. You know what I mean …"

He's nodding, but she's not sure if it's in agreement, or of he's just processing.

"Come on, Booth. Just … can you do this for me? I need my best friend. And … but … my best friend is you," she starts to tear up again, closing her eyes. "I need to talk about you … about me … about us … with you … but without you being you," she says, making a face because she knows this sounds completely illogical. "I apologize if this makes no sense …"

"Surprisingly, it does. I can definitely do that," he says, an empathetic smile/grimace on his face.

"Wait a minute," she says, standing up unsteadily and disappearing into the bathroom, reemerging with a full box of Kleenex to stand in front of him. "I am so sorry. I know you need your sleep …"

"Hey, you need yours too, and at this rate, you won't get any until we get you through this," he says, looking up at her.  
>"So, lets have it. No apologies, okay? This is what friends are for - through thick and thin, right?" He holds his hand out to her again.<p>

She hesitates, then takes his hand and sits down beside him, crossing her legs Indian style. She's still holding the Kleenex box. He takes it from her and puts it on the floor in front of them, and waits. He steals a glance over at her. She's looking into her lap at the crumpled, snotty Kleenex in her hands. He looks straight ahead again, and waits. She grabs a clean Kleenex from the box, blows her nose and starts to laugh … which then makes her cry again. She leans over onto him and cries more. He raises his arm and slips it around her, rubbing her bicep and deltoid muscles. His hand feels strong and very warm against her chilled skin. When the crying continues, he tries to comfort her.

"Hey, sh sh sh. Come on now." He sways her back and forth sideways, still rubbing her arm. "Let it all out." He kisses the top of her head, and gently leans his cheekbone over the spot where he just planted the kiss. He waits. Rocking her side to side.

"Thank you," she says, weepily, blowing her nose again. "Oh yech," she says, realizing she blew right through the piece of thin, cheap, hotel-issued tissue.

Seeing this, Booth smiles to himself. Using only his index and middle fingers, he releases another tissue from the box and dangles it to his left, in front of her.

Unable to locate a garbage can, she tosses the fragmented tissue behind her onto the foot of the bed, and shakes her hand as if to fling away anything that may be still clinging to her fingers. With the clean tissue, she wrings each finger, tossing the wasted tissue behind her, and grabs the next one from between Booth's extended fingers.

"That was attractive," says Booth, not meaning to say it out loud. "Sorry," he says, and this time he can't help chuckling a tiny bit.

Bones looks at him before blowing her nose on the new tissue he holds out to her. The nose blowing is loud. Like the sound of a duck call.

"That's my dainty partner," Booth says, suppressing a smile. She finally chuckles weakly. Then sits staring in front of her for a moment.

"Can I tell you a secret, Booth?" She looks up at him. He nods. "There are times lately when I just want to … run and hide." She pauses, looking for surprise or disappointment in his eyes. "But, you know me …" she says.

"Yes, I do. You don't run from anything," he says, nodding once, returning her gaze.

"Right. And that's what scares me," she says, her voice turning into a strained whisper by the end of her statement. "But I'm sticking it out, Booth. I'm not running," she says, her throat tightening, wanting to assure him. The tears build up, then fall. He puts his arm around her, squeezing her sideways once again. She lets the tears silently soak into his tee shirt, as she exhales in a rhythmic cadence of sobs. While she is accustomed to facing any number of challenges head on, she is not at all used to confronting her tenacious defense mechanism - that of locking things away, leaving them alone, or taking another route - that at one time saved her life, but is now in danger of making her lose it. Demons never leave peacefully during an exorcism, she remembers someone once saying. Though Brennan puts no stock in the spiritual world, she's read enough to imagine that this must be what an exorcism is like.

"I know," he says, kissing her on the top of her head again. Laying his stubbly cheek on her head, to the right of her temple.

"Wanna know something else?" she asks, turning to look at him. "But promise me you won't tease me or use this against me, because that would be very bad. Very, very bad."

"Cross my heart," he says, drawing an invisible X on his chest over the costal cartilages slightly to the right of his clavicle, the center bone between the ribs.

"It's over here," says Bones, pointing to the left side of her own chest.

"What?" he asks, looking at her, confused.

"Your heart," she says, giving him a little poke to the left of his clavicle. "It's on this side," she says, smiling weakly.

"Oh, then cross my heart," he says, once again scratching an invisible X on his chest.

"What about a pinkie swear?"

"Truth be told, Bones, I'm a little old fashioned."

"I know that about you, Booth."

"So what very, very, sensitive information are you going to share with me now?"

She pauses, exhales. Something embarrassing is about to come out of her mouth. Why embarrassing? she thinks. Because, she reminds herself, it acknowledges dependency, vulnerability. Raising her head, she looks at his chin, his lips, then his eyes, before saying anything.

"Your touch is the only thing that seems to sooth me," she says. He almost didn't hear her. Inclining his head closer to her, he almost asks her to repeat it. But as the sound of the words hang in the air, he hears the ghost of the words, and he understands what she said.

Years ago, a former boyfriend had invited Brennan to take a year off from the Jeffersonian to sail away with him. She did not go. According to Booth's therapist at the time, Booth felt a great, and uncomfortable sense of responsibility for her decision to stay. The therapist said that Booth feared Brennan didn't go because of her feelings for him and their partnership. Whether or not that was true, or just a load of FBI crap designed to get the most successful crime-solving team back in the field, as Angela had suspected, is questionable. Regardless, it did get them back in the field, and relieved their individual consciousnesses. Today, however, Booth is more than comfortable to take responsibility for the influence he has had on Brennan's life and choices. Since that time, years ago, one could actually say that Booth was more than ready to "man-up," in the vernacular, wherever and whenever Bones is concerned.

"This is good," he says, nodding confidently. "Knowing what helps calm you down is a very important step in overcoming psychological trauma."

She looks at him for a moment. "You sound like Sweets," she says.

"No, Dr. Gordon Gordon Wyatt," he corrects her. "Here's what I have learned over the last year or so as a result of the traumas I've been through …" he looks up, and to the right, accessing his memory of several sessions on Gordon's couch.

**"Emotional and psychological trauma is the result of extraordinarily  
>stressful events that shatter your sense of security, making you feel<br>helpless and vulnerable in a dangerous world."  
><strong>

"Sound familiar?" he asks, looking down at her, but only with his eyes. "Here's another one …" Accessing the memory as if he's accessing a computer file, Booth recites:

**"Traumatic experiences often involve a threat to life or safety,  
>but any situation that leaves you feeling overwhelmed and<br>alone can be traumatic, even if it doesn't involve physical harm.  
>It's not the objective facts that determine whether an event is<br>traumatic, but your subjective emotional experience of the event.  
>The more frightened and helpless you feel, the more<br>likely you are to be traumatized."**

"You are making sense. My brain is right there with you, Booth. But how can a scary dream render me this helpless? I'm behaving like a five year old child!"

"You mean like a frightened sixteen-year-old girl."

"Why sixteen?"

"Because that's how old you were when your world came crashing down around you. That's when you wrapped your heart in fiberglass, locked it away, and tossed the key out the window."

She looks at him for a moment, struck, stunned. It was so obvious to him. How did she not see it? She starts to tremble, her teeth chattering. She's cold, and the trembling actually hurts a little. She tries, but she can't stop. She doesn't understand what's happening and it frightens her.

"Okay, okay, okay," he says, standing up. He pulls her up off the ground, drags her pillows over so they are in front of his own, then sits back down. Pulling her down in front of him, he turns her so she's facing away from him, and nests her inside his outstretched legs. He puts his arms around her, her back to his chest, and holds her gently, but firmly, around her midsection, covering her arms with his own, until the shaking all but subsides. Once she's seated, he bends his legs at the knees, surrounding her on both sides. She does the same, her arms held tightly against her own chest.

"Breathe in," he says, showing her how. "Breathe out ... deep breath in through your nose," he inhales, "breathe out through your mouth. There you go," he says, soothingly, as she follows his lead. Usually she's the one on the coaching side of this equation. Until now, she hadn't realized how thoroughly incapacitating and disturbing the aftereffects of trauma can be … and how grateful a person is when someone talks them through this simple breathing exercise. She breathes in tandem with Booth for several minutes until her rigid form begins to soften. Their position on the floor and the breathing remind him of Lamaze classes when Rebecca was pregnant with Parker.

Once her muscles relax, she's able to lean back against his chest, exhausted, but she continues the therapeutic breathing technique. Booth relaxes his grip around her waist, but doesn't move his arms. He can finally relax as well.

"Gordon says that breathing like this, sweating, laughing, touching someone else, and trembling are all good ways to calm yourself down when you feel edgy and agitated, have involuntary muscle tension, or nightmares. It's worked for me," he says.

"Laughing, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Can you laugh preemptively and avoid the trauma altogether?" she says chuckling.

"I don't think it works like that, necessarily," he answer. "I have a joke for you."

"You do? What if I don't get it? Sometimes I don't understand your humor, Booth."

"You'll get this," he says. "How long does it take a team of anthropologists to screw in a lightbulb?"

"The same amount it would take any other group of human beings, of course …"

"Un huh. Twenty seconds, plus three years to complete their field notes on the event and ten years to publish the result."

Silence.

"That's funny," she says, laughing finally. "That's especially funny, because I'm an anthropologist," she says, leaning her head back against his shoulder.

"Told you you'd get it," he says, smiling. "Here's another one … which I HOPE Hodgens doesn't tell Parker tomorrow …"

"Let's hear it …"

"What do you call a fish poop?"

"What?"

"A** fish poop**."

"It **is **a Hodgens kind of joke. Coprology, or scatology. One of his favorite areas of study," she says, smiling. "I give up, what do you call a fish poop?"

"A bass-turd. Get it? **A bastard**. Bass-turd," he says, protracting his pronunciation of the word.

"Oh, that's bad," she says, weakly chuckling away the last of the tremors.

"Yeah, it stinks," he adds.

"Oh ohh. You are just full of quips aren't you?" she smiles a little."

"Yeah, I'm full of it all right."

"And that's another scatological reference, isn't it?"

"Yes, actually, it is," he surprises himself.


	156. Chapter 156 IN Defense of Compartmentali

_A/N I've done something a little different in this chapter. The chapter opens with a preamble. Think of it as being similar to how Hodgins, playing the part of a writer in **"The End in the Beginning,"** spoke the introduction and the closing commentaries for the episode, making us ponder our own existence. I hope you enjoy this chapter ... ~MoxieGirl ~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 156 In Defense of Compartmentalization<strong>

In most long term relationships, there is an agreement, sometimes unspoken, that only one person gets to be crazy at a time. Booth and Bones, of course, are no different. Throughout their 6+ years together, they have each had moments of craziness, both separately and together, as is wont to happen when you are around each other as much as these two people are.

In young relationships, new relationships, if we're **really **interested, we put our best foot forward, wear the short skirt, bring out the A game, and do other things to camouflage the hairline fractures, or, heaven forbid, the gaping holes, in our outer veneer. In essence, we hide the beautiful ugliness of our true natures. Some of us clean the house before our prospective lover visits … or we at least clean the sheets before inviting someone between them. Some of us actually buy a suit for a classical date, or decide to crack open the ten year old bottle of Old Spice Dad gave us back when we turned eighteen. After all, if it wasn't for Old Spice, we wouldn't even exist, right?

Crazy as it may seem, some of what we hide is the very precious uniqueness that endears us to the other beautiful-uglies in our world. Our weaknesses, our quirks, our foibles, our opinions, our true senses of the absurd … these are what draw us to each other. Foolishly, we worry over questions like, "What if Suzy Q Perfect-Confection finds out I prefer graphic novels to porn? Will she think I'm an immature freak?" But it doesn't occur to us that not all porn is degrading to women, and under the right conditions, can be downright educational inside a healthy, mature and energetic relationship, right? And .. not all graphic novels are appropriate for young boys, not that that stops any of them.

Maybe ole' Suzy would simply be happy to know that at least, you can read. On the other hand, maybe Suzy can't cook, or she's more comfortable with a cigar in her mouth than lipstick smeared around it? She won't know that this would be peachy with you, until she loosens up, takes a risk, and lets her freak flag fly ... and hey, wouldn't it be cool if she liked graphic novels too? (What about the porn, you say. Well, I'm not going there ... sorry!).

No one is as perfect as the characters on television. And no one is as good as they present themselves to be on their first twelve dates.

Why? Because we don't have the luxury of someone else scripting perfect prose for us, imbuing it with the eloquence that Hart Hanson and his crew spend hours slaving over for our viewing pleasure.

_"Why can't my husband be as smooth and sensitive as Agent Booth?"_ Well, let's see … does he have his own stable of writers and directors feeding him lines and creating blocking for his every move?

_"Why can't my wife give me the same devotion and respect as Dr. Brennan shows Agent Booth?"_ Hmmm. Does she have a professional writer, or a psychologist at her beck and call, to coach her on how to make a man feel heroic?

The rest of us, we live in the real world. David Boreanaz and Emily Deschanel, they live in the real world too. I guarantee their lives are not as perfectly blocked as their scripted scenes are.

I digress … the point here is that Booth and Bones, though they are fictitious characters in the world of television, they are as real as real can be in the mind of the writer, who just so happens, today, to be your's truly. **_Our_ **Booth and Bones don't have advertisers to keep happy, or ratings to maintain, or salaries and careers dependent upon their success. **_Our_** Booth and Bones are free to delve into the ugly-crazies of what's at the bottom of Bones' angsty neurosis, even if, on it's face, it isn't sexy. And let's be honest, in real life, getting vulnerable - or witnessing it - makes us love each other even more. And love, romantic love, fueled by the intimacy of vulnerability, many times leads to a whole lot of sexy fun. So let's see what happens when **_Our_** Bones goes deeper into the crazies, and how Booth handles it. You may find that they are more like you and me than you originally thought.

* * *

><p>Booth and Brennan are still sitting on the floor cushioned by a couple of fluffy hotel pillows. Booth is wrapped around Brennan, hoping to help her calmly face her demons.<p>

Brennan, whose arms have been wrapped around her own waist, underneath Booth's arms, pulls her arms out of the pile, and lays them on top of his. _I could sleep here,_ she thinks. _For a very long time._ She thinks about nothing for a while, just enjoying not shaking any longer.

"Do you really think I wrapped my heart in fiberglass, locked it away, and tossed the key out the window?"

"Well," he says, then stops, pausing. This is a touchy topic. He recommences rocking her gently side to side, thinking once again about Gordon Gordon's crash course on PTSD. "When your parents disappeared, my guess is that it was text book traumatic," he says, turning to look at the sides of her eyes, which are staring straight ahead, awaiting his response. She flicks a glance back up at him, then away again. He continues.

"Did it happen unexpectedly, were you unprepared for it, did you feel powerless to prevent it, did it happen in childhood, and has it happened several times since?"

"Yes, on all counts," she agrees.

"Woah, now see? That is a recipe for emotional and psychological trauma, okay?"

She nods agreement.

"And how do we deal with it? Our brains create safety mechanisms to protect us from freaking out and getting ourselves locked up in a psych ward … for a long, long time."

"Ipso facto colombo oreo, the fiberglass-wrapped heart locked in a box."

Booth nods, pulling her up so she's not so much slouching against him as actually sitting. Resting his chin on her trapezius muscle across her shoulder, he thinks for a moment.

"I'm no professional, but I, personally, think our brains use those defense mechanisms to protect us, holding on to that trauma until we are old enough, and only then, if we are ready to deal with it … but that's just me."

"So, metaphorically speaking, I wrapped up my heart and threw away the key to protect myself from the pain of … disappointing relationships. We already knew this, though, Booth,"

"Yes, but knowing it up here," he says, putting his index finger on her temple, "is different from experiencing it here," he says, this time putting his finger just below her clavicle and to the left, the correct side of her sternum.

She steps over the inference that emotions are generated and housed inside the heart muscle. "Of course … but how does it make the switch, I wonder. How does our brain know when to take that pain out of hiding, really? What brings it out?" she ponders out loud. "I mean, why now? Is it a byproduct of acclimating to an environment rife with intimacy?"

"Well, and again, I'm no expert, Bones … but maybe what makes it okay to come out is the presence in your life of that soft place to fall … a safe place to unlock the door, unwrap the hurt, and maybe … accept it for what it is, and move on … without the threat of more damage."

"Like right here," she says, shifting slightly, leaning her head to the left so she can look into his eyes, at his beautiful stubbly face. At this angle she could easily swing her arm up and around his neck, and pull him into a kiss. But this isn't a kissing conversation, it's a heart-to-heart conversation. Dismissing these thoughts, she straightens herself, faces forward, and leans her temple against his mandible again. _It does feel so good, so safe here,_ she thinks, sighing a long sigh which vibrates as it passes through her vocal chords. Sliding her arms along his, which are still wrapped around her midsection, she finds each of his hands and covers them with her own, pushing her fingers between his and squeezing them, then applying pressure to the whole length of his arms with her own. A kind of hug. Booth can't help thinking, not for the first time since they sat down in this arrangement, that it's a good thing she's not wearing that cobalt blue top any longer because he's at the perfect angle to be staring straight down into heaven, and that would be hugely distracting. Sitting positions like this, and thoughts like that, are distracting enough without the visual aids.

"Even if I hadn't been in your life, Bones," he says after a moment of silence, "I think you would have eventually been able to process … to get through this … trauma of being abandoned when you were a teen."

"How can you say that?" she says, vehemently, releasing his hands, leaning forward and turning to face him straight on, her arms gripping his knees as she twists at the waist.

He's a little taken aback by the passion in her response.

"Well," he begins hesitantly, "Because … despite being locked away and protected ... that heart of yours? That 'metaphorical' heart beats with a fierceness that I have never seen before," he says, looking in her eyes, explaining. "But I've listened to that heartbeat get stronger and stronger the longer I've known you. Even when I was with someone else, I could still feel that heart beating … even though I didn't realize what it was." He shrugs, maintaining eye contact, unsure if this answer is at all satisfactory for her. "And when I crawled into a hole, like a copulating donkey turd, you were there the whole time, behind the scenes, still loving me, wanting me to be happy, no matter what that did to you. And you never stopped," he says, timidly, wincing, as if maybe it is a lie. He dismissed the Filthy Stinking Bastard of a thought, but its essence remains, like the rising soot above an extinguished candle. Yet ... though Hannah had said it, though Angela had more than alluded to it, though Caroline had harangued him about it, though Sweets had written a book about it, and even though Gordon Gordon had waxed poetic about it … he still harbors a glimmer of doubt that anyone could be that selfless.

"How do you know?" she asks, irritated, though Booth does not know why.

"How do I know what?" he asks, having lost track of the conversation while indulging in his own misguided insecurities for a hapless moment.

"How do you know … that I was there loving you even while you were going through all that frustrating crap?"

He nods. "I know," he says, apologetically, pleadingly, shrugging. _Say it's true,_ he seems to be saying with his eyes, then squeezes them shut._Of course it's true,_ he thinks, mentally jamming his hand into the Filthy Stinking Bastard's face and shoving him backwards. He recalls his conversation with Hannah. _Was that just on Monday?_ he asks himself. _It feels like it was a month ago._ "When I felt like all I was doing was asking for … I don't know … companionship, love, someone to share my life with … and I got one rejection after another ..."

"Booth! I never said I didn't love you," she says, pleading for him to understand. It's already been a highly emotional night, what's another few thousand tears? The first couple tumble down her cheek out of the corner of her eye. "I NEVER said I didn't love you, Booth," she insists, shaking her head, desperate for him to understand that. "… I just didn't think I could give you the kind of love you wanted … without hurting you … and I … I couldn't do that!" At the thought that he might have felt she didn't love him, she anguishes much the same way she did the night he told her Hannah wasn't a consolation prize.

In silence, he thinks again about what Hannah revealed to him. Things he had been completely unaware of. Then he thinks about that awful period immediately after his brain surgery when he had amnesia for several weeks.

Bones is thinking about how much she has loved him this whole time … and the many ways he has shown her that he's loved her as well, despite when he was a copulating donkey turd in a deep dark hole. Despite ... that he didn't know who she was after his brain surgery.

"I'm just saying that a person who can be that strong for someone else, Bones, is most definitely, capable of doing it for themselves," Booth says, breaking the silence.

"But there's a fault in your logic," she insists, wanting him to get this clear, once and for all.

"What fault?" he asks, exasperated. She always says that, right when he thinks he's just rested his case.

"You said that the way these traumas are able to start to heal, is for the person to have a safe place to fall."

"Right …"

"You provide that, Booth. I don't know anyone else who would ever have the patience, the stamina, the determination … to provide that for me," she says, another couple of little tears slipping down her cheek. "Don't say I could do it alone, Booth! I've already done too much in life alone … I don't want to do it alone anymore. Please let me … let me need you!" She hadn't intended to say that out loud. She didn't think she WAS saying it out loud, until she heard the words, saw the reaction in his face.

"I guess I'm just saying, I think you are supremely lovable. And if it hadn't been me ..."

"It couldn't have been anyone else BUT you, why can't you see that? Don't leave me alone in this, Booth. I have feelings. Just because I keep them to myself, or don't let them rule my life … or wear them on my pants … doesn't mean I don't have them …"

"On your sleeve …."

"Sleeve … pants … what difference does it make? Do you know what happens when people see you as impervious, or strong, or capable? They leave you alone. They think you don't need them, think you're fine without human compassion. And that is what you are doing right now, Booth. So stop it," she chastises him. Considering the loneliness and devastation after being abandoned, she continues, "After years of not getting what you need, you know what you do? You pretend that you really **don't** need it. You stop looking for it. You stop displaying behaviors that would normally draw people toward you. And when you stop doing that, there's no rejection … right? And you tell yourself that people aren't drawn to you because YOU held them away - not because they are rejecting you. That's what is so easy to tell yourself. It's a sucking lonely place to be, Booth. And I have lived there. And it's lonely, stinking lonely."

Booth is moved by this. He gets it. She could just have easily been talking about his own life as the older of two boys, as the son of an alcoholic, as a kid sometimes picked on in school for not having the picture perfect home life, as a kid with a strong sense of principles. With few exceptions, he lived his life according to the ten commandments. That, in itself, kept him on the outside of so many circles as a kid, a teen, even as a young adult. Football was what saved him socially. Sports. There are rules, guidelines, a coach, righteous combat. That's how girls started noticing him. For his physical abilities. And that won him the freedom to be principled, made it something respectable.

It occurs to him that part of the allure of Bones, for him, is that she was also one of those kids who followed her own path … wasn't swayed by the mudslide of public opinion. Sure, she thought about it, wondered why they didn't appreciate her dancing skills, etc. But she was so impervious by that point, she couldn't see that it was her dogged determination to get through everything unscathed that alienated during a time when everyone else … the kids around her, especially during those high school years … were lost in a swirling cesspool of hormonal detritus.

"So don't tell me I would have eventually figured all of this out on my own. Because that's absolute crap!" She looks at him, daring him to disagree. "And don't you dare try to tell me it could have been someone other than you, because that's just crap on top of more crap," she spits out, exhaling an exasperated hiss of breath.

"Okay!" says Booth, apologetically. It is clear that she believes this. Quite clear. MAYBE it is true. Of course it's true, you horse's ass, thinks Booth, directing his mental comment to the Filthy Stinking Bastard. "Okay, Bones. Maybe you are right …" he says, sounding like he's placating her.

"I **am** right. Jesus!"

"You are also stubborn … and narrow minded sometimes," he says, risking a little friction.

"The path of truth is a narrow one, Booth, that's why so many people fall off …"

He nods, pinching his lips together. "True," he concedes. And this is why he loves her. The path of truth she follows. In her mind, it is not an opinion, or an interpretation, that it could only have been him to provide her soft place to fall. It is a fact. Black and white. A fact on the path of truth. And really, who is to say she isn't right?

"So," she says, exhaling, and rocking her head back and forth against his shoulder, "That fact … brings along with it a multitude of uncomfortable complications …"

"Which are," he asks, after a brief hesitation.

"Which are …" she starts, then pauses, pulling her thoughts together before spewing. She rolls onto her right side, and scoots down a little, slipping her right arm behind him, around his … well, I guess it would be his butt. She lays the right side of her face against his chest, her left leg over his right. She brings her right hand to her mouth and starts chewing on the fingernail of her index finger. She sighs.

_Here it comes,_ thinks.

"If we are together, we'll imagine a future together and work toward it. We'll put ourselves in that imaginary picture. Then, if you die, it will be like someone pushed the delete button, and I will be lost," she says, leaning her forehead against his chin. "What if I get out here, out of my compartmented way of living, and then all of a sudden I am all alone again?"  
>He's listening, not moving, not saying anything.<p>

"Agreeing to be together is agreeing to risk that horrible pain and devastation when you go! And that … that is … unthinkable. Do I want to open myself to that?" It's a rhetorical question. "Can I survive that? How will I survive that? It's happened to me before – my future shattering, my security swept away. That's how I got in this mess in the first place. I am angry that these are my only options. That happiness comes at such a devastatingly high price."

Booth nods. He watches to see if she can work through this on her own.

"I am angry that it has taken me so long to figure this out. I'm angry that I'm putting you through this. I'm concerned that all of this could decrease my exacting focus on my work. I am angry at my parents … at the system …"

Booth listens quietly to her impassioned speech before saying anything.

"It concerns me that after seeing me like this, you will run in the opposite direction … What if this doesn't ever go away? What if this … wishy-washy, weepy, insecurity crap … is the new normal for me … "

"Look at me. Am I running?" he asks, lifting her chin to look in her eyes. "And this will not be the new you … that would never happen … this is temporary, like the boat that rocks the minute you step into it, but regains equilibrium eventually … "

"Good word, equilibrium."

"Thanks," he says. "Bones, you've told me again and again that entire species who once walked the earth in great number have died out from inability to change and evolve. Kick and scream all you want, but consider that this change is going to keep you alive. Remember the Tasmanian tiger, and the dodo bird, and that half zebra-half horse animal you told me about? They didn't adapt … didn't evolve. Look what happened to them. Poof. Gone."

"I don't ever want to go through this again."

"Well, you may not have that option …"

"What?"

"Yeah, these things take time. This may happen again, but probably not to this extent. At least I hope not, I don't have that many tee shirts, and my pillows are not nearly as plush as these hotel ones." She smiles.

"But Booth, what if it does? I don't want to put you through this again."

"Me? You don't want to put ME through this again? Nah, nah, nah – you've got it backwards, lady. Look at who you are and what you've accomplished. You're brilliant. This stuff, this crap is nothing. It has no power over you. It is something that happened. It happened TO you, it is not WHO you are. But remember what you said about what happened to me with my Dad and Pops? You said you were thankful those things happened. Do you remember why?"

"Because they made you everything that you are today … the you that I love …" she says, inching up to press her lips against his for a moment, her hand to his face, her eyes closed. Then she lays her head back down on his chest, her palm resting on his right pectoris major. He flexes that muscle. In response, she makes a loose fist, then opens it slowly, dragging the backs, then the tips of her fingernails against his breast as she opens her hand to rest it again, covering most of the pectoralis major. He's thrown for a moment ... by what she said, by the kiss, and by the … the other thing she just did.

That complete acceptance of everything that he is … will he ever get used to it? He clears his throat, becoming aware that the thumb of her left hand, the hand that's somewhere behind him on the floor, has been hooked inside the elastic waistband of his shorts at his right hip … for how long? Why did he only just notice it now? Focus! Where was I …? Pops. My own imperfect childhood. How it made me who I am … He's back on track.

"Right. I could no more wish away your past than you could mine. If those things hadn't happened to us, we wouldn't be the same people we are now. It's unlikely we'd even know each other. You'd be a soccer mom in Utah, and I'd be selling insurance in Kentucky, right? We'd never meet, might not even like each other if we did."

The thought of that stops her in her tracks.

"So I am not going anywhere. And why would this scare me away? Have you forgotten the many, many times you have stood by me when it would have been easier to leave? There are more examples than I can count! Want to hear them?"  
>For a moment, she can't think of ever wanting to leave him … except for maybe when she needed that time away in Maluku … but she never stopped loving him then. She doesn't say anything.<p>

"After my brain surgery, have you forgotten those weeks, day in and day out, you were there by my side, even when I didn't even know who you were? Remember when I threw my tray on the ground, refused to let you visit for two full days because I was convinced you were pretending not to be married to me. I thought you'd taken my brain damage as an opportunity to get out of an unhappy marriage … and that just about killed me. The events in my coma dream were surreal, I could tell, but but you and me, THAT felt too real to be just a dream. I hated … you for wanting to leave me. Yet you still visited everyday. Waited in the lobby, even when I refused to see you."

"I wasn't leaving you …"

"But I didn't know that! I thought you were gathering evidence for a divorce battle …"

"Sweets said it was natural for your brain to blur the lines of our relationship and think we were married, because we work so closely together," she recalls, explaining, gripping his waistband between her thumb and the rest of her fingers. It's a reflexive movement, nothing more, but he's very aware of it.

"Remember my frustrations, my rage. Remember how I screamed at you … several times?" Thinking about it brings up feelings of shame … but he knows they are past that, so he can continue. Thank God he recovered before damaging their relationship. As if he could ...

"That is a normal side affect of the trauma and regrowth of your brain receptors, Booth … many, many patients in recovery go through a myriad of impulsive and intense emotions. It is quite rough on the family. But I knew what was going on. I never took it personally." _But I did cry a couple of times,_ she remembers, but doesn't say. She moves her thumb back and forth two inches along the inside of his waistband, not really thinking about it. "They discovered you were having petit mal seizures after one of your really challenging bouts of anger …" she recalls.

"No. THEY didn't discover that, Bones. You forced the head of neurology to do an MRI and extensive testing, put me on that anti-seizure medication. Tampax or Deepak Chopra or whatever?"

"Diamox. Kepra," she corrects him.

"Whatever! I found out later that you threatened to investigate every post-surgical fatality over the last ten years until you found probable cause to launch a malpractice investigation. It would have meant exhuming hundreds of bodies, traumatizing hundreds of families, and drawing a lot of suspicion."

She looks up at him. She did do all that, but hadn't realized he was aware of it.

Seeing the question in her eyes, he says, "Angela told me. Shall I go on?" She doesn't move, just lays there, against his chest, enjoying the vibrations his voice makes through his chest.

"Remember my nightmares after being buried in the ocean with my old spotter, Corporal Teddy Parker? I didn't want to admit how messed up I was, having those awful dreams, but you figured it out. Insisted on sleeping on my couch and feed me for three days until I could finally sleep thorough the night without waking up in a screaming fit of rage and fear?"

She'd forgotten most of this. Hadn't realized how much it meant to him. She nestles her face back against his chest. As she readjusts herself, the weight of her thumb and hand on his waist band tugs it southward a little too far for Booth's comfort. He reaches back and removes her thumb from it's purchase, and lays her hand on the floor.

"Sorry," she says, turning her head so her forehead digs into his chest. She peeks up at him through her lashes from that position, suppressing a smile and a giggle. He looks at her, sternly.

"After surgery, you could have requested a different partner. A purely analytical – detached person would have made the most logical choice and requested a new partner, a whole partner …"

"Booth, you know that …

"Bones, we've been through this … and it's all rationalization," he says, shaking his head. She's given him her reasons for not wanting another partner, and he rejects every one as invalid. "You should have requested a new partner," he insists. "Even temporarily. They needed you back at work. Camille was so pissed at you. Do you remember what you said then?" has asks, she shakes her head. "You said, 'there will always be cases to solve … but we only have one Booth, and without him none of the rest matters …"

"So, no, my work is here …" she says, finishing his quote of her argument to Camille. "How did you know about that?"

"Again, Angela," he says absently, then rushes on to his next point. "so how is the difficulty you are going through now any different than what I have been through? You've been retraining your brain, just as I had to."

"But those defense mechanisms I have used for years, Booth … they have saved me for many years too …" she says, just a little defensively.

"Yes," he concedes, "but you don't need them anymore. They have become a liability. Maslow's hierarchy of needs right? It's not just about survival anymore. It's about quality of life."

"I do not agree! You do realize that my singleminded ability to compartmentalize is solely responsible for making it possible for me to separate how you were behaving and what I knew was happening inside your brain. My ability to compartmentalize has allowed me to focus, and study, and research, and build connections that a more malleable intellect would not have been able to accomplish … and that has given the world the benefit of my expertise. The world still needs that, Booth. And I won't change it. Not for you, not for anyone."

"Yes! I am so very acutely aware that that which makes us who we are is a double edged sword. So take the good, use it, hone it, change the world with it. But toss the unproductive whenever possible. Utilize compassion and a sounding board, use me, when the two clash or blur so much that you lose perspective. It is going to happen. Embrace it. Bring it on!"  
>"I never lose perspective ..." she says, defensively.<p>

He snorts in response.

"Are you finished?" she says, still a little amused by his impassioned speech, even if he is wrong about the perspective thing.

"I'm finished now. Can we get some sleep?" he says, his butt numb, all the issues seemingly resolved.

She looks up into his eyes and smiles. They sit still for a moment, just looking into each other's eyes. She's completely recovered from the … from what upset her. And she's no longer concerned the dream will return, now that a lot of her dears have been laid to rest.

"Sure," she says, reaching up to kiss him again. A lingering kiss. Purely regulation, but very, very nice. As she kisses him, she breathes in his scent and feels secure, happy.

He squeezes her around the part of her waist he can reach in this position. He smiles at her, kisses the top of her head. He gives himself a little pat on the back for not attempting to cop a feel this whole time, and gives her one quick last buss on the cheek. She sits up, then stands up.

"I am so going to need help getting off this floor," he says, grunting. She grabs his outstretched hand, and leans way back to pull, pull, pull him up.

"Ohhhhh. My ass will never be the same!" he says.

She laughs. As does he, but his is mixed with sounds of discomfort.

She bends over and grabs all six pillows, brushing invisible lint off each, and walks three of them over to his room, tossing them at the head of his bed.

When she returns to her room, he's laying as if he sat down on the foot of her bed, then fell backward.

"Just give me a minute here," he says in a strained voice.

Bones takes the remaining three pillows and puts them up by the head of her bed. aAfter a brief trip to the bathroom, she returns to find him upright, leaning backward to stretch out his spine.

"Want me to …"

"No … no, no. Don't touch me!" he says, holding his hand out to stop her. "I'm going to be fine. Just need a little stretch and some sleep," he says. "You … crawl up there and get it bed," he says, gesturing toward her pillows.

She smiles. "If you say so," she says. She crawls across the bed, lifts the fresh, crisp linens, and slides in. The cool sheets feel like magic on her skin after such an exhausting twenty-four hours. She sighs, and she scoots down, laying her head against the pillows and closing her eyes.

"Booth?"

"Hm?"

"Can we pretend this never happened? I'm so sorry you have to go through this …" She opens her eyes to look at him. He's standing next to the head of her bed now.

"Absolutely not," he says, sitting on the bed, facing her. "I will never forget that this has happened. I will never forget what you and me, what we've been through together. Good and bad, thick and thin. This is what people who love each other do … we push each other to become the best versions of ourselves … and we do it together … and we never forget. This is ours. It's **ours** now, we've shared it. It's part of our **history**… part of who we are. These are the things that bind us together. And I for one will be happy to buy a ticket on that ride, Bones," he says, leaning over to give her a quick kiss on the forehead, then pressing his lips to hers. A nice goodnight kiss.

"Which way is that ride going?"

"Forward, baby! It may not be **straight** forward, but forward is forward."

"Do they sell tickets for two?"

"That's the only kind they sell."

"Can I go on that ride with you?

"There is no ride without you - not for me," he says, smiling down at her.

She smiles, and her eyes gloss up.

"You are too good to me …" she says, quietly, humbly.

"Remember that when I'm being an ass … the next time, I mean," he says. He leans over and gives her a fabulous hug, one more kiss, and a raspberry on her neck. "Now get some sleep. I'm changing our flight reservations. No way we are getting to the airport on time now …"

Bones lays there in her bed, watching the backside of him as he walks toward their adjoining doors. Without looking back, he says, "You look a hell of a lot better in that tee shirt than I ever did … "

* * *

><p><em>If there's anything you'd like to share, but would rather not do so in public, if there's anything that struck a chord <em>  
><em>for you from these two last chapters, I'd love to hear from you. It may not be evident from what ends up in these <em>  
><em>chapters, but the struggles Brennan undergoes here were particularly meaningful for me. I'd love any feedback you <em>  
><em>can provide. Thank you in advance.<em>

_I know you are reading these chapters, one right after the other, and you don't want to stop ...  
>however, it would mean a lot to me if you were to press the review button and let me know that<br>you enjoyed this chapter - or any others - or at least that you read it! _

_~ MoxieGirl  
>~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter <em>


	157. Chapter 157 Earlier That Friday

_A/N Meanwhile, back at the Jeffersonian ... this chapter goes all over the place, but it's a nice break from all the intensity going on over in the Philly hotel. I hope you enjoy it! ~MoxieGirl_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 157 Earlier That Friday: Rocking Chairs, Hugh Jackman, and Angela Confronts Hannah<strong>

"Jack, do you think they'd be willing to catheterize a pregnant woman?" Angela waddles into the Ookie Room where Hodgens has been running the isotope analysis on the rogue phalange from the Grimes remains. She's cradling a large colorful mug of steaming tea in both hands.

"Only if she were a man," he says absently. "Nothing much happens unless it affects a man. Hey, Beautiful, sit down …" He's had a Nara Glider rocking chair delivered to the Ookie Room and can't wait to unveil it in front of Angela. "I found this on the internet and look how cozy it is!"

"Oh, Jack, I love it … but the fabric has _got_ to go. Just looking at it makes me want to poke a fork in my eye." It's ecru, with chocolate brown piping. Yawn-a-rama!

"Babe, the manufacturer has agreed to custom reupholster this honey of a chair for the light of my life … what do you think?" Taking her hand, he walks her to the front of the chair, which really looks just like a comfortable living room chair, but it rocks! Turning her around so the chair is to her back, he prepares to perform the "Angelounge (pronounced anja-lounge) maneuver," which is what they've come to call this particular system for getting Angela from a standing, to a sitting or laying position without her falling over, or him throwing his back out.

They stand toe to toe, toes actually overlapping slightly, his on top of hers, for stability. They hold hands as they both begin to lean backwards. His weight leaning in the opposite direction from hers provides a counter balance so she's able to slowly and smoothly ease into the desired resting position. As she begins to squat, he bends at the knees and pulls to an appropriate degree in the opposite direction so he doesn't end up being pulled face first into her lap. Though that does being back wonderful memories of their pre-pregnancy romps in the Egyptian room at the Jeffersonian.

"Oh Sweetie, I love it," she says in her sing-song lovey voice, giving him one of those great big, closed lip, smiles that show how touched she really is. Jack grabs hold of each arm rest and leans over to give her a kiss on the forehead. "And see, it rocks!" he says, pulling it back and forward. "There's a matching automan around here somewhere," he says making a full circle and spying the as yet unwrapped furniture in the corner of the room where the delivery guy placed it half an hour ago.

"They'll custom upholster it for us?" she asks, looking over to where he's dragging the automan from, wonder in her eyes.

"They better, I ordered six of these babies!"

"Six? Jack! What do we need six for?"

"One for my office, one for your office, one for the downstairs nursery at home, one for the upstairs nursery, one for the living room, one for our bedroom, one for the sunroom … that's seven, I better order another one!"

"What about the bathroom? We'll need one for the bathroom," she says, teasing him.

"Think so?" he says, concerned that he hadn't considered that. "We could certainly fit one in there …"

"Jack, I'm kidding. Really? The bathroom? Who wants to sit in a bathroom rocking a baby? Especially since we know, better than anyone, what's really floating around in the air there!" she says, laughing.

Hodgens smiles. It looks like the rocking chair is a home run.

"So, now we just have to pick the fabric … or have it made," he suggests in that tone that says _'how about this sweet idea, huh?'_ "I thought you could design some art for it. We'll scan it, have it made into upholstery fabric, and then have them slap it on there. What do you think, huh? Isn't that a great idea?"

"Hodgie, I love it. But … I don't think I have the energy to create seven pieces of art," she says apologetically. "But how about this … remember that wonderful Christmas present you made for me when we were quarantined here over the holidays one year? It's a beautiful image of some kind of bacteria ... but it's absolutely beautiful! It is one of my favorite pieces of art. How about you take _that_, scan it, and have it made into upholstery fabric. You could even create another six designs and each chair could be different. And they'll all be … Hodgensy."

"That is a fabulous idea, Ange! That's why I married you … your fabulously hot body and your even more fabulously sexy mind," he says, almost falling over as he leans over to take her face in his hands and kiss her twice on the lips.

"Ummmm," she coos. "I miss making out with you, Jack. But I'm just so exhausted lately. And so obscenely whale-like!" she says, an open palm making circles on either side of her ever-increasingly swollen abdomen. She looks up at him through her eyelashes, knowing full well he always has the sweetest, if awkwardly constructed, responses to her self-deprecating pouts.

"Most beautiful whale that ever swam … through … my … life … this analogy's not going as well as I'd hoped. I'll stop now," he says, moving the automan up to her and lifting her feet onto it.

"Hi, feet!" she says, waving down toward the automan where Jack has just delicately placed her twin sausage-like limbs. "I miss you, my feet," she coos, forlornly. "Oh! How long have I had that toenail polish on? That's ghastly!" she shrieks.

Her toenails are painted alternately in neon orange and navy blue. The big toes are striped in both colors, diagonally, creating a macabre 'danger zone' sign effect. Over a month ago, Jack had treated her to his very own, home made, personal spa. He'd washed her hair, buffed her nails, given her a rose-scented bath in a tub full of fluffy bubbles, massaged her belly with coconut cream and aloe, and painted her toenails. As a joke, he'd given her the alternating design, fully intending to go over the orange with more blue later, but she fell asleep before he could complete the job, and they never got around to fixing it. Since she never sees her feet anymore, they both forgot about it.

"I haven't had the heart to make you sit thorough a re-painting, your feet have been so sore lately …" says Hodgens, apologetically.

"This junk comes off tonight!" she says, chuckling. "Now - about the catheter … what do you mean they'll only do it if I'm a man? Since when have pregnant men needed catheters?"

"Apparently, ever since they started getting pregnant. Which is, let me check, oh yeah … never! That's why you have to be a man to get a load of medical research conducted about ... whatever. Listen to this," he says, picking up the article he'd set down when she entered the room.

"What is that? Another one of your conspiracy theory rags?"

"No. Well … it's from my new favorite scientific feminist weekly. It's kind of a … Gloria Steinem meets Marie Curie meets Frida Kahlo meets Martha Stewart," he says, looking up at her confused expression, then pulling his chair over next to her. "Never mind. It's actually really neat."

"Nobody says 'neat' anymore, babe," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Okay, it's SPECTACULAR! How's that?" he says with a flourish and an upward jazz hand over the word spectacular.

"Oh brother," she says, chuckling. "Honey … I know you're not gay, but sometimes I think you would be even more hugely popular if you were! You're certainly hot enough," she says, flirtatiously, nodding.

"If all women looked like you, there'd be no gay men …" he says, scooting over to her and giving her a sucking bite on the neck, then a slurpy kiss on her cheek.

"And if all men looked like you, or Booth, or Wendell, or Hugh Jackman," she says, taking a moment to savor the image of Hugh Jackman in her mind before continuing … hm … Hugh Jackman in shiny black tuxedo pants and nothing else, growl … Shaking her head to break up that image, she continues. "If all the men looked like you, there'd be no straight men," she counters. "And then where would we be, huh? Extinct. Let me tell you, it would not be pretty. Or it would be way _too_ pretty and how did we get on this topic anyway?"

* * *

><p>Angela and Hodgens have this discussion at least once a week: Which of them would be more popular, have more dates, if they were both batting for their own teams? This little game was inspired by one of their favorite couples, Jim and John, who moved to Stockton, CA, last fall and are sorely missed by the Hodgens.' Over dinner at least once a week, the four of them would talk about who they thought was gorgeous and sexy enough to be gay … even if they weren't. Everyone, even Hodgens, agreed that Hugh Jackman (everyone usually has to fan themselves, simply at the mention of this man's name) was always at the top of the list. Also open for discussion were Keanu Reeves <em>(Help me, Rhonda!)<em>, Orlando Bloom _(in a neighbor boy kind of way),_ Pierce Brosnan _(OMG!),_ Christian Bale _(Sweet Jesus!),_ Antonio Banderas _(Did my clothes just fly off of their own accord? How's that happen?)_, Johnnny Depp _(Argh!)_, Sam Elliot _(Yu-u-u-m!)_, and most every man-child featured in the ads in the latest issue of Vanity Fair magazine.

The whole thing started when Jim shared with them some tidbits about his youth as a gay male in a small rural town south of Missoula. He was cajoled into marrying the most beautiful girl in school, who just happened to be in love with him, and had been his best friend since first grade. His parents thought she was so wonderful and beautiful that she could turn him straight. The four diner companions could only shake their heads at the sad absurdity of that whole situation. Fortunately, Jim's ex-wife has remained one of his closest friends to this day, and a huge proponent for gay rights in Florida.

"T & A" just never did it for me… or at least 'T' never did," Jim had said under his breath at the very moment the room had fallen silent. As a result, everyone heard what he had attempted to say quietly, and it set off a round of groans followed by a cacophony of laughter all around.. Hodgens actually spewed red wine all over a white table cloth at that point.

"Well, I for one, have never had a problem with either of those …" said Angela, smirk-grinning, tossing fuel on the flame of an already sizzling conversation.

"Me neither," adds Hodgens, still coughing.

From there ensued a lengthy discussion about the absurdity of choice in physiological make-up, the attempts by forlorn family members to set up opposite sex blind dates for their gay child or sibling, and even the misguided intentions of a coach who actually paid a hooker to help John overcome what he assumed was just a _'fear of women.'_ Can you imagine the forehead slapping and eye rolling that comment inspired around the liberal dinner table? Anyway, Jim and John moved to California so they could adopt a set of twins, but Ange and Hodgens keep the tradition alive through their own version of the conversation, such as the one they are having this afternoon.

* * *

><p>"How did we get on this topic anyway, you say?" repeats Hodgens. With a quizical look on his face, he sticks his hands in his front pocket and looks around, there was something … he was going to tell her … He spots his article lying on the table, he remembers what he was going to tell Angela before he introduced her to her new rocker.<p>

"Needing to be a man … something about a catheter? Ah, according to this 1999 report from the National Cancer Institute Office of Budget and Finance, cervical cancer research is allotted $63 million, ovarian cancer - $45 million, uterine cancer, $13.2 million. Combined, that makes a total of $121.2 million dollars."

"What's your point?" she asks, hand on hip, smirk on her face, a glimmer of suspicion in her eye.

"Guess how much is allotted for prostate cancer alone … just guess?"

"Oh, I don't know, Jack, a hundred million?"

"Try $136.5 million. Colorectal cancer, predominantly a male affliction … $133.1 million."

"Damn!"

"No joke, Ange. I'm telling you, the skewage of government spending is conspiratorial.

"So, combined, there's $269.6 million for the boys, $121.2 for the girls. Yowsa! What about breast cancer?"

"Well, now get this … breast cancer gets $407.5 million dollars! Go figure."

"That's an easy one, Jack. The potential disappearance of the world's breasts is totally a man's issue."

"Right you are," he says, nodding slowly, impressed and in complete agreement. "I'm telling you … just one more conspiracy against the weaker sex …"

Angela shoots him a seriously perturbed expression. "Excuuuse me?" she said in an "_Oh no you di-int,"_ voice.

"I mean, the softer sex …" he says, getting up and leaning over her once again to land a firm kiss on her lips. She just stares at him the whole time, not responding. "Hm," she grunts. If she'd been standing, she would have put a fist on her hip and nailed him to the wall with a sardonic smirk.

"Anyway …" she says, bringing the conversation full circle, "I am sick and tired of running to the bathroom to pee every five minutes. I can't get anything done! And look at this Mumu I've been reduced to wearing. They make all the adorable clothing for the slightly to moderately pregnant woman. At my stage, all we get are these … tent-like monstrosities," she whines, flipping the fabric hem of her tunic. "Jack, if I end up in the morgue before this baby is born, I'd rather be buried naked than in one of these god-awful mumus!"

Hodgens smiles at his wife, his beautiful wife, made even more beautiful by the metamorphosis brought on by his child who is growing within her. _Life is good,_ he thinks. It shows in his eyes, his smile.

"OH!" screams Angela, out of the blue.

"WHAT?" Hodgens jumps up, alarmed and not a little frantic. "Is it the baby? Is it time? What should I do? Where's that bag?"

"No, sweetie, no! Calm down! Man, you're the one who is going to need the epidural ... hooked up to your brain! Look over there …" she says, pointing out toward the platform.

"What?" he says swinging around, searching the premises for something unusual and surprising. "What-what-what? I don't see anything … except … a blond … head of … hair … oh no."

"Exactly! It's Hannah again. What the hell?" she says, anxious to get over to confront Booth's ex. **"Get me out of this chair,"** she yells, her hands pressing on the arm rests, her feet kicking the automan out of the way, then swinging back and forth trying to locate the floor. "Help me, Hodgens," she yelps flashing her own jazz hands straight in front, awaiting his for the reverse Angelounge maneuver.

"Okay, okay. Relax. Don't go too hard on her, Ange. You don't know why she's here …"

"The hell I don't! She's STALKING Bren! Who does that? To Bren, no less? This woman is way out of her league … and she needs to get a freaking clue!"

"And who better to give it to her than you, right?"

"Exactly! Now, push me in that direction," she says, unsteadily back on her swollen feet after such a relaxing break with them up off the ground. "And don't hit me in the ass this time, Jack, it just reminds me of how wide it is. I mean it," she says, giving him the stink eye for emphasis.

Hodgens chuckles. Since the pregnancy, she's become very protective of some of her body parts. Some of the things she enjoyed the most, found endearing before the pregnancy, had become temporarily off limits without an invitation or a very slow approach. He'd learned the _"never squeeze a pregnant woman's swollen breasts without invitation"_ lesson the hard way, surprising them both. It was a week before the ribs she jabbed him in felt normal again.

"Hey! Hey! Hello!" Hodgens hears Angela shouting as she waddles away from the Ookie Room toward the blond still lurking at the entrance to the platform.

"No one could ever say she doesn't have spunk," he says under his breath, turning back to his article.

"Hello there! Can I help you?" asks Angela, all sweetness and light.

"Angela, it's me, Hannah," she says, moving closer for a hug.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you from over there," she lies, moving out of hugging range without even being subtle. Another pregnancy thing, but also a Hannah thing, for Angela at least.

"Have you changed something? Started working out? You're looking a little … buff." Angela's way of saying_ 'looks like you've gained a few pounds._' "Or is it your hair? No … you're still all blond," says Angela, chuckling. "That is your natural hair color, isn't it?"

"Y-yes," answers Hannah, running a self-conscious hand through her hair. _Is it my imagination, or is this conversation odd? It feels odd …_ she thinks.

"Well, I'm sure some people must consider that color beautiful. Anyhoo, is there something I can do for you?" she says, fists planted on her hips.

"Probably not. I just wanted to stop in and talk to Temperance for a moment … if I could catch her in."

"She's out of town on business, a case. With Booth. Just the two of them. **Alone**."

"Oh." _This is odd. She used to be friendly enough, now she's just prickly, rude, offensive even. Probably still angry at me for not accepting Seeley's proposal._

"I can give her a message for you, if it really is that urgent."

"Or you could give me her number and I could call her myself."

_Like that's gonna happen,_ thinks Angela. "Uh, she's kind of weird about giving her number out … but don't you have it from before?"

"That was months ago and I purged my phone of most of … I mean, I got a new phone, the old one broke … I just don't … The truth is that I was really hoping to talk to her in person."

"Hannah," says Angela starting to walk sideways toward her office where she can get off her feet, which are starting to tingle, and not in a good way. Reaching out her arm to Hannah, making the universal_ 'come with me'_ gesture, Angela says, "I am Bren's best friend, anything you need to tell her, you can tell me." She's trying to sound friendly, but having a hard time at it. _If this bitch is here to side-swipe Bren, she's got another think coming._ So she adds, "Although, actually, I think her **real** best friend is Booth. You'd have to ask her. Oh, but you can't she's not here. Bummer."

Hannah pauses. … "Hm. That's kind of what I wanted to talk to her about.

"Okay - that's what I thought - follow me," she says, more forcefully this time, grabbing Hannah's arm and picking up her pace.

"I thought her office was over … " says Hannah, turing and pointing in the opposite direction, slowing down, leaning away from her captor.

"Oh, it is," says Angela, nodding. "We're going to my office."

* * *

><p>Angela remains next to her office door to usher Hannah through, then closes and locks it behind her.<p>

"So!" she begins, giving Hannah the once-over, then a nice big fake smile. "What's got you so intent on telling Bren that you're stalking her?"

"I'm not sta …"

"Oh yeah?" interrupts Angela. "What do you call it when someone calls another person's place of business three times a day, and drops by every day for a week? I'd call that stalking, _Twiggy!_" Angela's hand is on her hip and she's leaning heavily on her desk, her feet throbbing.

"Well, it wasn't my intention to be stalking, but now that you put it that way …"

"Listen, I can't pretend that I'm happy to see you. You've got a lot of nerve walking in here, months after dropping Booth on his ass, **though, thank you, by the way**, and expecting that you and Bren can be all BFFs and everything. She only treated you with respect out of courtesy to Booth."

"I don't believe that for a minute …" disagrees Hannah, sternly.

"Believe it, because that is the truth!"

"Well, maybe you don't know you friend as well as you think you do …" she says, with a warning nod, her eyes conveying disdain.

_Them's fighin' words,_ thinks Angela. She has kicked enough ass in her day to see a fight in the works. Hannah is lucky that Angela is very, very heavy with child, and can't do much to anyone other than slapping or pinching. _Hey, not a bad idea,_ she thinks. _I'll pinch that little button nose till it grows an inch longer and sprouts a couple whiskery warts._

"Oh, I do … better than she knows herself some times … and believe it or not, I think I know a thing or two about you too."

Hannah, rears back, defensively. Never be within arm's length of a potential aggressor in unquestionable circumstances. Hannah glances toward the door, wishing she'd avoided this whole scene by calling in advance to see if Temperance was here. But her calls were getting her no where, and Booth wasn't answering his phone either.

"Have a seat, _Chickie Pop,_ I have a couple of things to say to you."

"What? What is this … " she says as Angela gives her a little shove on the shoulder so she almost tumbles backward over the arm rest and into one of Angela's big comfy chairs, losing a pointy expensive shoe in the process. Hannah straightens herself out and pretends to remain calm. She's interviewed worse in Afghanistan … cornered combatants who thought she should be wearing a full chaadaree to cover all but her eyes and got them to Talk. She'd asked them to reveal what they were fighting for … and what their personal motivations were. Come to find out, these were not men, but young boys, and they had no personal motivations, they did what they were told. "Angela, you seem quite distressed. Are you feeling okay?"

"Oh, don't go playing _Little Miss ah-Innocent_ with me," says Angela, channeling Def Leppard, beginning to sweat, her feet now almost totally numb, as she switches her weight from one foot to the other.

"Am I missing something here, Angela?" Hannah asks, suspiciously, narrowing her eyes and turning her head to the side. "Have I done something? Because if I did, I'm unaware of it …"

"It may not be what you've done, but what you are about to do …"

"Temperance would want me to be here, Angela. I've come to give her …"

"Brennan doesn't need anything you have to offer, _Barbie._ Not now, not then, not ever."

Hannah's brows crinkle in confusion. She pauses, trying to figure out what this might be about. _Did Seeley confide in Angela about our discussion? Has something gone wrong between Temperance and Seeley as a result?_

"Angela, I …"

"Listen, I've known a lot of _Pixie Sticks_ like you in my day. I'll bet you came from a family of privilege, went to the right schools, were cheerlead captain, dated the star football player, and had an abortion before you were twenty, paid for by Daddy, no less. Then, I'll bet you got a job, thanks to Daddy again. You put yourself in precarious positions so men will offer their help, then you snare them into the sack just by batting your eyes. Isn't that the story about you and Agent Booth?"

"What? No! Well, maybe my family is a little …"

"Shut up. Shut up! You know what? I don't want to hear it. I don't care about your past. What I do care about is you not getting your way this time . . . If you think you can come in here and pretend that you and Booth are back together just so you can plant a seed of doubt in Bren's mind … and split them apart when they finally have a chance."

"Angela," starts Hannah, straightening herself up to her full sitting height, flipping her white blond curls behind her shoulder. "No one, and I mean **NO ONE** tells me to shut up. EVER. And I don't know what you think you're doing here …"

"No one is questioning what I'm doing here, _Pixie Stick_, we all, every single one of us, are Brennan's family, and we will protect her to the death. So whatever you think you are going to do, you might as well just shove your little sashaying tail back between your legs, and get the hell as far away form the Jeffersonian Institute as is humanly possible."

"Angela!** I DON'T UNDERSTAND THE HOSTILITY! I'M GOING BACK TO AFGHANISTAN! IS THAT FAR ENOUGH AWAY FOR YOU?"** She finally raises her voice. For the first time in her life, Hannah has actually been pushed to her limit by another human being. A woman, no less. _Damnit. Damnit. Damnit_, she thinks.

"What?" asks Angela, stunned. _Did she just say she's …_

"I'm returning to the action in Afghanistan! I've tried to make a go of it here, but there's just not enough going on to keep me busy. All the big spots for reporters on the hill are full … until someone dies. So … I'm going to go where I know I the action is."

Angela watches her suspiciously, narrowing her eyes, not ready to put down her guard. _Is this a ploy?_

"So … you are not here to tell Brennan that you and Booth are getting back together … or already are back together … and that she shouldn't keep her hopes up that something might happen between them?"

Hannah is shaking her head the whole time, a semi-smile of relief begins to come across her face.

"Because Bren and Booth belong together. He loves her, Hannah. He always has. I mean, no offense, _Chickie Pop,_ but you never stood a chance …"

Hannah sighs. "I know that, Angela. I didn't want to believe it. But I think I knew it all along."

"No, I mean it … what?" Angela starts to disagree, then realizes there's no need to.

Hannah nods, grimacing.

"You know this? Then why …?"

"Why am I here?"

"Well, yeah, why are you here, but more importantly, why were you at the diner holding hands, making googly eyes, and drooling all over Booth Monday morning! Don't try to deny it, _Pixie Stick!_

"You … saw that?" says Hannah, alarmed. Her hand flies up to her mouth, her eyes popping wide open.

"No, **I** didn't see you," she says slowly, grimacing. "It's much worse than that."

"What?" she pauses, confused. _Temperance must have seen them._ "Shit!"

"Yeah."

Hannah plays with the ends of her hair, staring at the coffee table and thinking.

"Did she say anything about it?" she's almost afraid to ask. If she's made a mess of things for Booth, she will never forgive herself.

"To me? Yeah. Quite a lot of things, actually."

"Angela," she starts. _How much do I tell her?_ she wonders. "Temperance is quite brilliant, isn't she?"

"Um, hel-lo! Bren has twice your I.Q. and four times your, balls, little miss _I went to Afghanistan and got shot at_," blurts Angela, dripping with sarcasm.

"Would she believe Seeley if he told her nothing was going on between us?"

"She'd believe anything that man said. And she knows him really well, Hannah. She'll be able to figure it out herself without any help from you or him. Believe me."

"You think so?"

"I think yeah. If he's ready to get his head out of his ass and meet her half way, I'd say they finally have more than a snowball's chance in hell of making a go of things."

Hannah heaves a heavy sigh, slumping over, then drops back against the back of the big comfy chair.

"Why are you so concerned about it, _Swizzle Stick_?" _There's something I'm missing here,_ thinks Angela. _Holy crap! Hannah is still in love with Booth! But why isn't she fighting for him._ "Why aren't you fighting for Booth,_ Girlie Girl?_ You don't seem like the type to roll over and die."

"What's to fight for?" she says, waving a hand in the air and letting it drop with a thud back on her lap. "The man's gaga for your best friend. I was just a detour, a carnival ride, if you'll pardon the expression."

"More like a Merry-Go-Round, _Pretty Pony_… but wait, you really do love him, don't you?"

Hannah stares above Angela's head, not sure what to say.

"You knew he was in love with Bren," she asks, nodding her head, finally getting it, "but he didn't really love you, did he?"

Still staring above Angela's head, as if the truth were hidden in her own eyes, and Angela would see it if they had eye contact.

"Your women's intuition wouldn't let you fall for him any further than you did. Am I right?" Angela watches as Hannah continues staring straight ahead, desperately trying not to blink, for fear the tears welling up in her eyes will tumble down her cheeks and she'll be thoroughly humiliated. If only hannah could get a tissue up to her eyes to soak up the tears in time …

"I'll be damned," says Angela, nodding slightly, pulling at her bottom lip. _No wonder Booth was so screwed up! What a mess! But you have to love the guy, always trying to do the RIGHT thing._

"Angela, when I met Seeley, he was a desperate man, heartbroken, depressed, though most people probably couldn't see it …"

**"WE **all knew!"

"Well, of course, but I mean the other service men, Seeley's troops, his superiors. They're all He-Men Ball-scratching types anyway …"

"So when did you figure this all out, and why … the … _hell_ did you follow him all the way here to D.C.?"

"It was wishful thinking. And I had to see who this famous Dr. Temperance Brennan was. I came expecting a cat fight. But I didn't get one."

"That's not Bren's style. It wouldn't make sense to her to go after someone who is not interested in her. She thought Booth was in love with you."

"Seeley thought he was in love with me …"

"That's why Bren believed it. You know, she never disparaged you to him, or to any of us. That's not her way. She may be awkward and direct, but she's got a heart of gold and wishes ill to no man ... or woman."

"I'm pretty sure that's part of the reason Seeley's always been in love with her … but anyway, I have to move on. That's why I met with him. I had some final things to tell him before I leave … and he listened. He's a good man. I messed him up a bit, and for that I am sorry, but I never intended … I never thought … I wasn't expecting … a proposal …"

"Okay - say no more. It's all good, sister. Water under the bridge and all that hooey," she says, pointing to a kleenex bottle on the coffee table.

Hannah dabs at her eyes, and chuckles. "I so was not expecting it to come out this way." she says, shaking her head and grimacing. "Me, blubbering in your office."

"Sweetie, things rarely happen the way we expect them to, that's why God made humor," she gives Hannah a sympathetic smile. "So, I'm curious. What did you come to tell Bren?"

"Oh! I almost forgot," she says shrugging her shoulders as if shaking off a cool breeze, "I still have these," she says, reaching into her bag and pulling out Brennan's sunglasses. "I wanted to give them back to her and wish her well … with everything, you know?"

"I think I can help you with that," smiles Angela. "Now help me up out of this hole of a couch I'm drowning in! We'll go over to Bren's office and you can leave them on her desk. Wanna write a note too?"

"That would be really nice. I guess I'll just have to accept that I'm not going to get to see her in person … a note is the next best thing."

With some grunting, yelping, and even some laughter, Hannah pulls Angela out of the couch and nearly lands on the coffee table once she lets go of Angela's hand. "Whoa!" she screams.

As they walk toward Brennan's office, Angela decides to tell Hannah that she nearly became the unfortunate recipient of a number of nasty pranks designed to deter her pursuit of Brennan. "Pranks" is putting it nicely, though.

"Really? You would have taken out a restraining order on me?"

"Oh, hell yeah. But first I would have stolen your identity and ruined your credit … I can do that, you know, the Angelator is a powerful machine. Then I would have keyed your car. If that didn't do it, I would have slashed your tires. Hodgens has access to any number of out-of-this-world-make-you-puke-up-your-last-five-meals glop that he was willing to have piped into your water supply. He also has access to many species of insects that would just love to have an apartment of their own with a hot, blond female roommate. How do you feel about flesh-eating beetles? No, Hannah, I wouldn't have been that awful, but I did think about it. Brennan is my best friend, and I'd do anything for her."

"Ewww! How do you work here?"

"You know, I ask myself that all the time ..."

"You really would have done all that?"

"What, you think I'm just trying to be colorful? Not so. Mama is very protective of her homegirl …"

They both laugh.

* * *

><p>"Oh, I better call Bren and alert her to this new turn of events, before she says anything to Booth, thinks Angela after Hannah leaves the Jeffersonian. "Jack! JACK! You'll never guess who turned out to be totally different than I thought she was ..."<p>

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><p><em>Okay - are we ready to put everyone to bed for real?<em>


	158. Chapter 158 We've Got A Snitch!

A/N Yes, the plot is about to thicken ... perhaps in unexpected ways. Enjoy this next chapter! ~ MoxieGirl

**Chapter 158 Good Morning Sunshine, and, We've Got A Snitch**

Booth had turned on his cell phone before hitting the sack in the middle of the night after leaving Bones asleep in her bed ... just in case she needed him. When he'd flipped it open to turn it on, he noticed another message had been left. Another two, actually. As painful as it was to stay awake for another five minutes, he'd listened to the messages, called the front desk to schedule a wake-up call, and sunk into a deep sleep.

The first message was from Enri. They hadn't talked since yesterday when Booth and Bones left their house, having discovered the counterfeit photos and the mug from which the cuff links most likely had been taken.

_"Seal, this is Enrique Larrinaga. I've been thinking a lot about what you said when we were alone yesterday at my house. What you said about Carmen. It's made it a little difficult to sleep in my own house, with all this craziness going on … I don't know what time you guys are taking off today, but I was wondering if we could get together for a couple minutes. I'll meet you anywhere, drive you to the airport, if you need a lift. I'd really appreciate the courtesy, Seal. Call me on my cell, sorry for leaving a message so late. I didn't want to miss you. Okay. Good day."_

This piqued Booth's interest, but when he listened to the message, he had been too tired to think about it, really, or conjecture about what might be on Enri's mind. He would see him, if he could get himself out of bed with enough time to reschedule their flights, and sneak out before Bones wakes up. Thinking of her briefly, no energy left to have any deep thoughts at all, he lobs a spitball at the Filthy Stinking Bastard: "_This … late night trauma of hers … has been a small price to pay for what she's helped me get through."_ Half of the thought was in words, the other half just in a feeling and a twitch, he was so tired.

The second message looked to be from Bob Grimes, but Booth couldn't make it past the recorded greeting before snapping the phone shut, tossing it toward the bedside table, and groaning as he sunk his tired face into a pillow and passed out cold.

At 10:15, Booth's hotel room phone shrills, jerking him awake. Slapping the phone off the bedside table, he groans, and wonders how he could have gotten a pound of sand in his eyes … and why he was being roused only five minutes after passing out. Noticing, with a wince, the bright sunshine streaming through a break in the curtain, he realizes it hasn't been just five minutes. But what he wouldn't give to be able to hit the snooze button and catch another thousand Z's.

Fumbling around on the ground for the phone receiver, and almost sliding out of bed on his head, he grabs the telephone cord and yanks, almost smacking himself in the forehead when it flies up toward him.

"Hello? Hello!" he yells as he attempts to get the right end of the receiver to his ear. "Booth!" he says. Thankfully, it's a recorded wake-up call, so he doesn't have to be polite, or listen to the whole message. Tossing the receiver onto the floor, he lies on his back having the morning argument with himself. _"Can I lay here another fifteen minutes and still get up in time to get everything done? If I lose consciousness, will I still get up in fifteen minutes? If I don't lose consciousness, will the additional fifteen minutes be worth anything anyway? AGH!"_

Grinding his palms into his eye sockets so hard that he could have rubbed away some of the beautiful brown of his irises, he sits up and hunches over his legs, his arms lying placidly by his sides, your basic sitting ape position. Rubbing his eyes had only made matters worse! Aggghhhhh!

Dragging himself out of bed, picking up the tee shirt that he must have taken off in his sleep, he walks over to the adjoining doors between his and Bones' rooms. He'd left them open just in case she needed him for anything. From the door, he can only see a mess of hair, sprawled out like an octopus cuddled up in a nest, and her shoulder, or what he assumed to be her shoulder, peaking out above the sheet. Still in his tee shirt. This makes him smile. _Do I dare tiptoe into her room, just to look at her?_ he asks himself. He doesn't want to wake her under any circumstances. After all the crying she did so early this morning, she should be able to sleep like the dead, and she needs it.

_What the hell,_ he decides, and walks over to the other side of her bed. Sigh._ Beautiful, despite the drool. Man, she can't keep her mouth shut even when she's asleep!_ he says to himself, stifling a chuckle. Hands on his hips, he swivels at the waist, and looks around the room. You'd never know what went on here last night, thanks to housekeeping. But a lot _did_ happen here last night. It needed to happen, he figures. It was intense, but he was so glad to have been there for it. He's getting a much better picture of what this is like for her, taking risks, being vulnerable, allowing herself to depend on someone for important things. Breaking into a big smile, he gazes at her, filled with eagerness for their future together. Wow. His thoughts are so … happy, that his heart starts racing. He feels the sudden impulse to reach down and pull her into a big, energetic squeeze, much the same way parents are hugged when their kid unwraps that train set, or shiny new bike, or the pony, on Christmas morning. No. Sleep is more important.

Walking closer to the bed and crouching, he tries to gage how deeply she's sleeping, and if he should risk touching her. No action under her eyelids, so she must be in her slow-wave stage, the deepest stage of sleep. When Parker's like this, firecrackers could go off in his room and all he'd do is smack his lips and roll over to face the wall. From what Bones's told him, he could most likely jump on the bed and she wouldn't even know it.

He reaches out and runs his fingers gently through her hair, sweeping some strays off of her face. For just a second, her eyebrows flicker closer together and relax, a suggestion of a smile appears on her lips. Booth leans over and kisses her, for more than just a second. He sits there, still close enough that he can feel her warmth, and her rhythmic stream of exhaled breath tickles his nose. He smiles once again, moves even closer, closes his eyes, and breathes her in, dumbfounded by how spectacularly delicious, and familiar, she smells.**_ Eau de Bones,_** he thinks, smiling. One more kiss, and he starts to stand up, but then hears her say in a teeny tiny voice, "Booth," and then smile the smile of contented dreamers. He knows she's not awake, and somehow that makes it even more precious. He thinks he could go all day on that sweet vision alone.

Back in his room, he closes but doesn't lock his side of the adjoining doors. He'll leave a message for her on his bed in case she wakes up before he returns. Calling Enri, he arranges to meet him in the lobby in fifteen. Time for a shower, maybe a little shave, and a definitely a sh-, I mean, a poop. _Note to myself,_ he says out loud, _remember to lock the bathroom door this time._

* * *

><p>In the lobby of the hotel, the morning desk clerk, Bret, watches as Agent Booth, the man who was pointed out to him yesterday by the person with a roll of $50 bills, exits the elevator in long strides and reaches out to shake the hand of a shorter gentleman who has been waiting in the seating area for the last five minutes. They seem to know each other, like each other, but something is troubling them both.<p>

Ducking into the small office attached to the front desk, Bret, takes out the cell phone he was given yesterday, along with the $50 bill, in exchange for keeping tabs on this guy.

The phone rings only once and is picked up. Silence on the other end. He was warned about this, told just to provide what he knows, when he knows it, and hang up.

"This is Bret? Over at the hotel? Agent Booth has just come down to the lobby to meet someone. The man he's meeting is not a guest at the hotel, and looks to be a friend of some sort." He gives a physical description of Enri, and summarizes his assumptions based upon his observations of the brief interaction between the two men.

"It looks like they are going to stay here for their meeting. I will call back if they leave, as you requested." Bret almost hangs up the phone, then remembers something, and puts it back up to his ear. "Oh, one other thing. I do not know if this will mean anything to you, but the log says that last night there was a break-in, or a party, or some kind of ruckus, in one of the rooms assigned to Agent Booth. Housekeeping was sent up to change the sheets, vacuum, and replace two broken lamps. Must have been a heck of a party," he pauses. "Oh! Apparently, there was blood on the sheets," he finishes, a very curious look on his face. _What the hell could that mean?_ he thinks, peeking back out into the lobby to look at Booth. _Does this man look like someone who would beat another person up? Yes, if provoked. But would he beat a woman up, the woman whose name is attached to his adjoining room. She didn't come down with him That is interesting. Hm. Maybe he murdered her! Who cares,_ he tells himself. _That is the fastest $50 I've ever made. I'm not asking any questions! IF you're going to be an ass hole, you might as well be a well-paid ass hole, right?_

* * *

><p><strong><em>The plot, as they say, THICKENS! What do you think is going on?<em>**

_People, you guys write the most touching reviews - Thank you, thank you! (She bows). I am humbled! Also, I am a bit behind in acknowledging all my msgs and reviews as I have been writing like a crazy fool for three days. I assume you are more interested in the chapters than in my personal rambling - so that is the first place I focus my time. I will get to them though, I promise! Again, thank you from the bottom of my pea-picking heart!_


	159. Chapter 159 We All Make Our Own Relation

A/N YEAH! We get to spend a little time with Enri again ... he's one of my favorite characters! Actually, I already have an idea for my next Bones fanfic involving more of Enri ... There's a little treasure for you at the end of the chapter. I hope you enjoy it! ~ MoxieGirl

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 159 We All Make Our Own Relationship Rules<strong>

"Dr. Enri Larrinaga!" says Booth, somewhat energetically, with a smile. For a moment he's just a guy greeting his compadre, not someone involved in a homicide investigation. Sometimes this job really sucks, he thinks.

"Seal," replies Enri, accepting Booth's hand shake and smiling self-consciously. "Can we go somewhere a little more … private?"

"Sure," says Booth, looking around, hands on hips. Walking up to the front desk, Booth flashes his FBI ID and asks the young man behind the counter if there is an empty meeting room that could be unlocked for official FBI use.

"Absolutely, Agent Booth, I'll get the keys for you. Meet you over there in a moment," he says eagerly, pointing over Booth's shoulder to where Enri awaits them both.

A moment later, Bret leads tho two men down a short hall in the opposite direction of last night's library, and unlocks a glass-fronted door to a room containing a small computer desk and a three couch conversation pit.

"Here's the key," says Bret, handing Booth an actual metal key. "Drop it off at the front desk when you are finished. This room isn't scheduled for use until noon today, sir."

"Thanks," says Booth, taking the key being held out to him. As Bret discretely backs away, then turns and silently walks back toward the front desk, Booth and Enri share a noncommittal glance. Unlocking the door, Booth steps aside for Enri to enter, enters himself, and closes the door behind them, tossing the key on the coffee table in the middle of the conversation pit.

"How ya' holdin' up, buddy?" asks Booth after sitting down on the couch opposite the one Enri chose. Booth watches Enri's face for whatever it might tell him that Enri isn't willing, or able, to say himself.

Enri inhales large enough that his chest rises visibly, grimaces, and exhales audibly, shaking his head once, his eye brows rising and falling. It's an 'I just don't know' gesture.

"How'm I supposed to be doing?" he says, his shoulders rising and falling in a shrug of resignation. He looks at Booth and holds his gaze for a moment. He doesn't trust any of his own assumptions right now, so he has no idea if he's still a suspect … really.

Booth watches Enri for a moment, without moving or looking anywhere else. Just observing, thinking about what this must be like for him, possibly doubting his own wife, uncertain who else might be involved, maybe questioning his own sanity, his future, his family's future.

"So … what's on your mind?" he says, glancing down at the key on the coffee table, then back up to lock eyes with Enri, squinting a little bit, as if that helps him focus so he doesn't miss even the tiniest nuance being emitted by the man across from him.

"Seal, I've been thinking a lot about what you said. Hardly thinking of anything else, actually," he chuffs. Shaking his head, he continues. "I just can't see it." He slowly moves his head from side to side. "I just can't see it. I've have been over, and over, everything I know about Carmen. Her childhood, her parents, her belief system, our relationship, the times I've seen her angry, the few times I've seen her jealous, the many times I've seen her insecure …" He sits forward from where he was slumped on the couch. Putting his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, buried in his hair. He stares at the coffee table, trying to decide where to begin. He's very aware of Booth's professional responsibilities, but also banking on their young friendship … and what he thinks he knows about the kind of man Booth is, just from their limited interactions.

"Don't think about organizing your thoughts … or making sense, Enri. Just spit it out. It's my job to put the pieces together," Booth says, quietly, still not moving. It isn't obvious from his relaxed manner and tone of voice, but he's on high alert, which is what he's been trained to do when someone comes to you in the state of mind Enri is in, and wants to share what's on their mind.

"Listen … I'm just gonna blurt a bunch of stuff … spew … and, I may be stupid or foolish … but I don't know how else to be anymore … so I'm going to trust you, even though I hardly know you … but I think I do know you some, Seal. So, I'm just gonna trust you. I have no other options," he says, looking from the table up to Booth's face. "I'm rambling. I must sound crazy. I'm not usually like this …"

Booth nods. "It's okay, Enri. Relax. I mean, as much as you can relax." Booth leans back, drapes his right arm along the top of the couch, and relaxes, as if to show Enri how to do it. He brings his right foot up and rests his ankle on top of his left knee. He does look relaxed. Playing in the back of Booth's mind is the running thought that Bones is upstairs and she loves him. Nothing and no one can change that. This knowledge gives him a feeling of lightness, peace, despite the heaviness in the front of his mind, which is focusing on Enri at present.

"I just can't … um … " he starts, and pauses. "Listen, I'm a simple man. I work and I go home. Carmen and I, we aren't perfect," he chuckles self-consciously. "We've been through some crises, some we handled well, some we failed miserably … but I like to think we learned from them. We've gotten pretty good at leaning on each other, taking turns being crazy, parenting the kids, sharing the load at home …"

Booth is listening, nodding, not looking right at Enri, giving him a little privacy. He wonders if he shouldn't be sitting kitty corner from him instead of head on. Oh well. He crosses his arms across his chest, tilting his head to the side to soften what could be perceived as a closed, uninviting position.

"So here's the deal … this is beyond anything we've ever experienced. We are handling this the best we can, but …"

"Enri, you are not a suspect. Okay?"

"I'd figured that out … but I'm more concerned about Carmen, Seal," he says, almost pleadingly. "Listen, I just can't see her hurting someone … at least not physically," he says, exasperatedly. "Well, actually, probably not emotionally, either." After thinking another moment, he closes his eyes and says, "No one other than me, I mean. We have not always been the nicest to each other. What married couple is, huh? You see each other at your worst. You're around each other ALL THE TIME. Who doesn't play a little 'kick the dog' with the person they spend most of their private time with? After a while, you end up taking advantage, forget that your partner has feelings. Or choose not to care because you just have to blow off some steam, and you know they won't leave, not for good, at least," he says, exhaling.

The surface of the coffee table between Booth and Larrinaga appears to have seen the bottom of way too many sweaty glasses of beer. This is clearly not a public lounge, not a place used for anything other than the occasional hotel staff tête-à-tête, or maybe a private nap for the employee doing a double shift. Booth raises his right leg and rests it on the coffee table, following it with his left leg, which he crosses over his right, the height of casual relaxation. He leans his left elbow on the couch's arm rest, his head on his fist. He waits for Enri to continue, listening compassionately.

"Has she ever left you, Enri?"

Larrinaga is surprised at the question. For a moment it looks like he might deny it. Smacking his lips, puckering, then grimacing, he says, "A couple times, yeah." He doesn't look at Booth. He's not real proud of this fact, her walking out on him, even temporarily.

"She obviously came back," Booth says, shrugging, looking right at Larrinaga, who still isn't meeting his gaze. "And she describes herself as happy … happy in her marriage … happy with you," he says, conciliatory. "Her words, not mine," he adds once Larrinaga looks up.

"Yeah … but that was mostly her doing. She never gave up on me, Seal."

"What are you really trying to tell me, Enri? That she'd be justified in … harming someone who has a passing interest in you?"

"No, no, no. Just that … Seal, I can be a real ass hole sometimes. I mean, stupid, you know? Thoughtless. Inattentive. Not at all romantic. Hard to get along with. And sometimes I don't see it … but she does, and it hurts her," he says, apologetically, shrugging, putting his palms together and shoving them between his thighs as if he needed to warm them.

"I'm sure Carmen's not perfect either."

"No," chuffs Larrinaga. "but she's stronger than I am. And a hell of a lot more perceptive. And a lot more forgiving …" he says, chuckling, apologetically again.

"Enri, let me take a stab at something here. Are you trying to tell me that she doesn't take her frustrations out on others?" he asks, watching Enri's face closely. There it is. Complete stillness on the face of the man across the coffee table. He won't look up, either. "And that if she were to hurt someone out of anger, or desperation, or frustration … it would most likely be herself, rather than another person? IS that what you're trying to say?"

Enri looks up, meeting Booth's eyes. He nods, almost imperceptibly. "Put clearly, Seal, she'd kill herself before she'd kill anyone else." Enri watches Booth's face for signs of … he doesn't know what. He doesn't want pity. He doesn't want to lessen Booth's opinion of his wife. "I swear, Seal," he says in a husky voice, slowly shaking his head left to right and back. "I swear on all that is holy. She'd have a fit if she knew I told you this. She's a very proud person," he says, crossing his arms now, then bringing a hand to his mouth and sticking his thumbnail in the crevice made by his upper and lower front teeth when he closes his mouth. He flexes his jaw. Not sure where to go from here.

"I understand, Enri. I do," Booth nods. "It's not easy watching a person struggle with … depression, is it?"

Again, Enri is surprised. "It's not easy living with an ass hole, either. But ass holes can learn to diffuse their anger, change their behavior. And pharmaceuticals can do wonderful things for depression, along with a good shrink's help."

Booth can tell by Enri's pained expression that he is uncomfortable sharing this information. He can also see that Enri will do whatever it takes to make sure his family is not in danger of being destroyed. But would he do something illegal to ensure that? No, he's not lying.

"Is there any history of depression in her family?"

"Yeah … but no one's ever hurt anyone."

"To be honest with you, Enri, I would be surprised if any evidence were to point us toward Carmen. I anticipate that we will find Aleesha Grimes' fingerprints on the mug from your bedroom. And those photos were obviously doctored. Does Carmen use a computer?"

"Of course."

"Is she into that scrap book creating that some people do on their computers? Photoshopping, or whatever?"

"I don't think so. When would she have time? No. One other thing I have to tell you, Seal, is that on the way outside chance that Carmen would have harmed someone … it would have created an enormous disturbance in the force, know what I mean?"

Booth nods, laughing to himself at the fact that both husband and wife use the same euphemism for a sense that something the other was going through would have been evident in their demeanor and behavior, such that it would be obvious something was amiss.

"She would have not been able to hide it. It would tear her apart. When something bugs her, especially something she's done against someone … hurt feelings, or said something stupid, she has to go apologize. I Know I would have been able to tell if she'd killed someone, for Christ's sake!"

"You didn't know she'd confronted Aleesha about her attraction to you …"

"Yeah - but having a discussion with someone is on the totally other end of the spectrum from killing them, removing all their tissue, and burying the bones in an unmarked grave!"

"Right, right. Okay," concedes Booth, nodding, chewing on his bottom lip, thinking. "You didn't have to come tell me this, Enri."

"I couldn't not. I know you are leaving … I wanted to tell you face to face. I know my wife. I swear it. There's no way she killed Aleesha."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better coming here, I'm glad you did," says Booth, a small friendly grimace on his lips. "You may not hear from us for a while, but please don't hesitate to call me. You have my personal cell, right? Of course you do, that's how you called me last night."

"I know you can't give us any details, but what happens from here on out?"

"Well, we leave today. Dr. Brennan has to look more closely at the bones we've collected from Aleesha's grave. Then we're headed out to Washington State, which you already knew. It could be that Aleesha's murder was anonymous, you know? She could have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She could be one of several victims. These are all questions we consider when we investigate a homicide. Usually how things end up are very different from how we think they will. Other times, we are spot on from the beginning. It's unpredictable, at this point, which kind of case this is. But you can always call me. I may not get back to you as fast as you'd like … but that just means we are busy."

"There are cases that go cold. Cases that just never get solved … the Grimes' have already been waiting five years … what is the liklihood that …"

"Oh, that will never happen with this case," says Booth, grimacing and shaking his head confidently.

"But how can you be so sure?"

At this, Booth smiles and looks Enri in the eyes.

"Because Dr. Brennen is on the case," he says, unable to hide a self-assured smile from taking over his face," and she always gets her man." His eyebrows rise and fall quickly for emphasis. He chuckles internally at the naked truth of what he just said, wishing he could share it with Enri, in view of the brief conversations he and Enri have had about his relationship with Bones.

"How is Temp?" asks Larrinaga, sitting up to signify that he's said what he's come to say, and now it is time to leave.

"Oh, that reminds me," says Booth, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. Leaning back, he digs around in the front pocket of his jeans. After searching both front pockets, he pulls a folded piece of light green paper out of his back pocket and hands it to Larrinaga. "Can you translate this for me?"

"What is it?"

"Just a phrase or two in Spanish."

"Oh, sure," he says, sliding the top half of the paper open with his thumb. He reads it, his eye brows shooting up, and stifles an amused grin. Taking out a pen, he puts the paper on his thigh and scribbles on it. Booth cannot see what he's writing.

"Can't you just tell me what it means?" asks Booth.

"Well, mi amigo, how important is it that you are able to remember what this says?"

"Uh … well," starts Booth, noncommittally, "yeah, I'd like to remember exactly what it says … Bones, Dr. Brennan, thinks I won't be able to figure it out," he chuckles, trying to make light of it. He attempts to peek over at the paper as Larrinaga writes. Larrinaga stares back at him, acting like he's protecting his test paper from a cheating student in the desk behind him.

"She's a smart woman, Temp is," Larrinaga says, folding the paper up much smaller than it was when it was handed over to him.

Booth starts to unfold it.

"Seal," he says, reaching out a hand, placing a finger on Booth's hand to stop him, "I'd wait until later to read that … but that's just me," he says, as they both stand up to leave.

"Hm," he grunts in comprehension. Booth is intrigued, his brow furrowing, but he decides to take Enri's advice. He slip the tiny folded piece of paper into his back pocket, and holds the door open for Larrinaga.

"So … where'd you get this, uh, Spanish from?" asks Larrinaga, barely containing a mischevious grin, attempting to sound light, conversational, not suggesting anything.

"Oh … uh, it was in a book …" he answers, looking over at his friend, then away quickly.

"Of course it was," says Larrinaga, raising an eye brow at Booth, grinning, amused.

The two men walk back to the lobby. As they are about to go their separate ways, a thought occurs to Booth.

"Enri … Dr. Brennan and I ran into your colleagues last night at the bar here."

"Oh?"

"Bing was trashed. Hubbard and DiAngela showed up to do damage control."

"I see."

"You don't sound to surprised."

"Nope. This happens about once a month … I try to stay out of it," he says shaking his head.

"Apparently Bing got served. Mrs. Bing's divorcing him."

"I heard. Can't say's I'm surprised."

"Sounds like nobody was … except Bing," Booth chuckles.

"No surprise there. He's a piece of work, that guy. A good scientist, most of the time. But a walking erection, with the morals of an alley cat, if you ask me."

"Hm," grunts Booth, waiting to see if Larrinaga will say anything else. "I suppose I should tell you, he might have a shiner today."

"Really?" says Larrinaga, surprised, impressed. "D'he get into a fight? I didn't think he had the cojones."

"It was more of a verbal altercation until he took it too far and ended up with someone's fist across his zygomatic ... bone," he says, pointing to the vicinity of his cheek bone, eye socket. "I'll let your friend, Scarpeti, fill you in. He's the one who told me. Benton had Scarpeti do a drive by to collect Dr. Bingo so I could chat with Hubbard and DiAngela. Scarpeti told me Bing, in true douche form, cast disrespectible aspersions in the direction of Scarpeti's wife. Scarpeti had to defend her honor, and all that."

"Got it," says Larrinaga, laughing in earnest now. "What a dickwad, that guy. He must have been high to mouth off to Ange!"

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Say, what do you think about DiAngela, Gary? What kind of guy is he?"

Larrinaga shrugs, makes one of those "Ehhh" faces, looks back at Booth.

"What does that mean?"

"Don't really think too much about him. Don't want to. Don't need to."

"And why is that?"

"He's always struck me as kind of a … player, a tool."

"He seems nice enough," says Booth, trying not to choke on his own bile as he says it.

Larrinaga sighs. "Look, I have nothing personally against the guy. I just don't trust him. He's not someone I'd want to be friends with, you know. He isn't ... I don't know ... settled. But I tell you what, he is one devoted father. Dotes on his daughter like crazy. That's his one redeeming quality."

"And ... other than that ... does he lie, cheat, steal? Is he a self-important ass?"

"Don't think he lies, except by omission, maybe. Doesn't need to cheat, and he's not that competitive. And steal … he's already loaded. Unless he's doing it for kicks and giggles, I'd say he probably doesn't steal. Look, he seems like a decent guy. He doesn't get drunk and make an ass of himself, he doesn't flirt with your wife right in front of you, he doesn't tell inappropriate jokes in mixed company, he never goes near your kids …"

"What do you mean, he lies by omission?"

"I don't know. He seems sneaky to me," he answers, shrugging a couple of times in quick succession. "He doesn't volunteer information."

"Like what? Did he make a move on Carmen?"

"Let's just say Carmen won't be in a room alone with him. When they first met, the two of them got along fine, even seemed to enjoy chatting. I never saw him really **flirt**with her, they just seemed to be having a conversation that first time they met. But the next time we ran into him, about a month later, she turned all cold toward him, couldn't get out of there fast enough. She won't say, but I think he took something a little too far. Carmen is very friendly. Sometimes her friendliness is mistaken for ... interest.

"Romantic … sexual interest?"

"Perhaps," says Larrinaga, reluctantly. "But she doesn't want to be rude, so she doesn't know how to put a stop to unwanted attention. Some guys think if a woman looks at you, she wants to sleep with you," he says, not hiding his disdain for these men. "She doesn't tell me about it … I think she's afraid I'll thing she's flirting, or cheating on me, or something like that. It's almost better that she keeps it to herself because I'd beat the mother f-ing crap out of anyone who laid a hand on her against her will. Then you'd have to lock ME up. And I'd go willingly.

"I could see that happening … all of that. Interesting. Do YOU think her FRIENDLINESS in as innocent as she says?"

"That's not the kind of question a man ever wants to be asked about his wife, Seal. But I guess we all wonder it."

"I gotta ask …"

"Look, she's beautiful. She's extroverted. She's smart. And I'm not really a romantic guy. I don't wear a suit of armor, or bring her flowers, or send her cards. She says she'd like … love … all these things. I'm just not that guy. I never think to do anything like that. It never crosses my mind. I love her. I'd do anything for her. That should be enough, right?"

Booth shrugs.

"So … sometimes I think she flirts. I know she flirts. She's a flirty woman. But not suggestive … not like that. Once or twice she's come to me and told me about some pretty heavy crushes she's gotten on someone else. What man wants to hear that, huh? But she says she tells me because she fells like she's keeping a secret from me … and that just keeping it a secret is cheating in itself. So she tells me about it. How weird is that?"

"I don't know. We all make our own relationship rules …"

"Right. Well, whatever. Anyway, scared the crap out of me the first time. But she was telling me, right? Like I said, she can't stand to hurt anyone … she's gotta run and tell on herself. And she takes our vows very seriously. I think that's why she tells me. It's only happened twice in twenty years, Seal. It's not like this happens every year … please don't think that. I am sure she gets little crushes here and there on other guys … she loves people. She thoroughly enjoys people … women and men … she is honest-to-goodness fascinated by the whole male culture too. We talk about it regularly. I've never seen anyone with such a visceral awe of human nature. She should have been a social scientist …"

"Sounds like she's very unique, Enri. As is your relationship!"

"She keeps me entertained …"

"So , DiAngela …?" says Booth, dropping the key to their 'conference' room at the front desk and walking toward the glass entryway.

"Mathematically, Seal. You may want to check into him and Aleesha," he says, quietly, so only Booth can hear. "He was frequently in the office. She was frequently in the office. She liked older guys. He is an older guy. She likes guys with means. He's independently wealthy, through no fault of his own, I might add," he says, condescendingly. "She was quite attractive. I have no proof, it just stands to reason. But it's that omission thing. He's never said a word about Aleesha."

"Very interesting," comments Booth, shoving his hands into his pockets and staring at the floor, thinking.

"Well, thanks for meeting with me, Seal. I Know I took more than fifteen minutes … I hope the next time we meet it's under happier circumstances."

"Me too, Enri …" says Booth, giving him a warm smile. "You take it easy. And take care of that beautiful family."

"I do what I can," says Larrinaga, shrugging and returning the smile. "Oh, and give my love to Temp," he says, then winks and grins, turning to push through the double glass doors.

Booth watches him leave, chuckling at what neither of them said, but they both know. Getting on the elevator, he reaches into his back pocket for that light green piece of paper, excited to read Enri's translation of Bones' potentially intimate note. On the paper, in Bone's handwriting is the phrase he recognizes:  
><strong><strong><br>****

**_ "Un día, nos vamos a duchar juntos. Y ese día, cuando nosotros  
>estemos por fin solos, voy a enseñarte cuanto te quiero."<em>**

Below each of her lines, printed in tight letters, is Larrinaga's handwriting spelling out the following:

_"**One day, we will shower together. And on that day,**  
><strong>when we are finally alone,<strong>  
><strong>I will show you how much I love you."<strong>  
><em>

"Woah," he says in a very low voice, rearing back a little.

* * *

><p><em>AN Excuse me? can it get any hotter in here? Ahem..._


	160. Chapter 160 Let the Games Begin, Again

_A/N And how will things fare in the light of day? Will it be awkward? How will they integrate their newfound intimacy with the demanding exactness of their professional responsibilities. Well, here's the first challenge ... seeing each other for the first time in the light of day ... the proverbial, 'morning after having had what they had last night.' Did that sentence make any sense at all? Anyway, here goes!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 160 Let the Games Begin … Again<strong>

Bones wakes and stretches, emitting a yawning screech. It's that kind of stretch where your back arches, your toes point strenuously, you almost give your self a Charlie horse, you can't remember the last time you had such a good stretch, and you are shocked that you don't do this more often. She's splayed out all over the bed, her arms above her head, wrapped backwards around a cool, crisp pillow, her legs stretched out to each corner at the foot of the bed. It feels like Springtime. Everything is green, and fresh, and blooming. Birds are singing, plump little insects are climbing up stalks of grass, baby rabbits are learning how to scamper quickly enough so as not to be caught by fascinated toddlers gamboling after them.

Looking around the room, she wonders where Booth is. Turning on her side to wrap herself around a couple of plump pillows, she glances toward the adjoining doors, noticing hers is open, but his is closed. There is a faint aroma of fresh Booth flavored shampoo on the air. She closes her eyes, and breathes it in with a smile. He must be up and about. She sits up, wondering what time it is. _Ten fifty-seven ... Crap! _She can't remember the last time she slept that late. She sits up and looks around the room. Jumping out of the bed, she walks over to the adjoining doors and calls out while opening the only closed door.

"Booth?" she shouts, looking around. His bathroom shows signs of showering … wet towels, droplets of water on the shower floor and glass doors. The thought that he's been in here recently gives her goosebumps. She notices that he's already packed his dop kit. Back in the room, she notices a pillow resting at the foot of the bed with a folded piece of paper on top of it. "Bones" is written on the top of the note. Inside is the following:

_"Time: 10:30 AM._  
><em>Meeting Enri in the lobby for about fifteen. Be right back.<em>  
><em>Changed our flight to 1:50 PM out of Philly Intnl.<em>  
><em>You are adorable in your sleep, but you drool like a bulldog. Sigh. ; p<em>

_- B OX_  
><em>P.S. "B OX" means, "From Booth with a hug and a kiss."<br>_

She smiles at his note, checks the clock again, it's 11:OO sharp. She's starving. She notices another note that must have been tucked under this first one.

_"Time: 10:32 AM._  
><em>I'm starving, but I'll wait for you.<em>  
><em>- B OX"<em>

There's a third note, written on the back of the second one. She shakes her head, grinning ear to ear, as she turns this note over and reads … again.

_"Time 10: 33 AM._  
><em>What the hell … 'X' times twenty-five million.<em>  
><em>XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX<em>  
><em>and a couple more for good luck.<br>I've always loved long goodbyes!_  
><em>- B OX"<em>

Bones stands at the foot of Booth's bed, unable to stop smiling. _He's such a romantic,_ she thinks to herself._ And, surprisingly, I find that I enjoy it!_ She brings the little notes to her lips, just to feel them there. These responding thoughts and actions are a surprise to her. She's never been one of those girls to squeal over notes from boys, or to dot her lower case letters with hearts or puffy circles. She's never been one to save cards, wrapping paper, or ribbon from gifts. She's never kept a sappy diary filled with pages of pining imaginings. Her journals were filled with sketches of bones, dissections she performed, angry tirades about her foster situation. She burned most of those journals in effigy before going off to college. She had felt the need to make a clean break from her imperfect past … before moving forward in a life she had chosen for herself, devoid of the scars others had inflicted upon the canvass of her youth.

Looking around the room again, she notices he's completely packed. She chuckles, looking at the clock once again. _Five after eleven!_ He should be back any moment! Taking the scraps of paper with her, she walks back over to her side and picks up the phone to order room service. Having placed the order, she stuffs her three little notes, on the two pieces of paper, into the zippered compartment inside the cover of her suitcase. Scanning her clothing options, she grabs the last pair of slacks, a form-fitting navy blue tunic that buttons down the center and is synched at the waist by a navy blue belt covered in the same fabric, and the necessary undergarments, a navy blue bra and panties set. Setting these items out at the foot of the bed, she collects any other clothing items from around the room, folding them and placing them neatly into her suitcase. Locating her phone from the bedside table, she turns it on and reviews the same names she recalls seeing on the caller ID last night before attempting to drift off to sleep. That was before she was awakened by Booth, pounding on her door, in the early morning hours. Calls from Angela, Rebecca, Hodgens, Benton, Angela again, and finally two from Booth at 4:15 and 4:16 AM last must have been when he heard the lamps crashing to the floor.

Taking the cell into the bathroom, she locks the door behind her. As she brushes her teeth she considers her options. _Do I shower or listen to the phone messages first? If I listen to the messages, I'll get caught up in answering them, and may not get out of the shower in time to answer the door to room service. Shower first it is._ Clicking the phone off so she's not tempted to answer it, she starts the water running and spits out a mouthful of minty foam toothpaste. As she stands upright, she hears noises on the other side of the door.

"I'm in here, Booth," she yells.

"Got it!" she hears back in Booth's voice. "Just went to see Enri," he shouts, his voice becoming louder as he gets closer to the door. "How late did you sleep?"

"I just got up about ten minutes ago. I'm mostly packed, just about to step into the shower. How is Enri?"

"Well," says Booth, sighing a little, leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door, talking through it. "He's … okay, poor guy. He's trying to figure out the possibilities of Carmen's involvement in Aleesha's murder. He's confident she had nothing to do with it. Had some things he wanted to tell me."

"So, what do you think?"

"Well, my gut tells me he has nothing to worry about … "

"Lets hope the evidence corroborates your gut's findings … I have a message from Benton. Remember we ended up giving him the mug for fingerprinting?"

"Yep."

"Kay. My guess is his findings will only confirm our suspicions that those prints belong to Aleesha. Those photos were obviously doctored …"

"What are you doing in there? I gotta call Hodgens," says Booth, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his caller ID. "He's with Parker right now. They should be out in the boat …" He presses send, and listens to the ring after the connecting pause.

"I'm about to get in the shower … " shouts Bones through the door. She considers inviting him to join her, and for a moment almost does. He had said to bring on the teasing … because that is all it would be ... and she plans to tease for all she's worth. But right now she's in a hurry to get clean and get out there to kiss him. She hears Booth on the other side of the door greeting Hodgens.

"Hodgens," he says, responding to Hodgen's greeting. "How's the LittleBigMan? Is this a good time? Can I talk to him?" He pauses. "Uh huh. Okay. Well, just hold the phone up to him and let me say hello." Pause. "Parker. Parker?" Pause. "Hey, Park!" Pause. "Hey, buddy, how ya doin?" Pause. "That's great … yeah … okay … yeah … We leave here this afternoon, Park." Pause. "I'll be there around 4:30, five at the latest."

Bones, feeling mischievous, can't resist the opportunity to play with Booth's circulation. Opening the door a crack, she sees that Booth is sitting at the foot of her bed, a quarter of the way on top of the clothes she's laid out for the day. He's engrossed in his choppy conversation with the miniature love of his life. She makes a snap decision to execute the fastest shower of her life. Bypassing the need for more than a quick shampoo and anything more than a glance at the glycerine soap or body wash, she's in and out in 120 seconds flat. A record, even for her.

Wrapping herself very securely in a starchy white hotel towel, the top ends twisted together and tucked snugly between her breasts, she opens the bathroom door and rather nonchalantly saunters into her bedroom. She doesn't even bother to dry off, she is in such a hurry to execute Round One (Ding, goes the bell!) of her campaign to drive Booth to distraction. Though her heart is racing and she's turning about seven shades of pink, she does an impressive job of moving gracefully and calmly toward the foot of the bed where her clothing is laid out. She's so relaxed, on the outside, at least, that Booth, who is still partially sitting atop her clothing, doesn't even notice what she's doing until she puts her left hand on his left shoulder and pushes him almost all the way over onto his side so as to release her clothes from their position pinned underneath him. When he does notice, he's so taken off guard that his phone slips out of his hand, and almost hits the ground. For a comical moment, Booth lunges for the phone, alternately catching it, and dropping it several times, such that he appears to be playing a very odd version of cell phone paddle ball. His hands have become sweaty, his neck is beet red, and he's panicked that he might accidentally hang up the phone on Parker. He's also wondering if perhaps he's hallucinating about Bones, still wet, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

Collecting her clothing from the foot of the bed, she doesn't even glance at Booth. As she saunters back toward the bathroom, she tosses over her shoulder, "Please say hello to Parker and tell him I'll call him later!"

Once inside the bathroom, the door closed behind her, Bones exhales for the first time since she left the bathroom on her way over to the edge of the bed. She is so tickled with herself that she does a little hop and a high five toward her reflection in the mirror. Her face hurts from grinning in triumph. Drying off quickly, as best she can, she drops her towel and pulls on her panties, slacks, and bra. Still mostly wet, she can hardly get her clothing over her sticky skin.

Turning the bathroom light off to obscure any reflection of her scantily clad upper half in the mirror behind her, she opens the bathroom door, and, with a seemingly bare arm suggestive of bare other body parts, she tosses her wet towel over, and in the direction of Booth, who is only now recovering from the shock of the vision he saw only a moment ago. Bingo! The wet towel lands right in his lap. Let the games begin, she snickers to herself.

Closing the bathroom door quietly again, she quickly slips on her tunic, buttons it, and secures the belt around her waist. Taking a couple of deep breaths, she calms herself, opens the door, and walks back into the bedroom, tossing her toiletries bag into her suitcase. Booth is nowhere to be seen.  
>She stops, looking toward the adjoining doors, unable to hear anything coming from that direction. Turning to go back into the bathroom to dry her hair, she comes face to face with Booth, and starts in surprise. He's leaning against the bathroom doorframe, his arms across his chest, his face pointing toward the ground, but his eyes looking up at her through his lashes. The image reminds Bones of a Wild Kingdom segment where a lion sits very still on the top of a precipice about to pounce on Bambi in the brush below. Booth is the lion in this scenario, of course. Bones is the snack.<p>

"What was that all about?" he says calmly, the left side of his mouth turned up in a sly, amused, grin/smirk. Nothing is moving but his eyes, which are giving her a very … thorough … once over.

"Wha - huh? What do you mean?" she asks, flustered, unsuccessfully feigning innocence while little black sparkles scamper up and down her spine and butterflies beat out a dance inside her abdominal cavity. She's determined to make it back through the bathroom door, so she continues her forward momentum until she's stopped by his left arm which he raises, nonchalantly, creating a horizontal barrier across the open doorway.

She stops in front of his arm. _Humerus, ulna, radius._ Turning her head to look at him, she says, "I need to dry my hair, can I get through please?" She can't hide the smile she's been suppressing any longer. She looks at him, and he smiles back. They stand there for a moment just staring at each other, both of them trying not to smile too big. As he lowers his arm, she takes a step toward him, and at the same time he reaches over to her, sliding both of his arms loosely around her waist. She doesn't put her arms around him, they dangle at her sides, outside his**.** Booth and Bones, their clothing is touching, but that's about all. They stand like that for a couple moments, smiling stupidly at each other. Suddenly, they both start chuckling. Nervous, amused chuckling.

"Whah-hhat?" she says, feeling the color popping onto her cheeks. She says it in the same way a child would say _'don't look at me!'_

"Good morning," he says, smiling, amused by her timidity and unease. She doesn't look in his eyes for a moment, but she's smiling quite brilliantly, her head leaned to the side. He watches her, until she looks up at him.

"Did you sleep okay?" she asks, softly, trying not to be obvious about the nervous business going on in her abdominal cavity.

"Not nearly long enough," he says, sighing. "You?"

"I slept like … I slept like … who was the character in the 1819 Washington Irving story, Rip Van Winkle, who fell asleep under a tree and slept for a hundred years?"

"Rip Van Winkle?"

"Yeah."

"Rip Van Winkle! That was the guys name. And the name of the story."

"Oh," she says, grimacing and nodding. "Yes. Right. That's how I slept," she says, timidly reaching her arms behind her, sliding her hands down the length of his forearms until she reaches his hands, slipping her fingers between his. Carpals, metacarpals, phalanges.

"That's weird, Bones. Me knowing something, you not," he says, chuckling, pulling her closer so they are belly to belly, chest to soft chest, touching enough to feel the warmth from the bodies underneath the clothing, but not leaning into each other.**  
><strong>  
>"It's not that I didn't know it … I just forgot that Rip Van Winkle was the characters's name as well as the name of the story. It could happen to anyone," she explains, defensively, looking into his eyes.<em> Brown. Beautiful. Warm,<em> she thinks.

"Not to you," he says, shaking his head side to side and staring at her quizzically, amused.

"Are you going to let me pass?" she asks, with a sardonic grin.

"Hm. I haven't decided yet," he says, staring off behind her somewhere as if he's trying to decide. "The payoff for keeping you here is pretty high …"

She grins at him, sighing. "I guess I could … make it worth your while to let me go …" she says in a timidly suggestive tone, turning her head and giving him a wink. He is, of course, defenseless against her wink.

"Hey, that's cheating. Using your womanly wiles to get your way," he protests with words, but not tone.

"Well, they're the only wiles I've got … if I intend to employ an effective strategy to persuade an alpha male such as yourself to do what I want you to do," she says, quite convincingly.

"And what is it you want to persuade me to do?"

"Let go of me," she says, pursing her lips and smiling up at him through her eye lashes.

"And what's _**that**_ comment's strategy called?" he says, releasing an incredulous snort.

"Reverse psychology," she says, grinning … leaning into him. She wants it, but she's feeling timid, perhaps because she's afraid what she might do if she gives in to her impulse to just let herself go.

"Hm," he says, cocking his head to the side and looking at her.

"Stop looking at me like that and just kiss me," she says. She peeks back at him, still grinning ear to ear.**  
><strong>  
>"What? Get it over with? Is that what you're saying?"<p>

"Nooo," she says, facing forward, looking at his chest. _Clavicular notch. Sternum. Ribs._ She doesn't say anything more … and finally she looks up into his eyes, knowing her capillaries are having a field day, and it's not even noon yet.

"No what?" he is** so **playing with her.

_This is what I was looking for, the game,_ she thinks, just as he leans in and presses his lips to the delicate skin behind her ear, delivering a warm, lingering kiss that makes a squeaking noise when he releases his lips from her skin.

_Oh God,_ she thinks._ Temporal styloid process. I'm going weak in the knees - where's that room service?_She chuckles, looking up at him.

"You're awful," she says, shaking her head.

"No … I'm good," he replies, landing another, similar kiss, but this one is open mouthed with a little tongue play, and it's target is the base of her jaw, immediately below her ear.

_Mandibular condyle. Posterior. Oh. My. God! Whew! _

"Yes," she says, sighing. "Yes … you are," bringing her arms around, holding onto the underneath of his upper arms, his triceps. _Triceps. Humerus._ Looking straight at him, she puts her lips to his for a long moment. _Warm and sweet,_she thinks, nuzzling his cheek with hers, as a sigh escapes from each of them. They both giggle. He kisses her back the same way. A little more lip movement, but completely regulation. "Oh God, thank you," she says, sighing a contented sigh, not realizing until too late that she'd said it out loud.

"You can call me Booth …." he says mischievously, leaning back a bit to look into her eyes, "and you're welcome."

She rolls her eyes and breaks into a hearty giggle. He chuckles, not releasing her yet.

"Okay, we have to get on with our day," she says, chuckling, a playful glint in her eye. She slides her hands up his arms and around his neck, applying a pleasing pressure against his arms and shoulders all the way.

"Are you groping me?" he says, chuckling.

"Call it whatever you want, but it sure feels good to me," she says, nudging his nose with hers. She kisses him passionately, three four five six times, just barely regulation. Her hands had been behind his neck, but somewhere along the line, they end up on his face. _Sweet mandible,_ she thinks, dragging out the pronunciation in her mind. He's right there with her and wants to eat her for breakfast, she's so delicious. Though they aren't doing anything about it, their bodies know that this is foreplay and are responding accordingly.

"There are going to be a lot of cold showers between now and Tuesday," says Booth, resting his forehead on hers and staring into her eyes.

"You can say that again," she says, pulling away, reluctantly, and stepping back, tugging her tunic down because it had synched up when she put her arms around his neck.

"There are going to be a lot of cold showers between now and Tuesday," he repeats, chuckling.

"Oh ho ho ho!" she whines, rolling her eyes, and laughing. "Well, we don't have time for one now, room service should be here any minute." She stands in front of him, smiling, then shakes her head, looking away. He's still leaning against the door frame, as he has been this whole time.

"What?" he says, chuckling over whatever her gesture meant.

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. "Nothing," she says, grinning, and heads into the bathroom. As she passes by him, he smacks her on the ass playfully.

"Ow," she says, chuckling, rubbing her ass. When she looks in the mirror, she remembers she hasn't yet put her face on. When she emerges from the bathroom to retrieve her make-up bag from her suitcase, Booth is already gone. Bones smiles in the direction of his hotel room, and turns to go put on the war paint.

Barely five minutes later, there's a knock at the door. Booth ushers room service in, tips them, and pulls two chairs over, setting them directly across from each other. It's almost the same menu as the previous morning, except that she ordered French toast for him. Four big Texas-style French toast planks.

"WOW!" he says, raising the metal warmer covering his plate, then the metal warmer covering a pile of bacon and sausage. Looking up at her as she walks through their adjourning door, his eyes are as big as … well, there's just really big. "You ordered all this?" he asks, thrilled.

"Of course I did, Booth. They don't bring up the entire buffet for room service. If you want the buffet, you have to go to the dining room," she says, inserting an earring into her left ear.

"I know that," he says, with snark. "This is just what the doctor ordered!"

"Literally," she says, chuckling.

He looks up at her, realizing what he just said, and laughing. "Ohhhh, will you marry me?" he spits out plopping himself into his seat, reaching for the butter and syrup.

"Ohhhh, you can't afford me, my love," she replies in her Kathryn Hepburn, as she usually does to that question, playing out their little game*. She grins ear to ear, placing the cloth napkin on her lap and removing the warmer from her own plate. _Note to myself,_ she thinks, _if I ever need to break some bad news, best to feed him first. It seems to make him very happy._ This is not new news to her, of course. She shakes her head at her own thoughts, and reaches for her orange juice. _Even Alpha males are remarkably simple,_ she thinks, digging into her own plate of food.

* * *

><p><strong>*The "Will you marry me" game comes from Chapter 86 My Kingdon For A Place to Rest My Weary Bones<strong>

* * *

><p><em>I hope you enjoyed the sweetness of this chapter! <em>


	161. Chapter 161 Rites of Passage

A/U Here's the next morsel, folks!

**Chapter 161 Rites of Passage**

Bones sets the laptop on the breakfast table and raises the cover.

"I should have something here from Hodgins about that extra phalange," she says, getting down to business. It's Saturday. The weekend. Not that it matters. Crime waits on no man. Both she and Booth have been out of touch with the rest of the team since early evening yesterday, and Bones feels unsettled about that. As she waits for the machine to boot up, she reaches into her bag for her cell. Before sitting down to their breakfast table, she'd brought her belongings into Booth's room so they can leave directly after eating.

"I have a message from Rebecca … know what that's about?" she asks, looking up at Booth who is chewing a piece of bacon with his eyes closed. She can't help chuckling. **"Hey! Carnivore! **Any idea why Rebecca would leave me a message?"

"What time was the message?"

"Looks like it was at about … well, exactly 6:17 PM."

"That little turkey called you before he called me! His message to me was at 7:03 PM!"

"So it's from Parker. Hm," she says, clicking on the message and putting the phone to her ear while running her finger over the touch pad of her laptop, hoping to speed up the booting process.

_ "Bones … this is Parker … MOM! She lets me call her Bones. _  
><em> I'm leaving a message. Geez! … Sorry Mom … for being rude. <em>  
><em> Sorry Bones. Uh, the guys at school still want to know when you <em>  
><em> are coming back again to show us more science stuff … Mom! <em>  
><em> Give me a minute … I'll get to that … Sorry again, Bones. My <em>  
><em> mom thinks I don't know how to leave a message. <em>

_ Anyway, thank you so much for letting me stay with you when California _  
><em> was in the hospital. I told Mom I'd already thanked you, but she<em>  
><em> insisted I thank you again. Um … so … what are you doing? <em>  
><em> I hope you and Dad are having a good time and working really <em>  
><em> hard so you guys can get back here and I can go fishing <em>  
><em> with Dad before the weekend is over. But, it's okay. I don't <em>  
><em> mind sharing him with you …" He chuckles, self-consciously. <em>  
><em> "Okay - I gotta go. You can call me some time if you <em>  
><em> want. Smell you later. This was Parker Booth, by the way."<em>

Bones hears him still talking, this time toward his mom again. He's apparently neglected to hang up the phone.

_ "Mom, I really am sorry. I was rude to you. I'm sorry... but please,  
>can you just not talk to me when I'm trying to talk to someone on<br>the phone! I can't hear everyone at once ..."  
><em>

He really does sound contrite.

Bones laughs. "That kid of yours," she says, shaking her head.

"What?"

"Nothing. He's just a good kid," she says, smiling over at him, waiting for her next message. "Rebecca's a good mom."

"She is," Booth answers, absently, scrolling through his own cell messages and punching the voice mail button. "Yeah - look at this …" he says, showing her his screen across the table. "He called me … not even RIGHT after calling you. He called me a full 45 minutes after calling you! What the hell?" He's not really perturbed, though he's acting put out.

"He enjoys me more consistantly," says Bones, matter-of-factly. "I'm more fun than you are."

"What? That's not true!" he disagrees vehemently, at first, but then sounds uncertain by the end of his brief question.

"Of course it's true," she answers. "You're his parent. I'm a playmate," she says, digging into her bowl of oatmeal and blowing to cool it before putting it in her mouth. "I've seen Russ go through this exact same thing with his two girls."

"I play with him! I'm fun! We have a lot of fun! We put the tent up in the living room and sleep in it … "

"But you're a parent. Being a friend is a lot easier. And that's what I am. I never have to discipline him, make him eat his vegetables ... Kids are always nicer to their parents' friends than they are their own parents. It's actually a compliment, Booth. I'm surprised you don't know that."

"What? Did he say that?" _Should I be alarmed?_ he wonders. Parker told Bones earlier this week that he felt lonely even when he was with his parents._ Did he tell her this as well?_ he wonders._ I am sucking at this parenting thing lately! Haven't wanted to toss the ball around, or run in the park together, or make meals together, or go to the movies. _He knows he's been frequently and easily irritated by Parker for a while now, but he'd assumed it was because Parker is getting older, and … simply more irritating! He'd even yelled at Parker more harshly than he meant to several times._ How long have I been like this? _Squeezing his eyebrows together, he tries to remember. He has an epiphany. It's been since Afghanistan. No, before Afghanistan … and even more since he and Hannah broke it off. _Crap, crap CRAP!,_ he thinks. _I've let Parker down. I've taken some of my … disappointment and anger … out on him. Just like Enri said, 'you take it out on those you are around the most … that means Bones. _Isn't that what she'd told him the other day? She'd said he'd been challenging to work with … disgruntled, pained, humorless, intolerant. But it hadn't occurred to him that it had affected his relationship with Parker as well. The bacon in his mouth doesn't taste as good anymore, to the point where he considers spitting it out. He has the urgent need to get home and hug his son, and to apologize. He becomes aware that Bones is talking to him.

"Did Parker tell me that? Of course not. It's just that … he sees you all the time. I'm always new. Different," she explains. "And kids love science. They are natural scientists. And me? Science expert," she says, pointing at herself with both of her thumbs and grinning. "Ipso facto Colombo oreo … I'm more fun. So no matter how fun you ever are, I will always be more consistently fun." She notices that he's showing signs of disappointment. Brows together, lips turned down, shoulders down. All of a sudden he seems to be slumping in his seat. He's stopped chewing the perfect ratio of French toast to bacon, and he's staring at his glass of juice, not even seeing it.

"Bu-ut," she says, her voice going up and then back down in pitch. She pauses, waiting for him to acknowledge that she's about to say something more.

He looks up at her. His sorrowful look says, I screwed up, and no matter how soon I set things right, it won't be soon enough.

"But, he will always love you more. He wants to be just like you. He wants you to be proud of him," she says, but it's not doing the trick. "You're his favorite person in the whole world," she adds.

"Really? You think so? Hm," he says. "Did he say that?"

"He doesn't have to. You can see it in the way he looks at you, how he talks about you, how excited he is to spend time with you. It's quite remarkable, the bond you have created with this person you only get to see three times a week and every other weekend. Granted, my observations have been, for the most part, subjective and situational, but I believe your relationship with Parker is quite extraordinary," she says, pouring herself a cup of steaming coffee from the thermos that accompanied their breakfast.

"How's that?"

"Well, you live by a code, Booth, a code that you are teaching Parker … and that forms an unbreakable bond between you. Anthropologically speaking, this is how fathers and sons have bonded throughout history. A boy learns how to be a man from his father, or, in some cases, his father figure. Once the father is satisfied that the boy has mastered the laws of the code, there will be a ceremony, a rite of passage, if you will, involving emotional and physical pain. If the youth displays courage, endurance, and the ability to control his emotions, he then becomes a man," she says, staring at Booth who is looking a little concerned about where this conversation is leading. He's heard about some of these rites of passage … and they usually involve the shedding of blood in unmentionable ways.

"For fifteen centuries," Bones continues, "fathers inVanuatu, a small island in the middle of the south pacific, declare a boy a man when he is circumcised," she says, taking another sip of her coffee, setting the cup back down and picking up her fork to spear a cube of cantaloupe.  
><em> There it is,<em> thinks Booth,_ the blood shed, the pain._He winces.

"Why does there always have to be circumcision talk, and why does it have to be while I'm eating?" he complains, a pained look on his face.

"Booth, this is the story of humanity. Many of these rituals actually involved eating during or after the ceremony … so how is it not appropriate to talk about this over a meal?"

Booth stares at her, incredulous, and unable to stop her. He feels trapped and uncomfortable, and his appetite in waning.

"The circumcision is then followed by Land Diving," Bones continues, oblivious to Booth's discomfort. "The young man is expected to show courage and strength by jumping off of a crudely constructed tower 100 feet high, attached to the tower only by two vines. How high a man can jump from determines how manly he is, how about that? That is very manly. Oh, and get this, the Australian Mardudjara Aborigines not only circumcise their fifteen or sixteen year old males as a rite of passage, they also then put the severed foreskin in the boys mouth while he is still dazed and in pain, and tell him to swallow the 'good meat. Why aren't you eating?" She stops to stare at him for a moment.

"Anyway," she continues, finished with her anthropology lesson, "many fathers in your position … with no legal obligation … and no ties to the mother of their child other than the child himself … would shirk what you consider to be your moral, ethical, social, and financial responsibilities. Not to mention your commitment to his academic development and his emotional well being," she says, bringing her coffee cup to her lips, blowing on it. "You should be thankful we don't live in a culture where adult circumcision is required for manhood."

"You can say that again … " he says. "But please don't. I'm going to focus on the moral and ethical responsibilities you just mentioned … and pretend you didn't even go there … about the rest." The color begins, slowly, to return to Booth's face and he's very slowly recommenced chewing. He sits up straighter, and takes a draught from his juice glass, draining it.

"If I might employ a euphemism, I'd say, where you and Parker are concerned, that what the evidence shows … is that you_ **'shower him with love.' **_And let me tell you … the love of a parent changes you," she says.

Booth looks at her, thinking about Bones' years estranged from her parents, and even Russ.

"If I had a child, she …"

_"Or he …" _interrupts Booth, nodding once as he suggests this correction.

_"Or he,"_ she concedes, nodding once toward him. "… would prefer you over me, given the same choice …"

"How you figure? I'm no science guy …"

"Right … but my child would eventually tire of hearing about science. She …"

"_Or he …"_ Booth insists once again.

_"Or he_ …" she says, again, nodding once, again, "would want to hear all about the stuff you enjoy doing. Restoring old cars, doing sports, watching sports, going to games, shooting a gun, throwing all manner of shapes and sizes of balls around for fun, catching bad guys, fishing, camping, eating hot dogs and pop corn, kissing girls, urinating in the snow, burping the alphabet … you know, guy stuff."

"And you don't burp?"

"Not competitively," she says, laughing. "Unless challenged," she finishes with a chuckle.

"You think your kid would like that?"

"What kid wouldn't? Boy or girl. Kids are kids, until a certain age, maybe. You'd be, figuratively of course, a wild ride at an amusement park for any kid, Booth."

"Hm," grunts Booth, stabbing another piece of French toast and leaning close to his plate to put it in his mouth. "A wild ride at an amusement park. I can live with that."

"And, I would want my child to learn to live according to that code of yours … and who better to teach her … or him," she says, nodding toward him, "than you?"

"Well, thank you, Bones," he says, a wide toothy smile spread across his face.

"You're welcome. It was a compliment," she tosses off, "especially from me. I have an extraordinarily well developed code myself. I wouldn't expose my child to just anyone." Bones looks down at her plate, concentrating on the message that's now being delivered into her ear in Hodgins' voice. Looking over to the computer screen, she clicks open his email containing information about the phalange. Biting her lip, she says, "Talk about interesting."

"Hodgins?"

"Yes … it appears," she begins, laying her phone down and peering into the computer screen. "Okay, according to the mass spec, there are traces of a foreign substance on the exterior of the phalange. Hodgins says that the phalange was at one time completely concealed in this substance, but it wore off over time," she says, reading Hodgins' email. Clicking on an attached pdf document in the email, Bones reads off a list of the mass spec findings. "Butyl acetate, ethyl acetate, nitrocellulose, acetyl tributyl-citrate, adipic acid/neopentyl glycol/trimellitic anhydride copolymer, isopropyl alcohol, stearalkonium bentonite, acrylates copolymer, styrene/acrylates copolymer, benzophenone-1, Titanium dioxide, Ferric ferrocyanide, Carmine, plus fish and insect scales. Hm," she mumbles to herself, picking up the phone and dialing Hodgins.

"Hodgins. This is Dr. Brennan. Does this mass spec mean what I think it means?"

"If you think it means that the phalange was at one time encased in nail polish, then yes. It appears that it was completely covered, but then over 70% of it wore off over time. What wore it off, I do not know. Some kind of continual friction against a non-densly textured material which distressed the surface and removed the layers of polish. So … wear and tear? But that just seems odd."

"That's speculation, Dr. Hodgins. We deal in facts, not speculation. What did the isotope analysis reveal?"

"Well, that phalange came from the same place as Aleesha Grimes' remains do."

"Laurel, MD?"

"In that general area. Somewhere on the East coast within about 300 miles of Laurel."

"And Haverford."

"Yes, and Haverford. And get this, the owner of this bone was around fifteen years old!"

"Are you sure?"

"It's right there in the results, baby," says Hodgins, exuding confidence and smiling large into the phone. "I mean, Dr. Brennan.

"And you've confirmed that it is a human bone?"

"It is definitely human."

"Okay … send it over to Angela, see what she can come up with a rough estimate of the size of this teen."

"Will do. She's been trying to get a hold of you … she's been driving me crazy about it. When you ahve a moment, you might want to call her. I think it's about personal business, though. I though you might appreciate knowing that before you call."

"Thank you, Dr. Hodgins. Very good work, and I'm about to call Angela now …" Bones gets ready to hang up, but Hodgins stops her.

"Hey, Parker wants to know why you haven't called him," he tells her. "She's a little too old for you, Sport," she hears him say to Parker, chuckling. She can imagine the face Parker is giving Hodgins in response to that comment. "Got a minute?" he says back toward the receiver. "He wants to say something to you."

"Sure, go ahead."

"Bones? This is Parker …"

"I figured that, Parker," she says, smiling and looking over at Booth, who is watching her. She winks at him.

"Did you get my message? When are you guys coming back?"

"I just got your message now. I think your dad said our flight takes off in a couple hours …" she says, looking at Booth again, tapping her index finger on the top of her opposite wrist. It's the universal, 'what time is it' signal. Booth looks at his watch and mouths, 'We gotta go' to her. "Your dad will be back in plenty of time to pick you up and spend the evening with you … and you'll have all day tomorrow together. He's told me three times how much he wishes it was him with you today. I believe he misses you when you are apart."

"I know. I do too. What about you, Bones?"

"Oh … I don't miss your father at all. I barely get a chance to, he's right here with me!" she says, chuckling. Though it isn't entirely true that she doesn't miss him, she admits to herself, she does miss him whenever he's not with her. And ever since the night in Booth's bed, the physical withdrawal has been significant. "I do wish I could be at home right now, though," she says, closing and securing the top of her laptop and slipping it into its travel sleeve.

"No, I mean, will I get to see you this weekend?"

Bones looks over at Booth, thinking. "Um, I don't know, Parker. I guess it depends on if I'm invited, and how much I have to get done before we head out again on Monday."

"Bones, you gotta come see me. I've been practicing our 'What have you been up to' exercise,* and I'm improving my keen sense of observation. You gotta see it! Last night I did mom. This morning I did Angela and Jack … and I got all three completely right!"

"Well, we'll see, Parker. But right now, I have to go so we can get to the airport in time. If I don't see you this weekend … you have fun with your dad."

"I will. But I do wish I could see you too. Ask my dad. He won't care."

"Oh," she says, looking up at Booth, who is curious what they are talking about now. "I think you two need to discuss that between yourselves, Parker. You're dad's been looking forward to having you all to himself. But listen, I'll see you soon and we'll make bananas foster together again, okay?"

"Okay … have a safe flight!"

"It is actually safer to fly than to ride in a car, Park. One out of 6,800 people die in car accidents per year, and only one in 1.6 million die in air plane accidents. I am sure we will arrive home unharmed."

"I know. It's just something polite I like to say when people travel … I say it to Dad all the time."

"Okay, Parker. Gotta go. Have fun with Dr. Hodgins."

"I will! Goodbye!"

Bones hangs up the phone, smiling. She tells Booth about Hodgins' findings as they get up from the table and collect their bags for check out.

"He kept the bone as a souvenir. Probably had it in his pocket or on a key chain somehow. Was there a hole in it?" he asks.

"Not that I recall … though a piece of the bone may have broken off where a hole could have been. Remember how I said this bone was very brittle? If it was indeed preserved in any kind of sealant, that will distort our findings regarding the age of the donor remains. Hodgins says according to the isotope analysis, the owner of that bone lived in this area of the country … and was a teenager! This could get complicated. And by now we've lost the opportunity to find the broken off piece … all that soil has already been removed from the site."

"I thought Hodgins already looked through all the soil?"

"He took samples … and tested them. We didn't ship the entire contents of the hole to the Jeffersonian," she says, thinking. "No matter. We can get everything we need from the piece we have," she says, drifting off into a thought. "Remember how I said that the bone is either from a young person, but severely weathered, or from an older person?"

"Yep," he says, "Last sweep," he says, setting both of their bags outside the room, and reentering to look in both bathrooms, under the tables and chairs, and lifting up the bedspreads around the perimeter of each bed. Nothing. We are cleared for take-off," he says, letting his door bang closed behind him.

"Well, both are correct. It is from a young person, but it has been disarticulated for, I would guess, a number of years, based on its UTS."

"In English, please," he says as they approach the elevators.

"UTS. Ultimate Tinsel Strength. This bone is brittle. If the donor was young, but the bone is old. It's been on this side of the human body for … I don't know how many years."

"I'm telling you, he used it as a keepsake. Probably drives him nuts that he lost it. I'll have Benton send some guys over to the soil removal company and have them keep an eye on it. If anyone comes snooping around looking for that bone, we'll get him."

"Good idea," she says, "It's been troubling me that I didn't notice a piece had been broken off the bone, if it is indeed from a keychain."  
>"Wouldn't the wear and tear have removed the sharp edges?"<p>

"Not if it broke off a chain and was immediately buried under five feet of soil."

The nested mechanical doors slide open. They both pause, not moving, looking into the elevator, remembering what happened the last time they were in this elevator together.

"Whew," says Bones, knowing her cheeks are getting hot. She's trying to suppress a chuckle. They share a lingering, meaningful glance. If a kiss could be expressed through the eyes, then that is what is happening now. They both sigh audibly, both smiling ear to ear, and Booth lets Bones precede him across the threshold and into the mobile cubicle.

Inside the elevator, they stand facing the doors, their arms full of all of their travel belongings, and they both chuckle, glancing over at each other. Bones catches Booth's eye, and winks. He laughs out loud from the tension in the air, the memories of that elevator ride, and the way her wink sends a flood of adrenaline through his system.

"You have absolutely no self control," he teases her, shaking his head and sighing.

"At least not where you're concerned," she replies, laughing herself, "lucky bastard."

* * *

><p><strong>*Brennan and Parker's game<strong> was introduced in **Chapter Four**. Here's an excerpt, just in case you have forgotten how it goes:

"Watch this, Dad. Bones, tell me what I've been up to."

"Come here, big guy," she says grinning. Brennan crouches down, gives Parker a hug, lingering right in front of him, breathing in deeply through her nose and looking him up and down.

"Hmmm. Salt, dirt, grass, hard plastic, galvanized steel, iron, rain water, and sunshine."

Parker smiles, not surprised. This is obviously a game they have played before. "And what have I been doing?"

"Hmmmm. From my observations I can deduce the following: Dirt and salt - You've been playing hard enough to sweat, in a park with exposed soil – maybe a baseball diamond. Hard plastic and grass - You tossed a plastic Frisbee in the grassy part of the park. Galvanized steel and rain water – you stepped in a puddle, then played on a swing set, the older kind without the plastic coating on the swing chains – explaining the iron. Oh, it was a sunny day..."

* * *

><p>Hope you enjoyed breakfast! How about those<p> 


	162. Chapter 162 MushPuppet, Whatever That Is

A/N Where this MushPuppet business comes from, I do not know. Must be something from her childhood. Brennan is dealing with the vestiges of her insecurity about being able to maintain a successful relationship. This is to be expected, but it frustrates her no end ... what will Booth have to say about it? Let's see! Enjoy! ~MoxieGirl

**Chapter 162 MushPuppet, Whatever That Is**

Dropping her bags and reaching out to pull the elevator stop button, Bones turns to Booth and says nothing for a moment. She's been riding this elevator for the last ten seconds thinking about what's going to happen next. They are about to walk out into the world as a couple. Even if the world doesn't know it yet, they know it. And it feels different. She's always found this to be the trickiest transition in a dating relationship ... going from an experience shared only by two, into a world whose inhabitants, obligations, and expectations compete for their attention. This is the place where many of her relationships have faltered.

In her experience, relationships come with expectations, with '_strings attached_,' she heard someone once say, and felt the euphemism was appropriate. Some strings predictable. Some, not so much. _Upset comes from unmet expectations,_Sweets had told the two of them once during one of their sessions as partners. Bones had insisted that she prefers to depend only upon herself, and therefore was infrequently upset by her expectations not being met. For example, when it comes to the interns, she prefers not to get to know them until she's certain they are worthy of a repeat invitation to work in her lab.

Brennan usually finds other people's, men's, expectations of her to be surprising. Angela, on the other hand, seems to relish those expectations and eagerly strive to meet them, adjusting herself slightly to whomever she is attached to at the moment. Somehow, Angela never loses herself in the process. Brennan doesn't know how to do that smoothly. Her fear of losing control had made her suspicious and skittish of anyone's personal expectations of her.

"Booth," she says, walking over and standing in front of him. "We're about to go out there into the world. I find that I am nervous about us being together."

"Why? We've been together going on seven years, Bones. And besides, no one out here is going to know what's going on between us until we tell them," he says, leaning forward, kissing her on the lips. She moves closer to him, returning the kiss.

"Right ... but** I** feel different**.**And no matter what we say, Angela will be able to tell. Maybe Dr. Saroyan. Perhaps Sweets. These people have been pushing us toward this for a very long time. They watch us like a microbiologist watches growth patterns of bacilli in a petri dish, or an anthropologist searches for bone fragments to floating to the bottom of a jar of clear water."

Booth relaxes his shoulders and looks at her endearingly, leaning his head to the side. "So what? So what if they figure it out. They respect **you.** They respect** us. **They'll respect **this.**If confronted, we can choose to share it, or keep it to ourselves," he says, shrugging. "What exactly are you afraid is going to happen? Huh?" he says, looking in her eyes. "What is it?"

Bones shakes her head, moving even closer, putting her hands on his pectorales majors and taking comfort in how touching him warms and calms her. He sets his belongings on the ground and puts his arms around her, squeezing her to him, then resting his palms on her hips. At the same time, she wraps her arms loosley around his neck.

"Look..." she says, but stops abruptly, regret in her tone. She feels like she shouldn't have these concerns.

_"Woah._ Hold on a second ... that thought you just had," says Booth, taking her face in both of his hands, "Whatever it was - just tell me. Don't censor. Come on. What _exactly_were you just thinking? You made a face ... and it wasn't a happy one" He'd watched her expression change from concern to disdain in response to whatever was going on inside her head. "Come on, Bones. Whatever it was. Stop thinking and hit me with it," he says, holding her chin up with the side of one of his index fingers. "Come on," he says, cajoling her now because she's obviously feeling foolish.

"I was thinking that I shouldn't be thinking these thoughts," she says, grimacing, stepping back, shrugging and tossing her hands in the air, letting them drop, smacking her thighs. "That a strong woman wouldn't have these absurd concerns," she says, putting one hand on her hip, leaning her head to the side and gesticulating in the air with her other hand. "A confident, mature, intellectual should not be having these absurd thoughts."

"Good start. What thoughts?" he asks, nodding, ready to hear whatever she has to throw at him.

"Concern about disappointing you … ugh, how ridiculously wretched is that?" she says, squeezing her eyes together, pressing her fingers into her forehead. "I'm a world-renowned anthropologist and a best-selling author who's financially secure and doesn't have to work, but I do because I love it and what is my problem? I'm concerned about changing ... losing my independence but, at the exact same time, I'm more than happy to give up some of that independence because I've had enough of that already, and though it has worked just fine for me in the past ... you have shown me that there is a fuller life to live and I want that, I really do Booth ... and this step ... the discomfort ... feels absurd and immature and uncomfortable and unworthy of who I am as a person ... I have faced many challenges in my life head on, and this should be no different ... I should be able to figure it out and know what to do and execute whatever plan I create to achieve my goal ... and I just keep getting stuck ... if its not one thing its another, and I'm going to make you crazy and I sound like a fool and I feel like an imbecile even having these thoughts and I can't believe I'm saying this crap out loud," she says, dropping her gesticulating hand for the final time, then resting it on the unoccupied hip.

Booth listens to this entire … soliloquy ... nodding, his arms across his chest. He gets it. He's seen an earlier, less intense version of this when she was first getting to know and accept her father back into her life. She has a hard time allowing herself to have expectations of others. She didn't want to expect a close relationship with her father, he might leave her again. She didn't want Max to have expectations of her … weekly dinner dates, phone calls, holidays spent together, involvement in her life. She didn't wantto want that ... for quite a while. The fact that he might want it agitated her.

"Sounds to me like you want to have this relationship, our relationship, all by yourself," he says, resting a forearm on each of her trapezius muscles, interlocking his fingers behind her head. He looks at her, eye brows raised. "That's what it sounds like to me," he says, grimacing compassionately.

She stares into his eyes for a moment, chewing on the inside of her bottom lip, switching both of her eyes to one of his, then the other, because of how close they are to each other right now. She thinks about what he's just said. Then she relaxes, dropping her shoulders, her arms to her sides, expelling a loud sigh that seems to deflate her whole chest.

"You are making sense. That is what I am trying to do. That's _exactly_what I am trying to do! Control everything! AGH! What is wrong with me? I'm trying to manage your expectations before you even have them. How absurd," she says, snort-chuckling, leaning forward, resting her forehead against his shoulder. At the moment, this is their only contact. He moves his arms to around her arms, pinning them to her sides.

"Lets deal with the expectations _as they arise_. And assume we will succeed, okay? You _are_ going to disappoint me, and I _am_going to disappoint you. That's just the way relationships go. According to Dr. Gordon Gordon, there's no way we can intrinsically know and meet all of someone else's expectations. But what we can do is accept the fact that we're going to disappoint each other, hurt each other, take advantage of each other, piss each other off ..."

"Wow, you make relationships sound like an absolute hoot ..." she says, sarcastically.

"They are, Bones. But they don't exist in a vacuum ..."

Where has she heard that before? _Sweets!  
><em>  
>"... they exist out here in the real world ... where there's pressure, and yeah, disappointment, and sadness, but there's also joy, and love, and forgiveness, and beauty, okay?" he says, bending at the knees to catch her eyes which have been staring at the ground, her chin on her chest. She meets his gaze, and looks up. He straightens, putting his hands on her forearms, squeezing her biceps for emphasis. His hands are big enough to wrap almost all the way around the circumference of her forearms, and it feels nice, reassuring. She has the remarkable sensation that no matter what goes on in her life, if she can find him and have him hold onto her like that ... she can probably make it through just about anything.<p>

For a moment, she recalls an article she read in the doctor's office Tuesday morning ... something about how unaware both men and women are of the effect their physicality has on those around them. Something as simple as gripping her arms like this with hands big enough to go all the way around ... provides an incredible sense of safety, security. _Men,_ the article had said, _do not know this is happening when it does. Women experience the feelings, but are oblivious to the surprising fact that those very emotions are generated through a particular touch. The emotional sensations are actually created by the release of chemicals in the brain in response to a particular kind of touch, of course, but it was a fascinating article._Bones recognizes that this is what is going on between her and Booth, and finds it comforting as well as interesting. This is a benefit of their relationship that she had not anticipated.

"Gordon says we take each challenge as it comes, and we deal with it. He says I worry too much about something happening perfectly ... and that gets in the way sometimes. So this doesn't have to be mistake-free, okay? We're going to crack some shells ..."

"I don't know what you mean by that, Booth," she says, raising an eye brow.

"It means it could get messy, like cracking an egg, and it definitely won't be perfect ... like the jagged edge of a cracked egg. Get it?"

Looking up into his eyes, she says, "Do you think Dr. Gordon Gordon would be willing to come live with us, follow us around all day?" she asks, chuckling, smiling for the first time since she pulled the elevator stop button.

_"We_ don't even live with us!" says Booth. It's true, there is no 'we' in their living arrangements. "One thing at a time, lady. Right? Huh?"

She smiles, leaning her lips onto his from where she stands in front of him. It's a gesture of appreciation. She steps forward and presses her chest into his, leaning against his forehead with her own.

"Booth, I promise you, I am not this _MushPuppet _you see before you with all these insecurities you're witnessing now. I really am the strong, self-possessed, successful woman you fell in love with!"

"Stop. Stop apologizing! That's my whole point! You gotta let go of this need to be a certain way ... like you have to be this woman made of teflon, or mylar ... "

"Polytetrafluoroethylene, or heat-resistant polyester resin?" she asks, shaking her head in confusion. "I don't understand ..."

"I mean Kevlar - that's what it is ... **Kevlar!** Bullet proof. Do you think that if you werea... what was that? A MushPuppet, whatever that is … I wouldn't love you, or I'd love you less?"

She says nothing, waiting for him to go on, then realizing that the question answers itself. _Of course he would still love her.  
><em>  
>She drops her forehead against his cheek bone and rocks her head back and forth.<p>

"I'm ... not ... worthy," she whines in the same way the farm boy, Wesley, says "As ... you ... wish!" to Princess Buttercup after she pushes him down a hill in the movie The Princess Bride.

"No, you're not," Booth chuckles, leaning his head back so he can look in her eyes.

"What?" she says, clearly confused.

"None of us are. That's where grace comes in," he says, confidently. _And Grace comes from God alone,_ he thinks, _but that's a discussion for another time ...  
><em>  
>"Grace?" she repeats. "Are you referring to Grace, the barista at The Coffee Café ... or grace, the Judeo-Christian belief in unmerited favor and bestowal of gifts upon humans by their God?"<p>

For a moment, Booth stares at her, trying to decide what to say. Finally, he decides to go with the truth, and let the chips fall where they may.

"The second one," he says, nodding once.

For a while she says nothing, not wanting to rain on his parade.

"I would simply call that unmerited favor bestowed by someone who loves you as unconditionally as is humanly possible," she says, looking around as she says it, then back to his eyes.

"It is the same concept," he agrees, "... almost. It will do for now."

She sighs. She smiles, appreciative calm in her eyes. She looks at his lips, his jawline, his fabulous cheek bones, his forehead, and back to his eyes._ Mandible. Zygomatic arch, Cranium, Superciliary Arches._Then she kisses him along his manubrium, open mouthed kisses involving some tongue activity, all the way up to, but not including his mouth, where she does what she can to keep the crayon inside the lines, but she's struggling.

While she was chewing and tasting the skin of his jawline, he was talking, eyes closed.

"If you're worried about expectations, you want to hear one of mine?" he says, huskily.

"Yes," she says nodding against his cheek, kissing him again on his lips, lingeringly.

"Okay ... but control yourself, just for a minute, will you?" he says, leaning back, unable to get any words out with her leaning her soft, sweet, chest against him, kissing him. She laughs a husky laugh, and leans back, resignedly.

She puts an arm across her chest, and her hand up to her mouth for some reason, she's not sure why. Maybe covering her lips will create enough of a barrier that she'll be able to refrain from kissing him again?_ Ha, like that could deter me! _she thinks.

"Okay. Here's my expectation. I expect you to tell me whenever you sense there's an expectation, on either side, and we'll talk about it. No matter how big or small. At an appropriate time, in an appropriate place, of course."

"Okay," she says nodding, grinning, leaning back toward him again.

He leans back, places a vertical finger across her lips to hold her off, and says, "And no one gets to feel stupid for being a mush face, or whatever that thing was."

_ "MushPuppet," _she says against his fingers, a glint in her china blue eyes. He can see she's relieved of her concerns for the moment, and starting to feel a little 'puckish,' as Caroline would say.

"Whatever," he says, as she leans in and kisses him even though he's still got his finger on her lips. He chuckles at this. "Man, you are _insatiable!"_**  
><strong>  
>"And you are so delicious," she purrs, standing up on her tip toes and leaning fully against him so he almost falls backwards.<p>

"I'm going to have to put you on a leash," he chuckles, "Or a muzzle."

"I hope you aren't complaining …" she teases him, gently, chuckling.

"What? Me? That would never happen," he says wrapping his arms around her, squeezing her against himself, pressing his lips against her neck, just like this morning's second kiss, the wet one. Again with the foreplay, folks. Somebody's going to explode before Tuesday, I swear. It just might be me.

After a decent amount of kissing and hugging and sighing and, okay a little bit of groping, but all regulation, it's starting to get really hot in this elevator. Finally, Booth whispers into her ear, "Do you want to go back to the room? We still have the key cards …"

"Oh my!" she says, shivering involuntarily. "And ... hell yes," she moans, his breath tickling her skin, causing goose bumps to pop out on every visible surface of her body.

He waits a moment, looks in her eyes, then breathes into her other ear, "Are you sure?"

She is caught in a dilemma between what she wants to say and what she should say._ Piss, damn, and hell._She is well aware that the only reason he asked that question is that he's confident of her character … and her answer. He knows she will honor their agreement. But, his asking at least lets her know that he would have liked to go back to their rooms, as if his body hadn't already told her that. And it is nice to be wanted in that way by him, she thinks.

Sighing heavily, she kisses him one more time, then steps back, adjusts her tunic, steps over to the side where her carry-on, computer and bag are, and releases the elevator button.

Booth pulls out his FBI ID.

"What's that for?" she says, surprised.

"You'll see," he says, as the nested doors slide open onto the lobby. A crowd of people have been waiting for the elevator. They must have tied it up for a good ten to twelve minutes. Not looking at Bones, Booth holds up his ID and shouts in a commanding voice above the voices of the impatient hotel guests.

"Official FBI business here, please step aside. And thank you for your cooperation. We apologize for any inconvenience!"

As one of the guests holds the door open for them, Booth gestures for Bones to exit first, which she does. The guests have cleared a path in front of the elevator, making it easy for them to get through.

At the front desk, they turn in their key cards and sign their bills, just as Bret is preparing to get off of his shift ...

* * *

><p><em>So ... what do you think? Have we had enough fluff for a while? <em>


	163. I Still Think I'd Look Good On a Throne

A/N Okay - Just in case you were not up at one in the morning last night when I posted **Chapter 162 MushPuppet, Or Whatever That Means**, make sure you go back one chapter and read it. If you're all caught up ... you're ready for chapter 163! Let me know what you think. ** ~MoxieGirl**

**Chapter 163 I Still Think I'd Look Good On A Throne**

Booth sighs as he pulls his rental car keys out of his pocket, approaching the Steel Green Metal Chevy Suburban SUV 2WD 1500 LTZ for the last time.

"I'm going to miss the 326 horses under the hood at 5,300 rpms," he mumbles, "and the 348 pounds of torque at 4,400 rpms." He sighs, closing his eyes, and presses the unlock button, then the lock button, then the unlock button once again, just to listen to the rich beeping tone. To him it says, Slide yourself in here, cowboy, let's you and me go have a good time like real men.

Bones chuckles as he goes through this beeping and unlocking ritual one more time.

"You really _are_ going to miss this SUV, aren't you?" she says.

"Well, I like my Toyota Sequoia better, but this baby is newer … it got that sweet new truck smell."

"Once we get to the airport, I can leave you alone in the rental garage for a few minutes if you think you two need some private time," she says, trying to sound serious, but unable to hide the smirk on her face.

"Are you mocking me?" he asks, feigning indignation.

She chuckles at his response as she steps up into the passenger's side of the cab after they arrange their luggage and equipment in the cargo area. Booth starts the engine, backs out of the parking spot, and steers the SUV slowly through the Bryn Mawr Guest Suites parking lot exit.

"I better call Ange. Dr. Hodgins said she's anxious to talk to me …" Bones says, taking her phone from her bag. When she'd seen Angela's name on her caller ID, twice, she'd assumed it had something to do with Hannah. Hannah no longer being a concern, as far as Brennan is concerned, she hadn't felt compelled to return Angela's call with much urgency. Besides, she'd been busy. As she pushes the dial button on her cell, Booth turns northwest on U.S. 30 W toward Central Avenue, he merges left onto I-476 South. From here it's about eighteen miles to the Philadelphia International Airport.

Angela answers after one ring.

"Sweetie! Where have you been? I left you two messages!"

"I've been in Pennsylvania, Ange, you know that. We've been working almost non-stop since I arrived Monday evening. Hardly had time to stop and feed ourselves," she says, cringing, shooting a glance at Booth, who's amused at the fib she's just told. "I apologize, Ange, but I didn't listen to your voice mails before calling. I've been swamped! I didn't want to wait any longer to call you."

"Oh, just erase those messages, please!" exclaims Angela. Breannan can almost hear Angela's dismissive wave of her hand. "I'm actually glad you didn't listen to them. I got all panicky in the first message, then couldn't get my thoughts together throughout the whole second message … it must be the hormones. I can't wait to get my body back! Do you realize that at this stage of a pregnancy … it feels like you don't get any **ALONE** time? This kid kicks me constantly. I just want a little peace and quiet to myself … but everywhere I go, this kid comes along … AGH!" She's complaining, but Brennan can hear the joy and excitement under the fatigue and irritation.

"All babies come out eventually, Ange. Soon it will be over. I've read that some mothers, in the week after delivery, actually miss the sensation of the baby moving around inside their uterus. What do you have for me? Have you constructed an estimate skeletal matrix from the rogue phalange?"

"Oh, no. Sorry, Sweetie. I am still working on that - but it's not complete. Actually, that's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. Wait, when are you coming back?"

"We should be back in a number of hours. I'll stop by the lab on my way home to catch up … will you be there?"

"Honey, I need a nap like a whore needs a bath and a penicillin vaccine! I hope to be horizontal on the couch with a bag of Cheetoes and a strawberry milkshake by early evening. I'll email you what I've come up with," she says, pausing to yawn. "I have to say … this is a tricky case. Are we absolutely sure this 'rogue bone' is a phalange from the hand, not the foot?"

"Anything is possible. Without all of my equipment out here, there's only so much we can ascertain through cursory optical observation, but it did appear that it was from the victim's carpal region. Although, Hodgins tells us there has been a degree of surface erosion … and the original shape may be significantly distorted to the degree that it could appear to be the intermediate phalanx for the right digitus secundus when it is actually something else, perhaps a podiatric phalange. I based my analysis on the depth of the cortical bone in relation to the breadth of cancellous bone. In view of Dr. Hodgins' findings, my first analysis may prove false. Why? What did you find?"

"Okay, I have absolutely no idea what you just said ... flew right over my head ... but, moving right along ... when I build a skeletal reconstruction using the rogue phalange as if it were from a hand, I get the build of someone who is three feet tall and husky, you know, sturdily built, large-boned … "

"Or possibly someone who has Achondroplasia …"

"Um ... okay. Artist here, not scientist. I'll take medical translation for $50, please!" she says chuckling.

"Ange, I don't know what that means ..."

"Sorry, Bren, it's a referral to this game show where you choose a rotating cube that had a topic on it and if you get the answer correct ... you know what, never mind. I just want you to tell me, in human terms, what Androp-Malasia is ..."

"Achondroplasia is an autosomal dominant genetic disorder that is a common cause of dwarfism. It's caused by a change in the DNA for fibroblast growth factor receptor 3 which causes an abnormality of cartilage formation. That could explain what you are seeing in your reconstruction," she explains, "an unusually small stature with unusually mature bone growth. Perhaps an adult dwarf, rather than a stout child."

"Oh. Well that is a possibility, however, there may be an even more plausible explanation. If I reconfigure the matrix, inserting the phalange as a proximal phalanx of the second toe, left or right, we get a build that would suggest what you would expect to see in an average-sized teenager."

Brennan pauses, eyebrows squeezed together in thought. "Fascinating. Angela, that is a reasonable option. Good work. Could you please leave the phalange, with your findings, in my office?" asks Brennan. "The second scenario makes more sense. Hmm. Thank you."

"Okay - I will continue with the reconstruction so we can get a more accurate image of what this person's build, gate, and stature might have looked like. Will you be in on Monday?"

"Perhaps briefly. Booth and I have to head out to Washington State to investigate a murder that may be related to this one. It seems we may have found the owner of the purloined arthritic femora, tibiae, and fibulae. I'll most likely check in Monday morning, then fly out in the afternoon," she says, looking over at Booth for confirmation. Booth turns toward her and nods.

"Yes, we should have time for that. I'll have Cam schedule a teem meeting Monday morning. Will you have the images complete for us by then?"

"Unless this baby comes early …" says Angela, smiling into the phone and rubbing a circle over the highest peak of her belly.

"Excellent. My goal is to have the new remains from Washington to your office by early Tuesday. They've already scheduled the exhumation for Monday … I should have those remains in front of me within an hour of landing on Washington soil."

"This is an interesting case, Bren, but not as interesting as what else I have to tell you ... about Hannah," she says with a flourish. "Are you sitting down?"

"Yes, Angela, we are in the car on the way to the airport."

"Okay … so, Booth is with you?"

"Uh ... Y-yes …"

"Okay … he can't hear me, can he?"

"I don't think so … maybe this can wait?" she suggests, turning to look at Booth. He looks over at her. They smile at each other, sending butterfly wings dancing through her abdominal cavity. _What is that sensation, she wonders. And, what causes it, physiologically?_ she wonders. It's obviously hormonal, but why does it arrive at lightening speed, traveling down her body in a palpable, horizontal wave? _How could that simply be a release of chemicals ... which are delivered from the brain through the veins, right?_ But the sensation appears to affect her muscles as well as her organs and bone tissue. She'll have to discuss this with Cam, she's the medical expert.

Turning to look out the passenger side window, Brennan takes her phone from her left ear and puts it up to her right, approximating privacy as best she can. Hearing nothing from the other end of the line, she knows the answer … this CAN'T wait. "I think you're fine. Go ahead," Brennan concedes with a sigh.

"Well, I finally confronted Hannah yesterday and you will never believe what I found out … she's leaving for Afghanistan!" Angela says excitedly.

"Are you sure? Why wouldn't I believe that? That's a perfectly logical thing for her to do. I mean, if there's nothing left for her here," she says, glancing back over at Booth, who flicks his eyes at her, then back at the road.

"Well, because … you saw her and Booth all cozy at the diner Monday morning … holding hands and making googely eyes at each other … "  
>Bones glances over at Booth again, who, at this point, is still concentrating on driving, not paying any attention to her side of this phone conversation. She smiles to herself. If you only knew what I know, Angela, she thinks.<p>

"… And we thought she was going to try to tell you they were back together," Angela continues, "… and that you shouldn't get your hopes up!"

Bones stifles a snort, and chuckles, putting her hand over her mouth. Booth hears this and looks over at her. She shrugs her shoulders, shakes her head, covers the receiver, and whispers toward Booth in explanation, "She's having hormonal fluctuations resulting in emotional distress accompanied by gastrointestinal unease and a significant degree of odiferous flatulence." She makes a stinky face, waking a hand in front of her nose. "Believe me, you don't want to know the details."

"Nooooo, you got that right. No talk about lady stuff … leave me out of it … " replies Booth with a determined shake of the head and a grimace. "I don't get why women have to share all of that stuff with each other. Why can't you just keep it all to yourselves, you know, suffer in silence like men do?"

**"Excuse me?"** Bones blurts, shooting Booth a 'you've got to be kidding me' look. "Rarely does a man suffer in silence. Men turn into pre-ambulatory humans when it comes to physical pain and discomfort," she chuffs assuredly. "You included, Mr. my tooth hurts, my back hurts, I need a new office chair …"

"Wha? Hey ... those were legitimate ..." he rolls his eyes, knowing this is not an argument he is going to win against the champion defender of all things quantifiable and ... whatever. He's just not going to win, so he shuts up and stares straight ahead, his lips in a hard white straight line across his face. Secretly, he enjoys these little quarrels of theirs. It occurs to him that you could actually consider them a form of foreplay ...

"What ... are you smiling about, Booth?" she asks, confused, noticing his amused smirk. "I will not forget this conversation ... " she says.  
>Booth glances over and grins at her, pinching her cheek.<p>

"He-hey!" she says in surprise. "You cannot charm your way out of this one."

He glances back over at her, pinches her cheek again, and chuckles.

She is not at all sure what is going on ... "Booth ... I don't know what you think you're doing ... " she says chuckling back, still not sure what's going on. _He's probably thinking about sex,_ she decides. _What else would put that smarmy expression on his face in the middle of a discussion that has nothing to do with sex?_

"Helloooo?" a tiny voice drifts out from the earpiece of Brennan's cell. "Bren? Earth to Bren, you can have your little **'lovers' spat'** later …" she says, rolling her eyes and giggling.

"Let me tell you what happened with Hannah … I don't have much time. You do **not** want to listen to me peeing and what-have-you in the ladies' restroom, believe me!"

"And don't think we're finished with this conversation, Booth," Bones tosses in his direction, continuing to stare at his profile, incredulous. Slowly, she returns her focus to Angela on the cell.

"Where were we, Ange?" she says into the receiver.

"Thinking Hannah wanted to tell you she and Both were doing the nasty again, and that she didn't want to see you get hurt by him …"

"Oh, Angela," she says, back into the phone, "I was never certain of the plausibility of that explanation for what was observed."

"Okay. Well, whatever. None of that matters any more because I finally caught her when she stopped by yesterday, like I said. And we had a little chat, woman-to-woman."

"Oh, Ange …"

"No, listen, everything is okay … " Angela begins to explain, "I told her how you and Booth belong together … and that she never had a chance … and she actually shed a couple of tears."

"Angela, while I appreciate your loyalty, that was really not necessary …"

"Bren, your my best friend - though I told her BOOTH was YOUR best friend … oh, I said a lot of good stuff. I wish I could have recorded it. It totally rocked, I was smokin,' I tell you!"

Brennan has closed her eyes, and is now resting her forehead in her left palm. A part of her felt empathy for Hannah. Like Brennan, Hannah had loved Booth, but had never fully captured him. Not really. She, Brennan, knows what it feels like to see what you want, yet be unable to attain it fully. Hannah's and Brennan's situations were very different … but, in a way, they were also similar. Brennan loved Booth, but didn't feel she could make him happy … then he was unavailable, and she thought she'd lost her chance. Hannah loved Booth, but never really had him all to herself … Brennan wondered if he ever truly felt about Hannah the way Hannah felt about him. But Hannah was smart enough to see that, thank the universe! Both women wanted something they knew they couldn't have.

"I appreciate your allegiance, Ange. I really do. But I can take care of myself …"

"It gets better … by the end, she told me that she thinks you and Booth belong together … can you believe that? You should have seen her face …" she says, shaking her head and lowering herself into a big chair with a grunt. "I believe her. She was in a world of hurt, I gotta tell ya.' I actually felt kinda bad for her. Isn't that interesting?"

Bones glances over at Booth. He's back to minding his own business. Looking back out her passenger side window, she asks Angela, "So, why had she been seeking me out?"

"Get this … she wanted to return your sunglasses to you before she leaves - which is Monday morning. I told her you were out of town … I said a couple of other choice things about you and Booth being out there in Philadelphia, all alone, together … but that was before I knew why she'd been stalking you. Ew, I must have come off kinda bitchy," she says, pausing, a momentary pang of guilt fleeting through her system. She fnds herself rationalizing her behavior almost immediately. All's fair in love and war, baby, she thinks, chuckling to herself.

"Well … that's all? That's it?"

"Yuh huh. Isn't that enough?"

"Hm, yeah, you're right." she says absently, looking back over at Booth. Reaching across the space between them, she affectionately rests her hand on his shoulder. When he looks over, she smiles and winks at him. He has no idea what's going on, but he knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe she's decided they don't need to continue their discussion about how males and females handle pain differently? Could he be that lucky? He reaches across his chest with his left hand, resting it on top of hers for a moment, and smiles back at her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. Both hands back on the wheel, Booth returns his attention to the road ahead. Just then, his phone rings. He answers it, finding the Philadelphia Field Office on the other end ...

"Oh! I almost forgot to ask you, Bren. What did Booth think about the note you gave him? Did he find it? Has he even acknowledged it?" she asks eagerly, hungry for details.

"Ange, Booth has just gotten a call we've been waiting for all morning. I gotta go …"

"Wait! Not until you spill sister … come on, out with it!"

"I am sorry, Angela … I really have to go … besides," she says, leaning as far away from Booth as she possibly can, covering her mouth and the phone with her hand. "I can't talk about that right now, he's sitting right next to me … and I really do have to go!"

"Oh, right. Just tell me … did he find it … one word … yes or no?"

"Yes, okay? And to answer your next question … it wasn't all bad, the reaction … and that's all I can say right now. See you Monday."

"Alright," Angela huffs, disappointed at the meager scoop about the 'I love you' note Brennan had given Booth in the pair of blue footie socks.  
>"Take care, Sweetie. See you on Monday."<p>

* * *

><p>"Got it," says Booth, into the phone. "Okay, here's a couple another ones: Dr. Clyde Bing, a Gary DiAngela, Officer Angelus Scarpeti, and a Carmen Larrinaga." Full backgrounds. Send the info to the email address you have on file for me. Thanks for your assistance." He hangs up the phone.<p>

"News?" Bones asks, looking over at him.

"Enri and Hubbard came up squeaky clean. Nothing, on record, at least. I expected a little pot bust from their college days … maybe …" he says, still thinking. I wonder what Scarpeti and DiAngela were doing five years ago. They weren't teaching … where were they?"

"Hm. Hubbard could fill you in on DiAngela. Didn't you say Enri and Scarpeti are good friends?"

Booth nods, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, adjusting himself in the seat a little, trying to get comfortable.

"My message from Benton was about the mug from Enri's bedroom. Prints are Aleesha's. Case closed on that."

"And we can assume, then, that those photos are going to turn out the same way … any news from Angela about those?"

"No … I've got her working on the more urgent issues. Get this, she digitally constructed an image of the possible skeleton belonging to our rogue phalange. She said what comes up is the body of a dwarf," says Bones, opting to go with simple descriptors rather than the medical terminology.

"Or a child?"

"I'll have to look at the bone circumferences in Angela's reconstruction to determine that … but she also described this person as 'husky.'"

"Oh yeah. They used to use that term as a size on clothing for boys!"

"Really?" she says, quizzically, looking at his silhouette.

"Yep. You have slim, regular, and husky. Three kinds of boy bodies. At least, they did if you got your pants from the Sears & Roebuck catalog. I don't know if they do it anymore, Rebecca buys all of Parker's clothes …"

"So … the other possibility is that the phalange isn't from the hand at all. It could be from the foot."

"Really?"

"Yes, intermediate phalanx for the digitus secundus and … " she begins.

"Bones, driver's eyes glazing over …" he says, pointing at his own eyes with his index and second fingers.

"Right. The middle finger bones are similar in shape and size to the middle toe bones. However, there are a potential twenty-five comparisons of toe to finger to conduct, and that's just for one skeleton. Provided we have the overall size of the donor as a constant, we could multiply that by body types …"

"Slim, husky, regular .." he chimes in.

"Precisely … and sizes based upon age … it could prove virtually impossible for Angela to construct a model with a measurable degree of certainly.

"What do you mean?"

"It's a big job. I'll most likely have to do it," she says, sighing and stretching he arms out in front of her.

"Can you do all that math in your head?" he asks.

"Hell no. But now that we have this new information, I can tell you just by looking at it …" she says, confidently.

"Oh. Of course," he says, but she misses his sarcastic grin.

"Anyway, it is more likely that the extra bone is a toe bone from a teenager."

"Hm … what the hell? This just gets weirder and weirder … you said earlier that you had an email from Mr. Bray?"

"Yes! How could I have forgotten? He said that on closer inspection, he noticed that there might be an unnatural erosion on the metatarsophalangeal joint."

"What would that tell us? Wait, what **is** that?"

"Actually, he said it's not so much an erosion, it's more of a clean cut. But it's hard to tell because that end of the phalange is almost completely covered in the resin … nail polish."

"In other words … maybe that … whatever it was … "

"The joint of the phalange …"

"Okay … that joint, for some wacky reason, was significant to the murderer to the point where he may have put several layers of nail polish over it … maybe several layers over a period of time."

"Wow. Very good point. Hodgins will be able to determine fluctuations in age and density of the polish layers. Good thinking, Booth!"

"I am a constant surprise .." he says, chuckling. "That's why you keep me around."

"Uh, no. That's not it," she says, biting her lip, then chuckling. "The real reason I keep you around is that you carry a gun and you make pretty decent arm candy ... do you know what that is?"

"I do," he says, nodding once, and snort-laughing. "I can't tell you how funny it is to hear you say that kind of thing. I just can't get used to it!" he says, still laughing.

"What? I'm a fun person, aren't I?" she says, skeptically. "I've always been an amusing person, haven't I?" Now she really wants to know what he thinks.

"Oh, yes. You are, but not like this," he says, peeking over at her, then shaking his head, still chuckling.

"Well, you are a constant surprise, as you stated" she says, absently, watching the cars on the highway whizzing to their varied destinations.  
>"Which reminds me … about men and women and pain …" she says, a challenging smirk on her face.<p>

"Look at that! We're here at the airport! Sorry, Bones, you'll have to save that fascinating discussion for another time …" he chortles.

"Hm," she says, staring at his profile, an amused smirk across her face. She crosses her arms and makes a note to herself that this conversation is most definitely not over …

* * *

><p>Walking away from the check-in counter with a jubilant expression on his face, Booth sends up a prayer of thanksgiving for Sharon, his wonderfully friendly, generously endowed, personal check-in angel back in D.C. Sharon is the sassy woman who arranged for his round-trip, first class seating this past Monday.<p>

Having checked-in before Booth, Bones has been waiting for him before heading to the security area.

"What are you so happy about, did you find a plastic decoder ring at the bottom of your Cheerios box this morning?" she says, watching his uncharacteristically jaunty approach, noting the grin plastered across his face. She has no idea what to expect form his answer.

"Now, if** I** had asked **you** that question, you would smugly inform me that you, in fact, did **not** have Cheerios for breakfast, that you had eaten **oatmeal**, and that I should very well know this because I was there **with** you …" he answers, oozing sarcasm. "But, as I am **not** you, I am **me**… FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth of the D.C. office, and much more adept at recognizing when a snarky comment is meant to be taken figuratively…"

"Oh brother!" she says, rolling her eyes. "This answer is going to take forever … should I sit down?" She turns and walks toward a chain of air port chairs, where she plops down and leans back, waiting for him to stop talking. As he continues his soliloquy, she can't resist a chuckle, which turns into a full laugh by the time he is finished.

He, on the other hand, has continued talking as if she hasn't said anything, although he's well aware that she did say something. He even managed to process the sounds coming out of her mouth, and knows the content of what she said, but he is determined to have his moment in the sun. He has followed her to the chain of chairs and stands before her still talking …

"… I know full well that you are simply attempting to make a joke at my expense, which I applaud you for, by the way … that was a good one … " he pauses for a moment to flash his 1,000 Watt smile at her. She, of course, is rolling her eyes again and trying not to choke on her saliva as she attempts to suppress her laughter.

"… and that what you are actually interested in knowing is what could have possibly happened at the check out counter to put me in such an uncharacteristically joyous mood. Am I right?"

"Do I really sound like that?" she asks, chuckling.

"Sometimes, but not nearly as enthusiastically as I've portrayed in my Bones impression. That was my own touch," he says, speaking in his normal voice, but again flashing that 1,000 watt smile at her. He sits down beside her, his bags at his feet, still gripping the handles of his carry-on and a rolling equipment case full of her anthropology stuff and their laptop. Leaning back in the chair and over toward her, he swings his face around to her so he can look her in the eyes. "So, wanna know what has made my day?"

"Other than the fact that we are going home, finally, and you get to see Parker?"

"Well, there's that too," he concedes, glancing down at the shiny black leather handles of the equipment bag, the handles that are almost cutting off his circulation. He disengages his hands from the handles, leans toward Bones again, and says, "I … just scored us seats …"

"I already had a seat, Booth …"

"In first cla-asss …" he says, in a sing-song voice.

"But I was already in first class … I thought you were too …" she says, looking at him like maybe if she got a plastic decoder ring, maybe she could better understand Booth.

"Wait for it … wait for it …"

"Come on, Booth, you're not telling me anything I don't already know …"

"Side by side …" he finally says, raising his eye brows several times at her. "I got us seats ... right next to each other! What about that, huh?"

"Okay," she says, nodding and smiling, "Okay. I get it. And that is a coup to be proud of. Well done, my good and faithful servant," she says, chuckling.

"Did you just quote the bible to me?"

"Uh, the bible is literature, Booth. I do a lot of reading …"

"I believe that was from Matthew. Chapter 25, verses 21and 23. The parable of the three guys who were entrusted with their masters' bags of gold."

"Anyway," she says, "I do appreciate the effort and I will look forward to sitting, side by side, in our first class seats on the flight back home …" she says, leaning toward him, and planting a friendly kiss on his lips.

"Okay," he says, "let's head to security."

"Security or bust," she says. "I still don't understand that phrase ... 'or bust.' What could that possibly mean ... for real? The origins of idiomatic phrases are usually based upon something that at one time had literal meaning ..."

"Let's go, Bones," says Booth starting to walk away from her toward the security office.

* * *

><p>Seated in seats D and F, in the second row in the first class section of an Airbus A319-100 out of Philly and into D.C., Bones' tosses her cell back into her bag after completing a call updating Dr. Saroyan and requesting she initiate a team de-briefing for Monday morning. Her laptop in front of her, she lifts the screen, waiting for it to come to life.<p>

"Does that happen every time you fly?" she asks, turning to her right, looking at Booth. "I don't recall them ever doing that before," she says, searching her memory for their previous flights together.

After checking in, instead of going through security like all the other passengers, Booth had presented himself to the security office to notify them that he's carrying a firearm. Flashing his FBI identification and answering a couple of questions took a little longer than they expected, and they almost didn't catch their flight. Bones had to wait in a small lounge outside the security office, and was not given any information about Booth's progress, despite the fact that three serious-looking men, all in black suits and appearing to be constipated, entered and left the room where Booth was sequestered.

"No, but there have been several suspected security breaches in Chicago, Atlanta, Newark, Austin, D.C. and Philly … so they are taking extra precautions. I read about it when I was here earlier this week, and figured I should make myself known. Get it over with."

"Oh, do you still have your gun?"

He leans sideways toward her, covering his mouth, and whispers conspiratorially, "I still have **one** of them."

"Isn't that illegal, a concealed weapon on an airplane?"

"Not for an FBI Agent," says Booth, confidently.

"Then why did you hide it from them?"

"They probably aren't aware of the new regulations," he says, coughing to indicate that these are his own, personal regulations ...  
>"Couldn't we get arrested?" she asks, enthusiastically. "I've never been arrested ... I don't think," she says, scrunching up her face and thinking about it. "Now there's something I think I would like to experience ..." she says, nodding. "Fascinating, perhaps then I would be a criminal. Would I get a rap sheet for being an accomplice to a crime?"<p>

Booth watches her, listening to her talking to herself.

"You are getting way too much pleasure out of the possibility of going to jail."

"I find defying authority, as long as no one is harmed or cheated, to be exhilarating on occasion ... remember when we ran out of The Founding Fathers bar without paying? That was equally satisfying. We should do that again sometime," she says looking toward him. "On second thought, no, I don't think I could ... it's just not right ... but it was fun to do once."

"You are a woman of odd enthusiasms, Bones." She smiles at him, pulled out of her reverie.

"What happened to your other gun?" she asks, eyes opened wide in surprise.

"I offered it to them. I walked right into that security office, showed them my badge, said I was familiar with the drill, and asked if they wanted to put my gun in the captain's safe …"

"And they didn't frisk you?"

"Well, a little. These guys know me by now. Two of them were the same ones who stopped me from leaving Philly last Tuesday. Came right onto the plane and yanked me out of my fantastically comfortable first class seat. You know, there should be an upgrade for people who get disrupted and yanked out of first class to answer to the man …"

"Like what, a suite, a seat up there with the pilot? Is this part of your unending quest for a throne?" she asks, her tone revealing how absurd his proposal is. "Just what would you have them give you, Booth?"

"I don't know … something extra," he says, thinking. "Like pie. They should serve pie to law enforcement who are made to forfeit their seats in the name of national security."

"I'm sure they don't have the budget for that, Booth," she says, snorting, looking sideways at him as she places her hands on the laptop keyboard. "You'll get your pie soon enough," she says, winking at him.

Unable to take his eyes off of her, lest he miss something, he thinks for a moment, biting on the inside of his bottom lip.

"Are we still talking … about pie? I mean … pie-pie. Just pie," he says, looking at her suspiciously, brow furrowed, "Like real pie?"

She tilts her head to the side, pursing her lips, raising her eye brows suggestively, and gives him a sly grin. To top it off, she winks at him, then turns her attention to her computer screen. Okay, now that just wreaks havoc with his circulation, not to mention the flipping and flopping being performed by a gymnastics troupe inside his stomach, or his heart, or whatever other organs they can mess with.

"Damn," he says, blowing out a gust of breath, shaking his head in moderately surprised thought.

"We **are**on an airplane …" she says, typing out something on her keyboard, not looking up.

"Yeah … " he says, nodding once, slowly, watching her.

"I though you were the one who was, let me see … " she says, looking over the seat in front of her, squinting her eyes to remember. "What did you call it? … Oh yeah, **locationally creative**. And I distinctly recall you listing "on a plane while in flight" as part of your … repertoire."

"Yeah, but …."

She turns and stares at him scrutinizingly for a moment, chin down, one eye brow raised suggestively. Is that a … challenge, he asks himself.

"Don't tell me you made that up …" she says, looking straight at him, not blinking. When he says nothing back, she shrugs, shakes her head, and smirks. "What a pity," she says light-heartedly, refocusing on her laptop screen.

Booth looks down the aisle and out over the top of their seats to see if there is anyone in front of or behind them. The nearest couple ahead are a row away and not paying attention to anyone but each other. Behind them is an elderly woman whose hearing aids are dangling off the backs of her ears as she snoozes, mouth hanging open, head bent at an uncomfortable angle toward the oval window. Satisfied that they have a modicum of privacy, he leans toward Bones and whispers close to her ear as if it's a secret meriting the protection of national security.

"No, I did **not **make that up. You just caught me off guard … Before I could figure out how to respond, you'd already pegged me as a liar."

"Hm," she grunts, not convinced, but amused at his awkwardness and apparent discomfort.

"Besides, PIE is not on the menu for this flight. It's only a little over an hour long … the flight."

She shakes her head, feigning disappointment. "Sounds to me like you over-sold yourself, Romeo," she says dismissively. "Besides, I believe this is a BYOP flight." She stares at him, leaning her elbow on the inadequate arm rest between them, resting her chin on her fist, and getting within two inches of his face. She smiles teasingly into his eyes, watching for signs of comprehension.

He looks at her, squinting, mouthing the acronym. After a moment, he breaks into a slow grin. Of course, **Bring Your Own Pie**. Bones watches him figure it out. When he gets it, she nods with him, and they both begin to chuckle while continuing to nod at each other.

* * *

><p><em>Are we getting the references to PIE? I think this may become a theme as we go forward ... how else to be able to<br>discuss sex what is foremost on their minds while in public? Thank goodness we're finally heading back to D.C.! Tuesday couldn't come soon enough ... __however, shenanigans are planned for the weekend ... including Parker and Sweets, _  
><em>and a little bit of Angela!<em>


	164. Chapter 164 Bring Your Own Pie

_A/N Just a short little piece of fluff I had to get out of my system before we get home to D.C. I have to tell you, I'm kind of on the fence about having them be so affectionate on a plane ... but you know what? Last night was intense for them ... Booth freaked out when he heard the lamps crashing to the floor in her hotel room, she had a nightmare and a bloody nose, she destroyed her room, she cried her eyes out all over Booth, they did a ton of talking while on their best behavior, and now they are heading back home where ... everyone in their lives will be watching. Will they be able to keep this to themselves for the few days they are in D.C. before leaving for Washington State? I hope you enjoy this little romp! ~MoxieGirl_

****Chapter 164 Bring Your Own Pie**  
><strong>  
>"You know, Sweets has been saying for quite some time that your attempts to get me to eat a piece of pie have a sexual component," says Bones. "Pie as a ... sort of ... three dimensional euphemism for sexual intercourse," she says, raising her eyebrows at him.<p>

They are sitting, side-by-side, in their first class seats, both of them, their elbows on the arm rest between them, their chins resting on their fists, faces about four inches apart.

"Oh, we're back to 'sexual intercourse,' are we?" asks Booth, amused and smiling.

"I'm trying to create a little bit of distance …" she explains, in a hushed tone.

Booth snorts. "**_Distance?_**If this is what you call distance, sweetheart, I'd like to see what you call proximity," he says, gently sarcastic.

"I bet you would," she chuckles, leaning in and kissing him, then staring into his beautiful brown eyes.

"I would," he smiles, taking a tour of her face with those same eyes.

"You will," she says, thinking, _I love the way you look at me._

"But not in an airplane bathroom. And not today."

"That's too bad. I could really go for a little pie," she says, turning her face away slightly, coquettishly, giving him a sideways glance that says, _'the bakery is open for business.'_"Wouldn't you like to have some pie with me, Agent Booth?"

He shakes his head slowly at her. It's not a 'no,' it's more like a_ 'My, my, my,'_ and, _'Oh, my goodness!'_gesture.

"You … are … dangerous," he says, reaching over to tuck some stray hair behind her ear. On the return journey from her ear, he runs his first two fingers slowly along her jaw line, stopping at her chin, then drops his hand back on his lap.

"Dangerous, huh? Maybe I'm really a criminal," she suggests, flashing her eyes open wide, laughing. "I could be a dangerous criminal!"

"You're already a criminal," says Booth, leaning in, rubbing her nose with his. He moves in really close. It looks like he's going to, it feels like he's going to, but he doesn't kiss her.

She attempts to close the gap between their lips, but he moves back.

"You're the criminal!" she says, a sweet expression of disappointment and surprise on her face. "I know where I can get a pair of hand cuffs," she says, teasingly, still in hushed tones.

"You do?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," she says, "And I will lock you up for alienation for affection. And for making a contract, but failing to deliver on said contract!"

"And what is said contract for?" he says, thinking he may have missed something, but playing along anyway.

"The one you made only a moment ago!" she says.

"I don't recall making a contract …" he says, grinning at her, moving his head side to side.

"Just a moment ago … you made a contract with your eyes."

"Hm. And what was that contract for?"

"A kiss. A really nice kiss …" she says, pouting slightly.

"Hm."

"And I was waiting for it, and looking forward to it, and you left me high and damp."

He can't resist laughing out loud, a little too loud, startling her. "Do you mean, 'high and dry?'" She could have meant 'high and damp,' but that's not exactly the kind of thing Bones would say ... he thinks to himself.

"Does that refer to being stuck on a mountain top without a single drop of water … and no hope for it in the near future?"

"That's … pretty much what it means," he says, nodding, raising his eyebrows, smiling at her, thoroughly amused.

"Well then, that is exactly what I meant. You left me high and dry."

"This isn't really the appropriate place for a Special Agent and a world renowned anthropologist to grope each other. What if the stewardess walks up with some drinks ... or food?"

"I didn't say anything about groping. It's kissing, just kissing," she says. "Besides, the seat backs obstruct the view from just about everywhere in this section, and it's practically empty in here. Where's that machismo now, Booth?"

"Hm." He just watches her, smiling at her. Nothing to say, really, but he's thinking,_ I love looking at you.  
><em>  
>"Well, since I have been trying to seduce you with a piece of pie, and I've also, apparently, been making contracts just by looking at you, I guess the least I could do is go ahead and kiss you, " he says, making no move to do so.<p>

She raises her eyebrows, looking an expectation at him. "Well?" she says.

"You are so bossy!" he says, winking at her.

"You wouldn't have it any other way, Agent Booth," she taunts him. _I dare you to disagree with me,_is what she means.

Booth sighs, he knows she's right. He lifts her chin with the side of his fingers, leans in close to her lips, hesitates, looking in her eyes, and at the last moment, veers to the right, all the way back to the tender skin right in front of her ear, where he delivers a slightly open mouthed kiss or four, then leans back in his seat, watching her reaction. Her eyes are closed, and she's frustrated, or delighted, he's not sure.

Without opening her eyes, she says, "Oh. My. God. Don't you know you are killing me? I am going to expire before we even get to Tuesday and it will be all your fault." She opens her eyes, stares him, then looks for something to throw at him. Finding nothing, she settles for pinching his cheek. "Ggrrrrrrrrrr! Two can play at that game, you know," she says, combatively. "But you know what?" she says, not really sure what is going to come out of her mouth. "I am not going to stoop to your level."

Booth chuckles in surprise. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know yet. But I … I'll figure something out. But know this … I would never torture you like this … it only hurts both of us …" she says, dismissively, grinning the whole time. Cat and mouse.

"What? You've been torturing me for years! So don't give me that crap," he says, laughing out loud again.

She grimaces at him. "I can't help it if I had to wait for you to grow up," she says, shrugging, looking back over to her computer screen.

"Me to grow up?" he asks, trying to sound as surprised as he can."Me? _**ME**_, grow up?"

"Yep. I almost gave up too. Had you written off as a lost cause …" she's energetically typing away on her keyboard, smirking.

"Wha …?" he says, looking at her screen, not really sure what to say, so he simply snorts. He sees that she's been typing a memo to the team at the Jeffersonian. So far she's got:

The facts as we know them:  
>* Two sets of disarticulated female remains, early twenties, Philadelphia and Washington<br>* a potential third set of remains, possibly male possible teen.  
>* Femora, tibiae, and fibulae of females appear to be commingled prior to interment.<br>* Apparent phalange of foot or hand from the third victim  
>* <em>;alsda;sfjlknvla kjdfafoijffn alkfjaljejf alfdkjaf uqeru qkmmc maodfhlan sfhjlkdf adsfiel aknkhgfd<em>  
><em>* slncvid halksdfjljdmm goe aldkfkhfoaln sdlffqeqr ufsm<em>

Those last two bullet points are what she's been feverishly typing away at since right after he almost kissed her. Reaching out, he takes hold of the laptop screen and closes it, almost catching her fingers as he snaps it shut. Sliding it back into her bag, he turns sideways in his seat, looks into her eyes, takes her face in his hands and gives her a full-blown, scandalously illegal, ridiculously sensuous kiss involving noses and teeth and lips, and some cheek and, of course, some really great tongue contact. And it is toe-curling, circulation-increasing, breath taking, run home and tell your mama, _**knock your sox off, FABULOUS.  
><strong>_  
>"You win," he whispers, as he pulls back about two inches, his fingers all mixed up in her hair at this point. Her hand is gripping his upper arm, but the rest of her is a pile of Jell-o, melting into seat D in the first class section of an Airbus A319-100 out of Philly and into D.C..<p>

"Um, Booth? I think I might need a wheelchair to get off this plane," she whispers, clearing her throat, and feeling dizzy.

"Hm." is his reply.

"Um, that kiss …" is all she can get out for a moment. Looking only at his lips, she makes a face like she's about to ask a serious question, and tries again, her brow furrowed, "Uh, that kissing rule …?"

"Yeah?" he says, loving watching the affect he has on her.

"It was a pretty stupid rule," she says," smiling weakly up into his eyes. "Who made that rule?" she says, chuckling.

"Uh, I think you did," he says, fully enjoying her playfulness.

"Stupid rule," she says again. "Not WHY it was made ... that still holds. But ... can you kiss me like that again? Please?" she says.

Booth makes a big deal of sighing, then puts his lips to her ear, "I suppose I could figure out how to fulfill that request, " he says. And then he does.

* * *

><p><em>Hm. The bakery is open for business, huh? These two, I swear. <em>  
><em>You could warm a small northern Minnesota town with the heat <em>  
><em>they generate in one chapter. At least, that's MHO!<br>Thank goodness for fire extinguishers. Do you have one by your computer?  
>Maybe you should get one ... <em>


	165. Chapter 165 Testing, One, Two, Three, Te

_A/N Little entertainment for you here before you take off for the weekend! Our fantasy couple talks I.Q.s, AIDS, Birth control, and Booth's childhood. Are you ready for a good long chapter? Have at it! ~ MoxieGirl_

**Chapter 165 Testing, One, Two, Three. Testing!**

"Booth … " says Bones, after that second phenomenal kiss in the first class section of an Airbus A319-100 out of Philly to D.C. "Booth," she says again, breaking away and smiling with only her eyes. Laying her left hand on his chest, she taps him with her index finger to emphasize her point as she continues. "I find kissing you to be quite addictive." She says it the same way you might say, "I prefer the mild salsa to the hot, it's … milder."

"Like Pringles, right?" he says chuckling. _**Then don't stop**_, he thinks.

"Exactly," she breaks into a big smile.

Resting his right hand on her left shoulder, he pulls her back toward him so he can nuzzle her neck right under her left ear just one … more … time. Dragging his stubbly jaw across hers, then back and forth on the left side of her neck, for the last time, he gives her a FINAL nibble on the neck. A person can only take so much stimulation before it starts to become painful, if you know what I mean. This whole interaction just about does Bones in …_ Wow, he's good at this,_she thinks. When he pulls away, her eyes are still closed.

Bones notices she's starting to blush again, her neck still recovering from the sensation of his prickly skin up against it. She's sitting on his left, turned toward him, her head resting on the headrest. For a moment, she sits still, closing her eyes, fully aware of the sensation of blood running through her capillaries. _WOW, _she thinks.

Booth is sitting to her right, of course, mirroring her position. They are sitting, looking at each other, enjoying being together, not saying much. He watches as her creamy pale cheeks slowly turn pink.

"Hey," whispers Bones, all of a sudden. "Have you noticed that I haven't been blushing nearly as much as I did yesterday … so that's progress, right?"

_"Whatever there be of progress in life comes not through adaptation_  
><em>but through daring, through obeying the blind urge ..."<em>

"That's Henry Miller," says Booth.

"Impressive." she says, nodding for emphasis. "Where did you ever read Henry Miller?"

"Every single time I sat down on the throne in Pops' basement bathroom," he says, smiling. "For as long as I can remember. Hanging in that bathroom was this little red plaque, about this big," he says holding his thumb and index fingers about six inches apart. "It was made of wood, with fancy edges …"

"Bevels?"

"Yeah. Painted fire engine red, with the words on a strip of paper that must have been clipped out of a magazine, or newspaper, then glued or shellacked. The wood was made to look old."

"Distressed?"

"Actually, it probably was genuinely old, judging by the pile of dust on the top ledge of it. Anyway, Pops or Gran had hung it right at eye level … right there in front of you … so every time I sat on the can, I couldn't help staring at it. '_Whatever there be of progress in life comes not through adaptation but through daring, through obeying the blind urge.'_ And every time I sat there, I stared at it. I couldn't help myself! And every single time, I had the exact same thought."

"What was that?" she asks, cocking her head to the left, lifting it from the headrest.

"I wondered if that was Gram's way of encouraging Pops whenever he was constipated," he says, laughing at the memory. "You know … _'obey the blind urge."_

Bones sits there staring at him for a moment, amused at the reveal, though she gives him a very serious look, reaching out to touch him on the wrist.

"I am pleased that you feel comfortable enough to share with me this … precious … memory from your childhood," she says, then snorts, unable to keep a straight face. They both crack up.

"Isn't it amusing, the things we remember … from our childhoods. I have often wondered, of all the verbal, visual, and audio input we've received over decades and decades of consciousness, why do we remember some seemingly meaningless things, and completely forget others?" she wonders, resting her head once again on the back of her seat.

"I have no idea. Sweets might Know," he says, shrugging. "But if I could hazard a guess, it would be that perhaps those things aren't really meaningless … even though we don't realize it."

"Did you know that human memory is one of the most unreliable sources of experiential information? They've actually proven this. Our brains distort images and information, making things appear larger or smaller than they actually were, and filling in the gaps. Oddly, people, seldom question their own memories. I find that fascinating. It also confirms my faith in facts, in the empiricle. The physical world is the same today as it was yesterday, and as it still will be in 100 years."

"But science changes all the time. Scientist are constantly creating new things, discovering things we didn't know before, right? Disproving things that were considered fact … even in science, right?"

"For example?"

"Well, you know, like …" he says, thinking for a moment. "Like that the world isn't flat, that the earth travels around the sun, rather than the other way around. Infection is caused by failure to wash your hands between surgeries. That you can't get pregnant from sitting on a toilet seat …"

"Ahhh, but the facts never change, Booth, our knowledge of them is what changes. See, the absolute never changes, regardless of our awareness of them. I find that comforting," she says, shrugging. "Science is defined as the systematic study of the structure and behavior of the physical and natural world through observation and experiment. Does our study change? Yes. Do our modes of observation change? Yes. But does the target, the structure and behavior of the physical and natural world … does that ever change? No. Only our understanding of it changes, evolves."

"Hm. I suppose," he says, shrugging with his eyebrows, grimacing.

* * *

><p>"Hey, that reminds me, have you been tested?" she says, a curious expression on her face.<p>

"What? You mean my I.Q.? Bones, I'm perfectly capable of following this conversation … it doesn't take a genius to …"

"No," she says, interrupting him, scrunching her brows together and shaking her head. "I already know what your I.Q. is … I was talking about HIV."

"My I.Q.? How can YOU know that? I don't even know that!" he blurts, not even hearing the acronym, 'HIV.'

"It's mathematical … all it takes is an understanding of how I.Q. is measured, intimate knowledge of a person's particular facility in assimilating and retaining complex material, then creating inferences, seeing relationships, conceptualizing systems theory … in complex contexts. The facility with which a person is able to regurgitate that information is a key component as well. Oh, and their susceptibility to certain environmental and psychosocial stimulus at the time of testing … with all of that, one can estimate an impressively narrow scoring range."

"Oh," says Booth, chewing on his lip, feeling a little exposed.

"Booth … why are you making that face?" she asks, not sure if he's upset, or simply concerned. "Listen, intellectual qualities are not superposable, or equal/identical, and therefore cannot be measured in the same way linear surfaces are measured. It is not at all straight forward, and it has proven an imperfect assessment tool." She pauses, Though in my case it did prove unnaturally predictive. My I.Q. is quite high," she says, not at all modestly.

"Really?" he says, sarcastically.

"Yes, ha ha, quite high. DO you want to know what it is?" she asks.

"He looks at her. You've got to be kidding me, right?"

"How often do I joke about my own genius?"

"Good point."

"So ... wanna know what it is," she asks, cocking her head, raising her eye brows and twinking at him.

"No. No!" he says, determined. "Okay, what is it?"

She tells him.

"Is that high?"

She rolls her eyes ... "Einstein was 185,* Steven Hawking is 160, actor James Woods is 180."

"Oh. Well, bully for you," he says. His eyebrows are still trying to close the gap above the bridge of his nose ... still trying to figure something out ...

"Even if we could measure data captured through linear testing such as the I.Q. test," she continues, "it is impractical to assume any deductions or evaluations resulting from the testing would be relevant … social scientists and educators have been unable to agree upon a definition for what, exactly, human** intelligence **is!"

He's staring beyond her, blankly, not really seeing her. _I've LOST HIM_, she thinks, _he's gone off to Planet Booth, and who knows when he'll be back._She takes another stab at bringing him around.

"Even if we **could **assign a satisfactory definition, the scoring methodologies have proven to be inconsistent," she says, gently. "Regardless, any measurement of human intelligence, whatever that is, has never been predictive, because there are so many other factors at play that determine an individual's potential for being a success in life. Basically, the I.Q. assessment is a load of excrement … are you okay?" she asks, beginning to be concerned.

"Huh?" he says, looking over at her, his eyes the only thing moving. "Just feeling a little … uh … I don't know," he says, absently, staring into space somewhere beyond her face once again.

"Booth," she whispers, gently tugging on a handful of the tee shirt immediately below his chin, and pulling him slightly toward her. "Listen …," she says, just above a whisper, looking seriously at his eyes, which appear not to be focusing right now. _Should I leave him alone? He's gone somewhere, and it doesn't look like a good place._ If you didn't know him, you wouldn't notice anything significant about his expression. Bones, however, knows that face and every expression, every nuance it is capable of conveying.

"Wait a minute … where have you gone?" she says, more to herself than to him at this point. He looks hurt, and small, and anxious. His eyes are squinting slightly, the corners of his mouth are turned down, he's flexing his jaw more than usual, his bottom lip is rigid, and his nostrils appear to be flaring slightly. _Okay, take it slowly,_ she tells herself. _Something's going on here. He's obviously in a dissociated state. It's not a seizure, or his eyes and pulse would show signs of that. Must be emotional._ This is not her strong suit, but she's learned a lot in the last number of months, and she's observed what he has been doing for her when she wanders into dangerous territory. She is going to do whatever she can to just be here for him.

"What?"

"Booth," she says, quietly, slowly and gently laying her palm across his forearm, which is lying on the arm rest between them. "I don't process emotion the same way you do, but I think I can tell by the look on your face that you are experiencing some kind of … are you struggling with something? Is there anything I can do?" she asks, relaxing her body, slowly exhaling. She doesn't want to startle him or cause alarm … but she's never seen him quite this calm, though clearly agitated.

He becomes aware of the warm, soft skin resting on his arm. He looks down at her hand on his arm, then looks up at her.

"I'm here," he says, looking at her like he almost doesn't recognize her, "just wondering … how much do you know about me that I don't **know **you know about me?"

_Well, that was an interesting and unexpected question,_ she thinks. She was certain this had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with his past. _Clearly I still have a lot to learn._

"Probably just about as much as you know about me that I don't know you know about me," she replies, in all seriousness, still speaking quietly and gently.

"Strangely, I understood that," he says, a hint of a smile appearing on his lips. Her face comes into focus for him. "I just realized that … bringing you into my life is going to give a new meaning to the word privacy. Like, will I ever get any?"

"Of course you will. Just lock the bathroom door, go out for a drive, go to your office … without me." What the hell is that supposed to mean, she thinks. Is he feeling crowded already? I just don't get how his brain works sometimes. From discussing I.Q. to a fear of lack of privacy?

"I don't mean physical privacy … it's just, sometimes I think you can see right through me," he says in a monotone voice.

"Well, I am not familiar with that phraseology, and we both know that you are not invisible," she says, forcing a smile. "However, can I deduce that you are saying you feel like I can see and comprehend everything going on inside your head? Again, a physical impossibility, though I did see the inside of your head in the operating room when you had your brain surgery …"

Booth is nodding, pursing his lips in a tight circle, as if for a kiss, but this is not for a kiss, he's thinking."Yes, that's what I'm thinking …" he says, finally really looking at her, cocking his head to the right, then looking down at her hand on his arm again … like he's not sure how that got there.

Bones sighs and shakes her head, cocking it to the side to mirror his head, and looks in his eyes, squeezing his forearm gently. "Booth, I can no more see what is inside your head than you can see inside mine. But knowing you as well as I do … I can, at times, make an educated guess as to what you might say, or do, in a given circumstance."

He's nodding, slightly, and blinking.

"Remember yesterday … over lunch at Granny's'? You got right up in my face, looked in my eyes, and said you could read my mind. You said you knew exactly what I was thinking?"

"Yeah," he says, the memory bringing a smile to his lips, his eyes warming up a bit.

"You said I wanted you to kiss me. And you were correct, Booth," she says, moving a little closer. "But it wasn't because you could see into my brain, or that you have this … telepathic ability … it's because you know me. Very well, I might add, "she says, leaning toward him just enough to kiss him on the nose. "Okay?"

"You're right," he says, with a big sigh, coming out of his funk. "I just … um … all of a sudden I had this sensation of … I don't know … like a home invasion … but … of who I am, my person was exposed. It felt like free falling, with no ground in sight."

"You felt out of control?" she suggests, raising her eyebrows in a question.

"Yeah … that is exactly what it was," he says, focusing on her eyes.

"Welcome to my world, Booth," she says, a gentle and empathetic smile spreading across her face. She leans forward, comes right up to his face, then deposits a brief kiss on his lips. He responds, but barely, still shaking off the ennui brought on by the sense of … what? Fear? Anxiety? He looks past her out the rounded window behind her.

"Booth …" she says, letting go of his tee shirt, turning his face back toward hers by his chin.

"You know what I just realized, Bones …" he says, looking at her in earnest this time, ready to actually engage with her.

"What's that?"

"Here I am, thinking I've been in all these serious relationships … but you know what?"

"Hm?"

"I think I always held myself apart … you know, kept parts of me hidden. Never cracked open the shriveled pit inside my metaphorical heart …" he says, grimacing, exhaling abruptly, furrowing his brow.

"Shriveled pit? Like a peach pit?"

"Yeah," he says, swallowing, his face pinching up. "I, uh, I really admired my dad, once upon a time, you know? I mean, lots of kids love their dads, but my dad? He was something special … until the drinking took all of that away," he explains. Deep down in some hidden place maybe I've always considered myself significantly flawed because of that pit. Maybe that's why I try to save others, you know, the white knight thing … you know, distract them from the pit … wow them with courage and bravado … that kind of thing, so they don't look too closely. People mostly see what they want to see anyway. And what they want to see is that there's someone to save them, protect them. How could I do that if I can't even save my dad?" At that last phrase, Booth gets an alarmed look on his face. Where did that come from, he wonders.

"Whoa, where did that come from?" he says out loud, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide open, his brows about as high as they can go. "Did you hear me say that? Did I just say … how could I do that if I can't even save my own dad?" he asks, the blood draining from his face. Shit. He had no intention of getting broadsided with that little nugget of information … not that he had any intention of talking about any of this …

Bones is equally surprised, but going with the flow. She grimaces in empathy, chewing on her bottom lip, her heart breaking for him.

"We had a couple of years when I was very, very young. Jared was a baby, or less than two years old at least. Mom needed me out of the house for a while. Dad used to take me to his shop … his barber shop. He had one of those … rotating red, white, and blue striped barber poles, right outside his door, just like you sometimes still see in front of classic barber shops."

Bones nods, leaning her head against the head rest once more. She's still facing him, but in calm, quiet, listening mode.

"So … he'd take me to his shop in the mornings," he says, cracking a reminiscent smile. "Ha, I was so short then, my feet didn't even touch the floor when I sat at the kitchen table," he says, looking toward her from the memory floating in the air to the right of her face. "Dad would put me up on top of one of those swiveling barber chairs. He'd sit me on top of two thick Sears & Roebuck catalogs, and still, all I could see in the mirror was the top half of my head," Booth pauses, smiles briefly at the memory.

"Sometimes he'd spin me around in that chair. If he was between customers, he'd recline the chair, cover my face in a hot towel, then wrap a dry towel around my shoulders. Then he'd whip off the hot towel, and cover my face with his very own home-made brand of shaving cream. I still remember … it smelled like cloves, with a hint of almond, and something else that made your skin tingle," he says, looking into her eyes, like he's sharing a secret, which is appropriate, because he actually is. "Sometimes he'd put a dollop of shaving cream on my nose, just to make me laugh," he chuckles, touching his nose with his index finger. She smiles in return.

"Then he'd take a comb, pretending it was one of those long, folding razors he always had sitting in a cup of water … though it was probably some kind of sanitizer. He'd use the back of the comb, and he'd clear the shaving cream off my face, stroke by stroke, slowly and methodically, humming the whole time. All I could hear … I always closed my eyes during this part … all I could hear was him humming, and the sound of the bottom of his black, leather work shoes, shuffling on the floor as he moved around me. When he was finished removing all the shaving cream, he'd rub my face with the dry towel from around my neck, then he'd tickle me, right here," he says, putting his hand to the middle of his chest. "Then he'd douse his left hand in aftershave … Old Spice … vigorously rub his hands together, then playfully slap my cheeks and neck, covering me in Old Spice."

"Sounds like a wonderful memory," she says, smiling gently, not wanting to disturb his revery.

"Yes, it is," he says, looking at her once again. "I've never told anyone about that. No one. 'Till you."

She purses her lips, reaching out and placing her other hand on top of his. Her skin is warm and soft against his. He rotates his hand so its palm up, sliding his fingers between hers. He looks at their intertwined fingers, her other hand still lying on his forearm. He thinks. She sits. Watches. Waits. He shrugs.

"I loved my dad," he says. "Even though he … even though he … did what he did, and as much as he didi it," he says, looking up into her clear, china blue eyes, finding acceptance in them. "I didn't want to leave him, but I had to," he whispers, looking back at their hands, squeezing her fingers, leaning back against his headrest beside her. "I had to do it … for Jared," he says, sighing.

Bones exhales forcefully, listening, thinking.

"So, once we left, a pit grew inside me, shriveled inside me. I made it as small as I could, so it wouldn't get in the way … because I really wanted to be someone lovable. I knew I was lovable, you know? But if I told anyone about this pit … this hard, wrinkly, pit, I was convinced they would turn and run away from me.

"What do you think the pit represents," she says. He's rubbing her fingers with his, which are still wrapped around hers. It's a self-comforting gesture.

"I don't know … Maybe my love for my father. The love I desperately wanted, protected, but thought I was wrong to feel. I loved him, even when I was hating him. Even when he was … you know. But I hid it because I thought there was something really wrong about me if I felt that way about a man who violated the trust of his own … his own children. His little kids, Bones. How sick is that, loving a person who knocks you on the floor?" he says, pained.  
>"It's not sick, Booth. It is normal. Very normal."<p>

"I don't know," he inhales deeply through his nose, exhales the same way. "You think so?"

"I know so … look at who you're talking to," she says, lowering her chin, but smiling up into his eyes.

He sighs heavily again. Wrinkles his forehead. Swallows.

"Maybe you've never told anyone about this before … but now you've told me … and I still love you, even though you loved the man who hurt you more than any human being has ever hurt you," she says.

"I didn't mean to lay all of this on you …" he says, looking at their hands again.

Bones shrugs. "All of your secrets are safe with me, Booth. You are safe with me," she says.

Disengaging their hands, and lifting the arm rest that's been between them this whole time, she flips her metal seatbelt undone, scoots over closer to him, and wraps her arms around him. He rests his chin on her trapezius muscle, looking out the window behind her, and leans his right ear against hers. She rubs his back in a soothingly firm back and forth motion. It feels good, relaxing. Booth closes his eyes for a moment, and eventually, they pull apart.

"Looks like I'm not the only one with a couple of skeletons in my closet," she says, winking.

"Bones …." he says, really smiling for the first time since he went off into Planet Booth. He chuckles, as does she. "Now, THAT was a triple entendre, I believe," he says. "Well played."

"Oh! You're right … because 1) I have secrets in my past, 2) you have secrets in your past, and 3) I really do, literally, have skeletons in my closet," she says, impressed with herself. "Damn, I'm good."

"Yes, you are," he replies, smiling at her, appreciatively. "Thank you, Bones," he says, "not for the triple entendre …"

"I know," she says, smiling. "I know. But you know what?"

"What?" he says, slipping his arm around her, now that they aren't separated by that wide arm rest any more. "I really should thank YOU."

"For what?"

"For … everything. For being there for me last night … well, this morning, really. For not running in the opposite direction, for not giving up on me …"

"You have been much better at not giving up than I have, Bones."

"I don't know about that …"

"You have. That means a lot to me," he says. He's thinking about what Hannah shared with him. He realizes that Bones has been a much better friend to him this past year than he has been to her. "Please accept my humble appreciation … for not giving up on me … growing up," he says with a sheepish smile.

"Awww. I could ever give up on you, Booth," she says, grinning. _Alright, maybe I almost did,_ she thinks, _but thank the universe for this week of time to ourselves._

"Now look who's too good to who …" he says, remembering the last thing she said to him early this morning right before she finally fell asleep in her bed.

"To whom," she corrects him.

"You, being too good to me," he answers.

"No, the grammatically correct way to say it would have been, 'Now look who's too good to **whom**."

"Oh, geez, Bones!"

"Sorry, force of habit."

* * *

><p>They sit for several minutes, his arm around her, her leaning back against him, lost in their own thoughts.<p>

"Would it be terrible of me to say I am quite thankful that Aleesha Grimes' remains were discovered while you were visiting Pennsylvania so that we could have this time together?"

"No, you didn't kill her. No one planned this. What is it you call it when I talk about fate?"

"I call it a confluence of events and counter-events culminating in a beneficial outcome, which, minus those events and counter-events, would otherwise improbably have occurred …" she says.

"Right," he says. "I think that sentence gained perspective as it went off into the distance, Bones. We will never be able to get back the five minutes it took for you to say all of that …" he says, teasing her.

She rolls her eyes at him. "I suppose your life is fuller than mine because your sentences are shorter?"  
>"Actually, now that you mention it … " he says, chuckling as he squeezes her sideways.<p>

"That is possibly the most absurd thing you have ever said in my presence," she says. "And that's saying a lot!"  
>"Oh, surely I've suggested much worse …"<p>

"Okay, possibly. But you have to admit that was fairly perverse, even for you," she says.

Booth just rolls his eyes.

* * *

><p>Over the loud speaker, they hear the announcement that the plane will be landing in ten minutes, and Bones realizes she never got around to asking him what she'd started to ask him earlier.<p>

"Hey," she says, patting him on the thigh to get his attention. "Have you been tested?"

"Are we going to go through this again? No … I have no idea what my I.Q. is. Happy?"

"Not your I.Q. Have you been tested for HIV?"

"What?" he says, taken aback.

"AIDS …. HIV?"

"I don't have AIDS!" he says, like it's an absurd question.

"How do yo know?"

"I don't have AIDS, okay?"

"You do know how it's transmitted, right?"

"Uh, ye-ah … through blood, saliva, kissing under water … look, I promise you … no AIDS has ever been introduced into my blood stream," he says, looking around to see if anyone is within earshot. She gives him a dirty look when he says, 'kissing under water.'

"It's a perfectly legitimate question, considering where our relationship is heading, don't act like it's not, Booth. How do you know for sure that you have not been infected?"

"Well … they tested us when I went in to the rangers …"

"Well, she begins, resigned that there is no delicate way to bring this up. "In the time that I've known you, you've had several sexual partners that I can think of," she says, looking him in the eyes. He's most obviously uncomfortable with this line of questioning. "Would you prefer that we have this conversation after the horses are out of the tree?"

"What the …? Okay, you've lost me on that one. I can't help you this time," he says, resignedly shrugging his shoulders.

"You know what I mean … when it's too late?" she explains. What she was intending to say was in reference to closing the barn door after the cows have escaped … but for the life of him, he still cannot make the connection … not that anyone else could either, this one is so far removed from … well, it just doesn't make sense at all.

"Too late?"

"Yeah, like there we are, lying in bed after a session of mind-blowing … love making … and is that when I'm supposed to turn to you and say, 'hey, I had a really great time, have you been tested for the HIV virus. Could you please toss me my bra from where it's hanging on the lampshade behind you?"

He gives her a look. It's a look that says, 'Dammit, lady, I hate it when you are right, and now I'm going to have to talk about something I don't want to talk about … at least not here!" He closes his eyes, and shakes his head, shrugging.

"Okay … let's get this over with," he says.

"There was that lawyer you were seeing when we worked our second case together … I have no idea what you were doing up until then. Then there was … Rebecca," she says, counting them off on her fingers. "Then there was Cam. Then Catherine …"

"Whoa, I never slept with Catherine."

"What? Why not?" she asks, surprise obvious in her expression. "She was beautiful and quite intelligent."

"Yes, she was … I should call her …"

She tosses a scrunched up napkin in his face.

"Then Hannah …"

"Hannah didn't have AIDS …"

"Well, who knows what a person could contract in Afghanistan?" she says, shrugging. "I had sexual intercourse with a native African man, in Africa."

"Wait, what? When?"

"Years ago, relax."

"And you got tested?"

"Absolutely," she says nodding, "It's the responsible thing to do, if you value your life and respect the people you share your body with. If it's still how it used to be, you can get results from a simple blood test within two weeks …"

Booth's eyes bug out. "Two weeks?"

"Don't worry … I't's highly unlikely that you have it, but it's responsible to be sure. Angela says there's a rapid test they can do now that gives almost immediate results …"

"Whew! But I'm telling you, none of my … partners have HIV."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure …"

"How can you be sure … people with AIDS can live perfectly normal lives up until …"

"Listen … I can pretty much guarantee …"

"What about HPV?"

"What's that?" he asks, afraid to ask.

"Human Papillomavirus. Fifty per cent of sexually active men and women get it within their lifetimes. HPV can result in cervical cancer, cancer of the male and female genitalia, the head and the neck. It's a legitimate question, Booth."

Booth is speechless. And wishing he was invisible.

"One other thing … I only ask these questions now because who knows if we'll get a chance to talk about this later … and if there's anything we need to do before Tuesday, I'd rather know now when I can still do something about it."

Booth doesn't know what to say. She continues.

"What kind of birth control have you practiced in the past?"

He looks at her speechless.

"Well … so, what's you stand on that?"

"Wha uh … can't this wait until, I don't know, we're not on an airplane?"

"What? It's okay to make out like teenagers high on hormones on an airplane, but it's not okay to have an adult conversation about responsible choices regarding sexual intercourse?"

"Why am I not surprised …" mumbles Booth, shaking his head over and over.

* * *

><p>* Einstein actually never took an IQ test, so his actual I.Q. was never measured!<p>

_Of course a responsible adult like Brennan would discuss these things before becoming sexually active. At least, I think she would. THIS Brennan doesn't step over anything. The location might not be ideal, but when has that ever stopped her? And what did you think of Booth sharing his memory of his father?_


	166. Chapter 166 I Just Heard What You Didn't

A/N FINALLY back home in D.C. where they can play catch up for a while ... and get ready for their trip to Washington State ... where you-know-what is planned. There'a a lot to do this weekend though. So let's get started ... ~ MoxieGirl

**Chapter 166 I Heard What You Just Didn't Say ...**

"Hi Bren!" Angela says, pushing her cell talk button after seeing Brennan's name on her caller ID. "You must be back now? Where are you?"

"I'm at the Jeffersonian. How are you feeling?"

An hour earlier, Booth had dropped her at her apartment on his way to meet Parker and Dr. Hodgins at Riverband Park on the Patomac. Brennan had taken a quick shower and separated her soiled travel clothing, putting a load of whites in the washer. Booth's tee shirt she set apart, tossing it on her bed after holding it to her face, inhaling the scent of him.

Dressing quickly and grabbing her bag, she headed straight to the Jeffersonian, stopping on the way for a veggie burger and sweet potato chips for dinner. For tonight, she wants to immerse herself in the case. That will make the time fly by. She wants tomorrow to come as quickly as possible, because tomorrow, she'll see Booth. They have a mandatory grief session scheduled with Sweets late Sunday afternoon. An odd time for a therapy session, they all agreed, but protocol requires all colleagues of a slain employee to have at least one support and assessment session before continuing with work. Being away from home made it easy for Booth and Bones to put aside the knowledge that only a week ago, Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray was killed by an assassin, on that very platform right outside Brennan's office door. On Monday, they will leave to fly to Washington directly from their team meeting … so Sunday night was the only option for their session with Sweets.

"I'm doing fine," says Angela. "Just ate a Big Mac combo meal and I'm still hungry for more … Jack will be here soon. He's bringing home a whole case of that new Ben & Jerry's flavor. Have you heard about it?"

"No, I -"

"It's called, get this Bren, it's called Schweddy Balls™!"

"Ewww," Brennan says, her face scrunching up into a pucker. "What does it have in it? Do I even want to know?"

"Oh yeah! This is hilarious! And sounds so … scrumdillyishy! Rum flavored vanilla ice cream with fudge covered rum and milk chocolate malt balls. Sweets would call that, 'wickedly rad.' How late are you going to be at the office? Wanna come over and eat a pint with me?" she asks.

As Brennan is considering, she adds, "Actually, you can have your own pint, I don't plan to share mine with **anyone **except my ravenous little resident who is in training for the 2027 Olympics in gymnastics, by the way. Is it possible to get bruises on the uterine wall?"

"Angela! Slow down …" says Brennan, chuckling at her friend. She realizes how much she actually missed Angela's energy and good humor, even though she didn't understand most of it … but Angela always brought a lightness to every situation. Brennan was grateful for that. She also missed having someone to debrief about Booth with, but … that was really okay, she did most of her debriefing about Booth, **with **Booth.

"My answers are … I'll probably be here quite late, too late to come for a visit, and uterine lining bruising is really more of a Dr Saroyan question. Or she can ask her boyfriend, Paul. He's probably the best one to talk to."

"I get it, I get it … okay, on to other things. How are you?"

"Well, I'm calling just to let you know that I arrived home safely …" she says, taking the Rockefeller Schemata out of her bag, laying it on her desk, being careful not to crush the sunglasses Hannah left sitting there for her.

"Hmmmm what? Just to tell me that?"

"Yes, Booth says it's what people do when they arrive at a destination after flying somewhere. You call and tell people you care about that you made it safely home …" She waves silently to Micah, her favorite security guard who just happens to be on duty tonight. He stops right outside her office windows and waves, giving her a warm smile.

"Wow … I'm impressed, Bren! What's next, are you going to give me a rundown of what you plan to eat tonight?"

"No, that would be absurd. Why would I do that?" she asks, picking up the glasses, putting them on, looking in the mirror on the inside of her back closet, then taking them off again.

"Oh, I don't know … some people like to go into detail about what they ate on the plane, or what they're fixing for dinner. It's kind of a time-filler in a conversation."

"No, Ange, I have no intention of boring you with my eating habits. And I never understand why people are compelled to muddy conversational silences with meaningless anecdotes or trivial drivel … what is wrong with enjoying the silence … if you don't have anything of value to say?" she says, baffled.

"Oh, Bren … you will always be you, that's what I love about you, Sweetie! So what's up? Just call to say you love me? Call to say how much you care … call to check on the Goodyear Blimp before she sails off into the sunset, never to be seen again …"

"No … are you rambling, Angela? You're not making much sense …" she says, plopping down on her desk chair.

"I'm telling you, it's these **overwhelming hormones that have taken over my life!"** she shouts, pressing the phone's receiver into her round stomach, hoping to muffle the sound of what she's about to do. Angela then belts out an honest to goodness primal scream, and Brennan hears it anyway. "Whew, I feel better now, but I'm really tired. Have you talked to Sweets yet?"

"Just to schedule a session with him. Why?"

"Oh, he's been driving us all crazy … we've been enduring mandatory grief counseling all week due to Vincent's death. I'm surprised they let you keep working without Sweets' approval …"

"My ability to work is not dependent upon Sweets' assessment of my coping skills," Brennan insists, dismissively.

"Well … we'll see about that," says Angela. "Jack didn't get cleared. He worked the closest with **Mr. Vino-delectable.** He has to endure two more sessions before he can officially work again."

"What? He's been providing me with solid information the whole time we've been gone."

"I know. Do you really think Jack would let 'the man' keep him from his Ookie Room?" she chuffs. "So … what's up?"

"Our conversation earlier was cut off," says Brennan.

"Oh yeah," she says, eagerly, "Lets have the goods! How was it being on the road with Mr. Poopy Pants for a week?"

"Ange … you know, I think he's coming out of it. He didn't seem so … I don't know, lackluster, irritable, like he's been ever since he and Hannah broke up. He actually laughed a lot," she says, thinking about all the fun they had, the wonderful amount of laughing they did. "We laughed a lot …"

"Really," Angela says, with great interest. "Do tell."

"He got my note … he calls it the "Footie Note" because I hid it inside these little footie things I got him for his trip. And, you know, he appreciated it."

"So …"

"So …. he appreciated it," Brennan says, noncommittally.

"And … that's all?"

"That's all, what did you expect? I find that I am satisfied with his reaction," she says, squeezing her eyes shut, thinking about how understated that comment was.

"Well, I don't know, Bren, you're out there … alone, just the two of you …"

"That's not technically alone, Ange. Alone would be if I were out there without Booth …"

"Yes, but I mean the two of you without …. never mind. The point is, you and Booth had lots of time together outside your usual environment …"

"Quite the contrary, Ange. Our usual environment is wherever there is a set of remains and people to interrogate … and that's exactly where we were. It felt exactly like being here, except that ALL of our interactions with you guys were on the phone or laptop … which is very often the case even when we ARE here. So it wasn't any different, as you are suggesting," she insists, though it was, indeed, very different.

"Well, when a woman such as yourself gives an 'I LOVE YOU' note to her hot single FBI Agent whom she's been in love with for … who knows how long …"

Brennan feels her capillaries getting itchy to do the dance they've become so accustomed to. She starts fanning her face with her free hand.

"… and then flies up the coast to be with him …

"… on a case." interrupts Brennan.

"...on a case, for five or six days, staying in the same hotel … I kind of expected a little slap and tickle to occur out there, you know, pour some sugar on me, that kind of stuff."

"Ange, I think you've had enough sugar for one pregnancy!" says Brennan, chuckling. "I know you have had very high hopes for the two of us, and I know I was a bit freaked out about seeing Booth in the Diner with Hannah … "

"Oh yeah, wasn't that a shocker about the Swizzel Stick … I mean Hannah?"

"Not really, Ange. After I left here Monday afternoon, I just put her out of my head. She has nothing to do with Booth and my relationship …"

"Oh," Angela interrupts, "so you were thinking about your relationship with Booth while you were out there?"

"Angela, how could we avoid it? I am satisfied with where things are for the moment. There's nothing else to say. Though, I do think he's more relaxed now than he's been in quite a while. And I think it has something to do with his conversation with Hannah. Did she say anything other than that she was leaving?"

"No … just that she felt you two belong together. Why?"

Brennan looks down at the sunglasses on her desk in front of her. She picks up the scrap of paper that must have come from Angela's office, because it has that artsy design splashed down the left margin, butting up against the memo lines.

"She left me a note … with the glasses …"

"I know … I gave her the paper for the note."

"Do you know what she wrote in the note?"

"Nope, she wouldn't tell me. It took all my restraint no to run back in your office after she left and look at it, believe you me!"

"Wha … believe you me? What is that … that's a grammatical train wreck, Angela."

"Bren, you know I am one of the most curious people in the universe when it comes to stuff like this … yet I controlled myself. So …?

"So?"

**"SO WHAT DOES IT SAY, BREN!** Come on, I'm not getting any younger!"

"The phrases you use, can you simply say what you mean … please?"

"I am patiently waiting to hear what Hannah wrote in that note … "

"You say you are patiently waiting, but your tone implies the exact opposite, Angela," says Brennan.

"Okay, then! _IM_patiently waiting! **That** is what I am trying to say. So, out with it, Sweetie!"

Brennan thinks for a moment. She's been working on being more sensitive to other people's feelings. She doesn't want to be rude to Angela. But Brennan did bring up the topic of the sunglasses herself … she must have anticipated Angela would be anxious to know the content of the note. _How do I say, I simply don't want to tell you, for my own private reasons, which I also do not want to tell you?  
><em>  
>"Angela … I'm trying to figure out how to say this without hurting your feelings," she says, pausing, her voice strained. "But the truth is, I would much prefer discussing this with Booth before talking about it with anyone else. I think what she wrote may have a double meaning … and he will know what it means …"<p>

** "Oh, COME ON!"** in a 'you have **got** to be kidding,' tone. "How can I live vicariously through you if you don't give up the goods … I mean, share the naughty details?"

"I'm really sorry Angela … I know my reticence is frustrating. I have protocols, even about private matters like this, and though my way of handling my **personal affairs** may deviate from the norm, it works for me," she explains, gently. "In this case, I am not interested in speculation. If you and I talk about it, I'll speculate … ," she says, meaning, **you'll** speculate, "and perhaps cause some undue anxiety … and you know I've had enough of that lately. Booth will tell me the truth right away. He'll either know what it means, or not. If he doesn't know … then it probably doesn't mean anything"

"Well …" Angela says reluctantly. "But if there **are** any **affairs**, as you call them, to be discussed, you have to give a sister her props and let me be the first to know."

"I promise, **promise** you, you will be the first to know, after Booth, what this means," she says, the sincerity evident in her tone.

"So that's really why you called? To find out if she said anything else about why she was at the Diner with Booth?"

Brennan says nothing at first. "Yes, but I'm also investing in our friendship by letting you know I made it home safely," she says, candidly.

"So … I'll see you Monday?"

"Absolutely," Brennan answers, nodding, "And Angela, these skeletal images … the ones you sent me regarding the rogue phalange … they are excellent. I think you are correct in your assessment that it is from a teenage male. Thank you for the good work."

"You bet, babe. Don't stay there too long tonight."

"You get some rest, Mama Angela!" she says, chiding her.

* * *

><p>Hanging up the phone, Angela lays her head back on the couch cushion behind her, and closes her eyes. Blindly moving her hands along the surface of her belly, she presses here and there, attempting to identify body parts. This is a butt, for sure. This must be a foot. This is a head, I think.<p>

Being an astute student of human nature, Angela learned a great deal more from that phone conversation than Brennan was willing to admit to, or perhaps even aware of. What Brennan **didn't** say was much louder than what she **did** say. _This is a good sign,_ Angela thinks, smiling, still relaxing her neck on the cushions._ Something definitely happened in Philly,_ she says to herself. Exactly what, she doesn't know, but things have somehow moved forward. Brennan simply isn't ready to talk about it. It is apparent to Angela, however, that she **wanted** to talk about it. _It would be just like Brennan to attempt to control the wildfire that will erupt within the team once this gets out. Okay. I can keep your secret, Brennan,_ she thinks.

Angela realizes, also, that it is appropriate that Brennan discuss it with Booth first. That is an indicator that he sincerely has become her best friend, like Jack is for her. Angela feels a twinge of sadness for the change in her relationship with her best friend, though the relationship has been evolving in this direction since Angela and Jack got married. Her pang is quickly drowned out by her happiness for Brennan and Booth. _No one deserves this more than the two of them_, she thinks, smiling to herself.  
>"Now, let's just pray they don't screw it up, huh, little baby?" she says, rubbing her abdomen once again, then drifting off to sleep, dreaming of Cheetoes and strawberry milk shakes.<p>

* * *

><p>After hanging up the phone, Brennan reads the curled up piece of paper that was wrapped around her sunglasses, held secure with a rubber band. Hannah most likely met with Booth to tell him the same thing this note is attempting to convey to Brennan. That means, that this … all of what's been happening between her and Booth, it's all real ... it's really happening. No more roadblocks. They've stepped out of the fairytale in Philly, and somehow, it hasn't ended. Part of her had expected this whole experience to be like it is in the movies … a couple meets on vacation … has an affair … then they each return to their regular lives like it never happened. And nothing is ever said about it ... until much, much later.<p>

Picking up her cell, she pushes the speed dial for Booth's phone. She can feel her heartbeat pounding out a tribal rhythm in her chest. Before he answers, she knows she's blushing madly and her temperature is rising. She puts a hand to her cheek and gasps. _This goes with the territory of allowing intimacy into my life, right? Embarrassment and passion, two sides of the same vulnerability coin_. She smiles to herself, looking in the mirror once again. She's turning pink all over! She reminds herself to breathe in deeply through her nose, then out through her mouth. In through her nose, out through her mouth. And once again.

"Bones!" Booth answers the phone after one ring. He'd almost jumped out of his skin when he heard her distinctive ring emanating from his back jeans pocket. The sound sent a shock of adrenaline through his chest. His neck feels hot all of a sudden.

_Wow, even my ears are hot,_ Bones notices as she holds her cell up to listen to his voice. Reaching up to feel the other ear, the one without a phone held up to it, she confirms that both ears are indeed on fire.

"Yes, it's me," she says, smiling shyly, even though he can't see it. Her heartbeat speeds up, she can feel it in her ears. She has called without anything to say, really.

"I know it's you … you have a distinctive ring, remember?"

"Of course, I know," she says, calming down at the sound of his voice, but just a little. She's feeling foolish for calling all of a sudden. "So … what are you doing?" she asks, her hand on the desk, swiveling herself back and forth in her chair.

"What? You never call me to see what I'm doing, Bones …" he says, surprised and chuckling. He stops pushing Parker on the swing for a moment and moves toward the edge of the playground, away from the noise of the children.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, concerned.

"Everything is fine," she answers, her smile traveling from her cell, all the way to his cell, landing in his ear. He smiles in relief, and pleasure at just hearing her voice.

"You miss me, don't you?" he says, sweetly. He waits for an answer to his question. There isn't one. "You miss me already," he says, quietly, softly, but this time it's a fact, not a question.

Again, Bones doesn't answer, she just smiles, and looks at the floor in her office. That's enough of an answer for Booth. He smiles on his end of the line, a heavy, solid, good sensation in his chest.

"It's good to hear your voice, Booth," she says. It feels a little different just saying his name now. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"That you will, Bones," he says, smiling again. They hang up. Flipping his cell shut, he holds it up against his chin, thinking. He taps it, absently, against his skin for a moment, staring off into the grass.

"Hm," he says out loud to the universe, then smiles a goofy smile, turns and walks toward Parker. "Let's go grill us some steaks, my man!" Life couldn't be better, he thinks.

After hanging up the phone from talking to Booth, she notices her heartbeat slowly decelerating, back to it's usual pace. Picking up the curled note paper, she reads the words written in Hannah's handwriting once again.

_Temperance, by now you know I am returning to _  
><em>Afghanistan. I wanted to return your sunglasses. <em>  
><em>Although I enjoyed wearing them, I had a feeling <em>  
><em>they were never really mine. Besides, they look <em>  
><em>much better on you. I wish you a life filled with<em>  
><em>happiness and peace and love.<br>**  
><strong> ~ Hannah_

* * *

><p>Are you surprised about the contents of the note?<br>How sweet was that phone exchange between Bones  
>and Booth, huh? Awwwww.<p> 


	167. Chapter 167 Booth Squared

_A/N Okay - plans are being made for Saturday night. Don't freak out about Sweets' activities ... he's just preparing for a fundraiser ... he's very committed to his church. So ... just sit back and enjoy the developments in this chapter ... ; D ~ MoxieGirl_

**Chapter 167 Booth Squared**

Bones brings her pile of Rockefeller files over to the conversation pit in her office and sets it on the couch. Removing everything from the top of the coffee table, she now has a clear, flat surface to work on. Pulling out their notes on all the players, and all the research results, she sets her mind on blank. Start with a clean slate as if seeing everything for the first time, she reminds herself, taking a cleansing breath in, exhaling any excess pollutants that could sully her process. Here at the Jeffersonian, alone, she can think clearly without interruption.

For a little over an hour, she pulls each individual document from each file, performs a cursory review, and deposits each document onto the coffee table in accordance with her purpose for each document. As a result, by the time she's finished, she's created several piles, lining them up from the left end of the coffee table to the right. Pulling a chair closer to the couch, she's also created a pile of documents on the seat there as well. This is the "discard" pile. The discard pile is where she deposits any documents pertaining to the characters and personalities in this macabre play. Those are Booth's area of expertise. Even though she has learned an extraordinary amount from him about human behavior and motivations, at this point in a case, she prefers to submerge herself in the empirical. Later tonight she will scan Booth's pile for factual information which should be included in her research findings.

Two such disparate murders indicate planning, and most likely some sort of neurosis. Who would kill two people, on opposite sides of the country, mix and switch their bones, and bury them in public locations? she asks herself.

Having exhausted the supply of documents from the files, and placed them in the appropriate pile, Brennan begins reviewing the victim piles. Aleesha Grimes, buried in a grassy mall in the middle of a college campus, within yards of several academic buildings. The other young girl, what was her name, and wasn't she found in a park? Brennan searches through her notes from Hodgins to locate his stable isotope findings. Right … Banty Solicious …. found at Island Center Forest, missing June 17, buried only three feet down. Brennan creates a new pile on the coffee table and mentally labels it: Second Victim. There she places the final police and coroner's reports sent by Sheriff Restovich of the King County Sheriff's department from Washington State. Three feet down? Aleesha was buried five feet down. First inconsistency.

Picking up her cell, she dials Booth.

"Yo!" he answers. "What's up?" He's standing over the dishwasher, a leg on either side of the open rack, pulling multiple clean plates and bowls out at the same time. Having clearing the table of the carnage left by their man-meal of steak and grilled baked potatoes, Parker has plopped himself on the couch in the living room where he in now enjoying one of his favorite movies, Bolt.

"I'm looking through the files of our two victims, Aleesha Grimes and Banty Solicious …" says Bones, launching right into the purpose for her call, and sounding distracted as if she's inspecting her notes while she's speaking … which she is.

"Yeah?" says Booth, chuckling. "I just cannot get over that name," he says.

"It's a case full of oddities," she comments, then continues. "Did you notice that Banty was buried only three feet deep? Doesn't that seem strange to you?"

"And she was found very shortly after she went missing, within a year. A lot less than a year, if I recall correctly."

"That is correct." Second inconsistency, she thinks. "I believe it was only months after her disappearance …"

"I see where you're going with this, Bones. A progression. Maybe he buried Banty first? Maybe planted Aleesha in a deeper grave because it didn't go so well with Banty? But, Aleesha went missing two days before Banty … so how would that make sense?"

"I'm not sure," she says, tapping the eraser end of her pencil on the paper-covered coffee table. "We know when the girls went missing, but we don't know exactly when they were interred. We know Aleesha took five years to find, but Banty took less than one. I will be interested to see what Hodgins can tell us about the particulates he finds on Banty's remains once we get them to him."

"Hm. I wonder if Banty was moved …" says Booth after a minute of silence while they both think their own thoughts. he begins running the sink water and rinsing the dirty dishes to put them into the dishwasher.

"What do you mean?" she asks, looking up from the document in her hand, staring straight ahead in the direction of her shelving unit, though not focusing on anything past the thoughts inside her head.

"Well, I wonder if she was buried somewhere else first, maybe even a more shallow location, then moved to where she was found. Was he almost caught?"

"Along that same vein, Aleesha was then buried at five feet, meaning he is learning as he goes, right?

"… And that these are most likely his first kills," he concludes.

"And hopefully his last … except, where does the rogue phalange fit into all this?"

"Your guess is as good as mine … this might also mean that the killer's motivation may have changed along the way," says Booth, closing the dishwasher, pulling out a chair, and sitting at the kitchen table.

"Wow. What makes you think that, Booth?" she says, surprised. This suggestion seems to have come from left field.

"Think about it …" he says, starting to get a little excited. "He buries the first victim somewhere where she will be quickly found and identified. For some sick reason, he wants that victim found … at least at first. Many murderers, once the kill is complete, want the whole thing over with, so they want the body found and the case closed, as strange as that sounds. Not everyone wants to evade capture by the police, Bones."

"I swear, I will never understand the criminal brain …" she says, shaking her head and grimacing.

"That's why you have me …" he says. "… okay, but then something changes in the mind of the killer … he decides he doesn't want his victims found so quickly … why" we don't know ... we may never know ... so the next victim is buried deeper down."

"Are you suggesting that perhaps he killed both girls within days of each other, but then held onto Aleesha's remains until Banty's were found … waiting to see how long it took for them to be found?" she says, feeling like she needs to spit the bile out of her mouth. She gets up and grabs a party size Reese's® NutRageous® bar from her desk drawer, ripping the wrapper open with her teeth.

"Or he held onto Aleesha … and kept her alive for a while. Your mass speculator can't pin down the exact date of the death, can it?"

"No …" she says, chewing on a mouthful of chocolate, peanuts, peanut butter, and caramel. "It can provide us with a range, that's all."

"That's still pretty good, though. But …" he says, rapidly thrumming his fingers of his left hand on the tabletop in front of him, holding the phone to his ear with his right hand, and chewing on the side of his mouth. " … but this could also change the landscape of our killers psyche …"

"Meaning … "

"Meaning, he may be a kidnapper as well as a murderer," says Booth sighing, grimacing. And perhaps into torturing his victims, he thinks, but doesn't want to say, so he holds the thought until there's cause to reveal it.

"I feel sick …" says Bones, swallowing the last bit of chocolate/peanut butter/caramel love.

"Me too … we have to get this guy, Bones. He's a monster … are you eating something, you sound funny."

"A mini Reese's® NutRageous® bar. We can't rule out the possibility of two killers … I didn't have any Pringles® here at the office."

"You know what that means, Bones?" he says, resignedly, with another sigh.

"Waz 'at mean?" she says, trying to disengage the caramel and peanut butter from the outside of her molars with her tongue.

"It means … we need to pull Sweets in immediately. This is way over my head. And your Pringles® are over here, by the way."

She chuckles at his Pringles® comment. "I was thinking the same thing … about Sweets. I was about to call him. If we wait until tomorrow afternoon's session, you know he won't let us leave until he completes the grief review and he's interrogated us about all the case details . It could go on for hours."

"No one wants that …" Booth replies, chuckling.

"No one. Except maybe Sweets," she says, sarcastically, soberly, because they both know it's true. "I was hoping to have some time for a little snack tomorrow afternoon. Maybe some Pringles® …"

"Hm, afternoon delight, huh?" he says, chuckling, enjoying this new dimension to their relationship. "I've got a lot of Pringles® over here, a whole cabinet full of them, as a matter of fact."

"Huh," she grunts, closing her eyes and biting her thumb knuckle, grinning back into the receiving end of her cell, chuckling the whole time. "Oh boy," she says, breaking into a full laugh.

He laughs back, grinning ear to ear. "I'm feeling a little peckish right now," he says, flirtatiously, tickled at the exchange.

"AGHHHH! Focus, focus, focus …" she says with a groan. "How's Parker?" She's still smiling as she asks. This is so easy, she says to herself.

"Park! How are you? Bones wants to know!" he yells over the sound of the animated character voices on the screen in the living room. "PARKER?"

Parker's head pops up over the top of the couch out of nowhere. Aiming the remote at the screen to pause Bolt mid-doggie flight, Parker bounds over the top of the couch and toward the kitchen table, to stand opposite Booth.

"Is that Bones?" he asks excitedly. "Did she call for me?"

"Yep, buddy," he says, staring at his animated and excited son, deciding to concede this one to Parker. "She's had a long day, so simmer down. She's working right now. She just wants to know how you're doing."

Parker walks over to Booth, takes the cell from Booth's ear, holds it up to his own, and heads back toward the couch. He doesn't notice the surprised expression on his father's face … his father, who he has left at the table with his hand still up to his own ear … now empty.

"I think I've just been cell-jacked," chagrins Booth out loud, apparently to no one. Tossing his hands up into the air and letting them drop on the surface of the table with a thud, he leans back in his chair, and exhales, duped. "Upstaged by my own son," he says, chuckling.

"BONES!" greets Parker. "Whatcha doing? Are you at work? Have you eaten? Wanna come over and fry those banana thingies?"

"Hey, Park. I'm reviewing the case your father and I are working. Yes, I am at the Jeffersonian. I did eat, a couple of hours ago. I would love to come over, LittleBigMan, but I've got at least another hour or so here till I can leave."

"Aw, come on Bones, do the work tomorrow. I miss you!"

"Well, it certainly is good to be missed, Parker. Did you finish your life-sized Flat Parker that we started working on before I left for Philadelphia?"

"I sure did. Angela and Jack helped me. It's hanging in my bedroom right now. You gotta see it. You can see it if you come over here …"

"Hey now, this is supposed to be your alone time with your dad. After almost five whole days with me, I think he needs a break …" she demurs.

"Dad? DAD!" she hears Parker shouting across the room. Booth must still be in the kitchen. She hears a faint, "WHAT!" off in the distance, followed by, "Can I have my phone back now, please!"

"Dad … Bones wants to know if you are sick of her yet …"

"What?" she hears Booth's amused voice coming closer to the phone. "She didn't ask you that, Parker, did she? What are you trying to do here? I know a Booth plot when I smell one …" he says, suspiciously.

"Dad, that's not a Booth plot you smell, that's a Booth bomb. Sorry, I should have warned you …" he says, fanning his nose with his hand.

"Bones, you didn't hear that, did you?" Parker is genuinely distressed. Booth and Rebecca have been trying to instill manners in their son, but, he is a boy, after all. Booth and Rebecca suspect that most of their counsel goes unheeded, or is quickly forgotten. Who can blame Parker anyway, all young men are scatologists at heart, aren't they?

"Didn't hear what?" Bones replies, biting the full length of her lips so she doesn't laugh out loud and embarrass Parker.

"Nothing," he says. "Wait just a minute Bones," says Parker into the phone, then covers the receiver with his hand … or thinks he does at least.

"Dad … I want Bones to come over here. I haven't seen her in, like, a week!" he explains. This is a sincere question, Booth can tell by his son's tone and expression. Not a ploy to delay bedtime.

"Park, you go for weeks without seeing Bones. What's the big deal?" he says, a little perplexed at Parker's insistence.

"Come on, Dad. It's the weekend. It's not like it's a school night. Can't she just come over? I want to show her Flat Parker."

"Look, she's been working all day … she's probably planning to go straight home and go to bed. She probably won't even leave the Jeffersonian until well past your bedtime," Booth reasons.

"You don't know that, Dad," counters Parker.

"I know Bones, kid, and nothing gets between her and work … "

"Let's just ask her, Dad. Maybe she'll say yes," after this last comment, Parker recognizes the minute traces of resignation in his dad's face. Resignation, and something else, but he's not sure what … willful resignation? That was a lot easier than he expected it to be. Yay!

"Bones," he says, putting the receiver back up to his ear. "Bones, still there?"

"Right here …" she says, having heard the entire exchange.

"Dad says he wants you to come over here right after work …"

Booth, who at this point has been kneeling behind the couch, leaning with his arms resting on the couch back so he can talk to his son at his own level, drops his forehead on the back of the couch, rocking his head back and forth, in mock mortification. In reality, he's partially doing this to hide his glee. If Parker sees how pleased Booth is at this turn of events, he'll know something is up.

For her part, and having heard the entire exchange between Booth and Parker, and now, hearing Booth groaning in the background, Bones can barely contain herself. She can see exactly what's going on, and finds it hilarious. Having had decades of practice masking her reactions, she is quite adept at feigning innocence.

"Parker, that is a wonderful idea, but I will be here quite late, and I am quite tired. I'll probably be going to bed before you do. Besides, you have to get up early for church, don't you?"

"Yes … but … I gotta see you, Bones … hey, I know … you can have breakfast with us!"

"That may not work for me, Peanut. I have to get into the office early tomorrow morning as well …" she says. Why am I objecting so much, she wonders to herself. The answer appears on the tail of the question … because I want Booth to want me to be there, and I know this is his only time with Parker this week … it would be selfish of me to insert myself into their only free time. But if Booth were to ask …

"Listen, I know we can work this out …" says Parker, repeating what he has surely heard his father say many times. "I have a perfect solution … but I better talk with my dad about it first. Can I call you back?"

Bones is a little disappointed not to have received an invitation from Booth, but she agrees to let them call her back. Hanging up, she returns her focus to the documents in front of her.

* * *

><p>As she shuffles through Booth's character documents piled on the seat of the chair to her right, she thinks once again about Sweets. <em>Booth is right, we are going to need his assistance a great deal in this case,<em> she says to herself. Sweets, over the years, has proven himself as an astute criminal profiler. He's also created a space for Brennan and Booth to work through partnership conflicts that perhaps otherwise may have gone overlooked until irreversible damage had been done.

Having just spent a very satisfying period of time alone with Booth, and having significantly advanced their romantic relationship, Brennan is feeling generous toward Sweets. Without him, she would not have gotten as far as she's gotten in her relationship with Booth. Without Sweets, she wouldn't have become a woman willing to stare intimacy in the eye, and willing to take risks that, a year ago, she would never have considered taking. Of course, it was her superior intellect that made it possible to swiftly assimilate from him what is required in order to form intimate bonds, and to 'minimize risk through the consideration of alternate perspectives, and the inspection of all variables, both the tangible and the intangible, the constant and the ephemeral, or fleeting … that was Brennan's description of it, not Sweets.' In short, Sweets doesn't get all the credit, but Brennan was willing to concede he can have about 37% of it. Okay, 42%. Maybe. So, now, tonight, she's feeling generous. She wants to thank him in some tangible way, though she's no where near willing to include him in her relationship with Booth.

Picking her cell up from where she's just set it upon the coffee table, she dials Sweets. She's about to hang up after the seventh ring, when he picks up the phone.

"Lance here," he says, a little out of breath.

"Dr. Sweets, this is Dr. Brennan."

"Oh, hello, Dr. Brennan! Are you back in town?"

"Yes, we got back in a couple of hours ago … am I interrupting anything?"

"Nope, I was just running on my treadmill," he says, taking off his top hat, setting his cane aside, unstrapping his spats, unhooking his sequined cumberbund and bow tie, and slipping off his sequined suit jacket. He's out of breath from practicing for his karaoke debut of "New York, New York," complete with choreography and props. It's for another church fundraiser, but he's not telling anyone at work. "What can I do for you?"

"The case we are currently working on …" she begins.

"The one with the naked bones found at Haverford college? Yes, I've heard a bit about it already. Dr. Saroyan said there's a possible second victim out West? This promises to be a fierce wretched case," he says, attempting to mask his glee with a serious tone.

"Wha … I'm not sure what that means, Dr. Sweets, but if you intend 'wretched' as an adjective to describe the psyche of one who is contemptible, hateful, and vile enough to commit such a heinous crime … and if you intend 'fierce' as an adjective describing the ferociousness required by such a wretched person in order for them to plan and execute that crime, then yes, this is a fierce wretched case."

"Okay, what do you need from me?" he says, rubbing his hands together, ready to get down to business. Few other activities fascinate Dr. Sweets more than sinking his teeth into a psychologically complicated case. And this sounds like it is the motherlode of cases, the kind he and his fellow Abnormal Psych classmates used to have wet dreams about in grad school. It has been a while since the Gormogon and the Gravedigger. Sweets is ready to do some hard core profiling again. He's spent this entire week assessing the grieving Jeffersonian and FBI employees who had grown close to Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray during his all too brief tenure as a rotating intern working with Dr. Brennan.

"Dr. Sweets, I've only just returned from Pennsylvania," she says, sitting forward on the couch and touching each pile of documents before her. "I will be leaving for King County in Washington state Monday directly after a meeting with the team at the Jeffersonian. I'm at the Jeffersonian now, actually …"

"I can be there in fifteen minutes, Dr. Brennan," Sweets interrupts her. "You'll have to meet me at the entrance to unlock the door …" he's already scaling his basement stairs and heading to his bedroom to change into more appropriate clothing.

"Dr. Sweets, while I appreciate your commitment to the work we do here, I do not require your assistance tonight," she explains. "My intention in calling you is to, well, first to notify you that your presence is expected at the Monday morning meeting, but also to provide you with some factual data to suck on between now and then."

"Dr. Brennan, could you perhaps have meant, you have some information for me to chew on between now and Monday?"

"Yes, that's what I said," she says, confused.

"No, Dr. Brennan, you said … never mind. As you were saying …"

"Booth says that in complicated cases such as these, it can prove quite beneficial to review the facts, then distract yourself with other activities. Somehow, this allows your cerebral cortex to assimilate the information, make connections that close inspection might overlook, and present that information to you when you least expect it."

"Agent Booth said that?" chuckles Sweets.

"Well," she answers, pausing. "He used more colloquial vocabulary. He called it letting the old noggin do it's job. He also referred to the noggin's job as some form of magic," she finishes, chuckling.

"He has such a way with words, our Agent Booth. Okay … so tell me what you know about this guy, and I'll see what the ol' noggin can churn out for you by Monday," he says, grabbing a pad of paper off the kitchen counter top, ripping off the top six sheets filled with choreography and lyrics, and digging in an over-sized Temple University mug to select a pencil that has both an eraser and a sharpened lead.

* * *

><p>Two minutes after hanging up with Sweets, the Hot Blooded ring tone announces the Booth's are calling back with a plan.<p>

"Dr. Brennan," she answers, knowing it will be Parker on the line, rather than Booth herself. He is the orchestrator of this little overture, after all.

"Bones, It's me, Parker Booth," he says, identifying himself politely as he has been taught.

"Oh, hello, Parker Booth!" she says, playing along. "Nice to hear from you ..." She's charmed by his much calmer demeanor, not that Parker has negotiated some kind of compromise with his dad. Hopefully now there will be no surprises for Booth ... and Bones will have only to accept or counter-offer. One thing she has decided for sure is that it is too late for the boys to come over here to visit. Besides, there's not much they could do here, the three of them.

"Bones ... come on, you knew I was calling you back ..." he says, calling her on her pretense of surprise.

"Yes I did, Park, and I have to say I have been looking forward to this call. Have you and your dad worked out your plans for this evening ... and do you have a viable proposition for me?"

"Um, wait a minute …" She hears some shuffling on the other end. "Dad, what's a _live-able poposition_," Parker stage whispers to Booth, who is sitting next to him on the couch.

Booth scrunches up his face, unsure what Parker might have heard Bones say. "Ask her to repeat the question," Booth stage whispers back, knowing full well that Bones can probably hear everything.

"Can you repeat the question?"

"Certainly. Do you have what you consider to be a _VIABLE PROPOSITION_ for me?" She enunciates slowly and articulately for him

More shuffling on the Booth end.

"She said, _do we have a VIABLE PROPOSITION?"_

"Oh, sure. Tell her yes," she hears Booth saying.

"Yes, we do. Wanna hear it?"

"Sure, go ahead, Park. Let's hear it!"

With mounting excitement, Parker lays out the plan while Booth listens in, anxious himself to hear her response, and enjoying watching his son go through this process. This is the first time Parker has had to ask anyone to do something like this. He's more than a little proud of Park's chutzpah. _Chip off the old block_, he thinks, impressed.

'Okay ... now ... here it is ... we invite you to come over here after your work i finishes at the Jeffersonian. We will make Banana desert, and play Monopoly or Life or something like that ... and then you can join us for breakfast too!"

"Parker, that does sound like a lot of fun. I have about another two hours of work to do here ... will you still be up then?"

"Dad said you'd say that, so we do have an answer to that objection ... " he says, "however, first we want to know if you have any other objections." He's obviously practiced what he's supposed to say.

"Okay - I doubt your dad has the ingredients for Bananas Foster ..."

"In response to that second objection ..." he pauses.

"What was our response, dad?" she hears him stage whisper to Booth.

Booth replies quietly, "She can give us the shopping list, and while she is finishing up at work, we will run to the grocery store..."

"Right," Parker whispers back.

"Bones?"

"Still here ..." she says. This is so cute, she thinks.

"While you finish your work and run to your apartment, we will go grocery shopping for all the stuff we need. We can meet back here around 7:45. How's that?"

"It sounds like you've really thought this out, Parker, but I'm still waiting for an argument against my first objection ..." she says, coyly.

"Oh ... right. Well," he says, following it with a big sigh. This next part was his idea, but he's not so sure it will go over very well with Bones. But ... Dad said all you can do is ask, so give it a try. "Okay ... we were hoping you could join us for breakfast as well ... before mass, you know, so ... since we won't have that much time together tonight ... because it will be bedtime by 9:30 and all ..."

"I'm listening, Parker ..." she says encouragingly, aware that he's not feeling a great deal of confidence.

"So ... what if you go to your apartment, pack some pajamas and a toothbrush, and come over here for a slumber party?" He blurts that out, then rushes through this next part before she can object. "That way, you won't waste time going all the way home tonight, and then coming all the way back in the morning. And we could have a lot of fun."

"Wow, Parker. That's a creative solution ..." she says, not sure what to think._ Did Booth know he was going to include that as part of the proposition. That doesn't sound like something Booth would suggest,_ she thinks. "I appreciate your ingenuity, Parker. I will have to think about it for just a little bit, though. Can I talk to your dad for a minute?"

"Um," says Parker, looking up to his dad, not sure what to do now. He half expected an outright rejection ... or a counter suggestion ... but he wasn't prepared to turn over the reins to Dad. "Okay ..." he says, hesitantly, nervously.

Covering the receiver and holding the phone out to Booth, Parker mouths, "She wants to speak to you, Dad. Please don't mess this up for me ..."

Booth stifles a chuckle, and takes the phone from his son. "Why don't you go clean your room, son?" he suggests.

"My room is already clean!" he whines.

"Parker. If I'm going to close this deal for you, I need some privacy ... GO!"

Hearing the silence on the other end, Bones imagines Parker hanging his head and walking down the hall toward his bedroom. She then hears a door slam in the distance.

She then hears Booth bark, "PARKER HENRY BOOTH!" followed by the sound of a door being reopened, and then a pause, during which she assumes Parker apologizes (which is precisely what he does), then closes the door so quietly she can't hear it.

"Sorry," Booth says into the cell, sighing. "So what do you think?"

"So now you've got your son pimping for you?" she says, chuckling.

"Hey ... it was his idea. This whole thing, actually. That's why he's so put out for being excused from the negotiations. He's afraid I'll screw it up for him." Silence on the other end of the line. Booth exhales, realizing he's just as anxious to hear her response as Parker is, but he's committed to playing it totally cool.

"So ..." he says, holding his breath.

"Are you serious?" She's genuinely not sure if this is a good idea, or a sincere offer, as much as she'd like to believe it is.

"Yeah ... Parker is convinced this is a great idea ..."

"What do _you_ think?" she asks, unsure if he'll hide behind Parker, or ... what?

"Well, I think ... it's fine with me, if it's fine with you ..." he says, shrugging._ Is she actually considering this or not, I can't tell,_ he thinks. _Was this a bad idea? Does it just sound creepy?_

"And just where do you plan to have me sleep, Romeo, because, I don't think I could get excited about sleeping on a couch after five nights on a strange mattress ..." she says doubtfully. She also knows Booth has very high standards when it comes to appropriate adult behavior in front of children, Parker especially, so ...

"We've already got that covered, Pajama Pants. Parker is more than willing to give up his bed. He's in there right now stripping the sheets, praying he's doing it for a good reason. So ..."

"So ... do you want me to come and stay over night?" she asks, fishing, still a little nervous about what he might say. She would really, really, like to see him tonight, but only if he wants her there. She hopes he does ... though admitting this to herself makes poppies burst out all over her face.

**"Is the Pope Catholic?"** Booth snorts. **"Is cheesecake really just fancy pie? If a man says something in the woods, is he still wrong? If you give an anthropologist a bone, will she know exactly what to do with it?"**

"All right. ALL RIGHT!" she says, laughing. "Tell Parker I'll come," she says, waiting to hear what he'll say once he knows he can stop the sales pitch.

"Really?" he says, sounding surprised. "I mean, of course you will!" They both giggle. Then no one says anything for a minute. "Okay," he says, sweetly. "I'm glad you're coming."

"Are you as glad as Parker will be when he hears?" she asks coyly.

"Get on over here and I'll show you how glad ... but not in front of my boy. You'll have to wait until he's passed out cold to get your hands on me," he says back, equally as coyly.

"You drive a hard bargain," she says. "Now, here's what you'll need for Bananas Foster ... " As she gives him the grocery list for sugar nirvana, she hears a door open in the distance on their end of the line. Booth must have given Parker the thumbs up - - - or some kind of signal, because her list of ingredients is interrupted by a yelp of triumph from the Booth camp.

"One last thing, Bones ..." says Booth before hanging up.

"What's that?"

"Please, please, please bring some of your own pajamas. And NOT my tee shirt. Parker doesn't need to know you have that. And nothing too revealing ... and maybe ..."

"Booth!" she interrupts him. "Booth, I got it. I was born during the day, but not yesterday ..."

"Good one, Bones," he says. "See you later."

"Looking forward to it," she says.

At first he doesn't respond, thinking this is almost surreal. _Just go with it,_ he tells himself, swallowing.

"Booth?"

"Still here, just glad you're coming over here," he says, smiling shyly, though she can't see it.

"I know what you mean," she says, quietly.

* * *

><p><em>? What is going to happen next? This is crazy!<br>I'm off to clean the whole house ... guests all weekend! _


	168. Chapter 168 Twisted Sister

_A/N Okay ... some new info about the case! And the Booth's get ready for a slumber party ... and, guess what? Bones understands what STFU means ... or at least she doesn't have to ask. The language is getting a bit more relaxed ... they are, after all, integrating more of their lives than ever before ... real people burp, fart, and, yes, even use course language in front of each other on occasion ... why would these be any different? Enjoy! ~MoxieGirl_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 168 Twisted Sister<strong>

Hanging up with Booth, Bones takes a couple deep breaths and closes her eyes, looking for her center once again. I have a lot to get through in the next hour, she thinks, if I am going to get to Booth's by 7:45. It's 6:10 now. Travel time home and to Booth's about twenty-five minutes. That leaves seventy minutes to accomplish a great deal of work.

As she spends a good forty minutes reviewing Wendell's notes from his in-lab inspection of the remains, she notices a detail about the c2 cervical vertebrae, and dials his number, expecting to leave a message.

"Hey, Dr. Brennan! You're back!"

"Yes, Mr Bray. Arrived a couple of hours ago. I apologize for interrupting your Saturday evening," she says, attempting to 'get related' as Sweets and Booth have modeled for her and encouraged her to do. Some people would call it manners, Brennan calls it a superfluous banality, but, apparently people expect a little chit chat at the beginnings and endings of conversations before they get down to the meat of the communication. This makes them feel acknowledged, appreciated. So she does it, though sometimes she has to put her brain in park and remind herself to practice patience. Consequently, she has found it to make for a smoother interaction, especially with non-scientific types.

"No problem, Dr. Brennan. I wasn't doing much anyway. Did you take a look at my notes about the c2 vertebrae?"

"Yes, I am looking at them right now," she says, thankful for Wendell's ability to dive right in. Spreading out Wendell's notes, and the attached microphotography images, she takes a moment to formulate her first question. "Okay," she says, "Tell me what you found and what you have concluded."

"I cannot conclude for certain until Monday. Hodgins and I have designed a test that will help us answer some questions ..." he begins.

"I understand that, Mr. Bray. What can you tell me based on exactly what you know right now … with certainty?"

"There is damage to the cervical vertebrae. It appears that the c2 vertebrae was rotated laterally, while the ligaments and facets of the transverse procecees were subluxed and locked. If you look at the microphotography, you'll notice a fracture pattern that suggest the head was turned once in this direction, then again in the opposite direction …"

"And what would cause such fractures?"

"It appears that the killer, literally, twisted the victims neck. He or she turned it quickly and forcefully to the left, then reversed the rotation, again quickly and forcefully turning the neck to the right, hyperextending the cranium and vertebrae to ensure any possible re-articulation would be virtually impossible. The absence of cortical bone in an unusually uniform pattern, both laterally and medially, appear on the zygapophyses, suggesting a forced erosion, if you will, guaranteeing the impossibility of post-event cranial seating upon the cervical vertebrae."

"Was the break the cause of death?" she asks, testing him to see if he knows what **really** ended Aleesha Grimes' life.

"It would not have been the rotating of the vertebrae, or the fractures, or the dislocated bone shards, each in themselves viable causes for eventual cessation of life, but it is most likely the damage of the extensor spinae, the nuchal ligament, and the fatal break within the vertebral canal of the spinal cord, which made sustaining life an impossibility for the victim."

"Very good work, Mr. Bray. Succinct, thorough, and conclusive," she says, in an unusual display of recognition for intern work. "Now, if I were Agent Booth, or Dr. Sweets, how would you describe the cause of death to me?"

"That's easy, Dr. Brennan," he begins, "I would say that the killer hyperextended, or twisted, the head to the left, and then to the right, grinding and breaking the pointy parts of the vertebrae that stabilize the vertebral column. As a result, the muscles and the supporting soft tissue attached to the cervical vertebrae were severed, or at least irreversibly damaged, such that the spinal cord snapped, or was torn to such a degree that the victim expired."

"I'll expect you to present your findings in front of the team at our Monday morning meeting, Mr. Bray. As you and I have already discussed this, you may use the pedestrian language you have just demonstrated."

"Awesome, Dr. Brennan!" says Wendell excitedly. "I mean, I would be honored to do so … "

"What questions would take us from this juncture to one that will point toward a murder weapon?"

Wendell sighs, thinking. He scratches his chin stubble.

"Mr. Bray?"

"Something has been bothering me about these findings, Dr. Brennan."

"Go ahead ...?" says Brennan, sitting back on the couch, relaxing a bit. Identifying cause of death is a major step in any case. In this case, as there are so many variables, and the trail is so cold, the main issue isn't so much how, but why, when, and in what quantity were these murders committed. Cause of death allows the authorities to identify a murder weapon. Identification of a kind of murder weapon can lead to search warrants for premises belonging to suspects. From there, it is sometimes simply a matter of time and scientific proof. However, in this Grimes/Solicious case, the murder weapon is most likely long gone. Sometimes the only hope is to catch the killer in the act of committing a related crime, find the collection of totems, or keepsakes the killer has collected from his kills, or find a preponderance of evidence that points to one suspect and none others.

"Well, first, through experimentation and close inspection of the results, we need to determine the posture of the victim at the time of death, and the position of the killer as he twisted the victim's neck."

"And why are these important, Mr. Bray?" asks Brennan, smiling, but keeping her voice level and calm, so as not to belie that she's impressed with his work. This kid just might be the forerunner for Mr. Nigel-Murray's position as top intern, she thinks.

"Once we have that information, the investigative team can then begin to make suppositions about location and motivation for these murders."

"Mr. Bray, how confident are you in your findings?"

"Um, very confident? With the caveat that another review, followed by consultation with yourself, will provide a more accurate assessment as to the degree of certainty we can assign to these findings," he says, finishing off in a higher octave than he began, suggesting this was a question rather than a statement.

"Never, and I mean, never, guarantee anything, Mr. Bray. The moment you do, something will turn up and bite you in the ass. Remember my father's case? The misidentified murder weapon?" she says, not pausing long enough for him to respond. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Ma'am, Dr. Brennan," he says, sounding like he is straightening his posture to a rigid degree as he answers.

"Very fine work. How early can you be here at the Jeffersonian on Monday?"

"I can come right now if you need me to, Dr. Brennan," Wendell says eagerly.

Brennan chuckles. "Mr. Bray, if you come here, you will be here alone. I do not need you to spend the rest of the weekend here at the Jeffersonian awaiting the Monday morning meeting, I only want to know how early you and I can confer over the remains and your documentation Monday prior to our team meeting."

"Oh," he says, disappointed at not getting an opportunity to really impress her with his commitment to going the extra mile. "How about seven o'clock?"

"Let's not get carried away," she says, allowing her smile to reach across the cell and poke him in the cheek, "Eight o'clock will give us plenty of time. The team meeting is scheduled for 9:15. See you then. And, Mr. Bray …" she says, allowing him to hear her appreciation for his dedication in her voice.

"Yes, Dr. Brennan?" he asks.

"Take tomorrow off," she says.

"Tomorrow is Sunday, Dr. Brennan," he says, perplexed at her directive.

"Yes, but I get the impression you are now planning to come in and spend the day preparing for Monday, when I have just confirmed for you that you are already more than ready."

"Oh," he says, caught. That is exactly what he was planning to do. "How did you know that?"

"Because that is exactly what I would have done. See you Monday," she says, hanging up.

"Hello, Gorgeous!" says Booth, dragging his singing cell phone out of his pocket, flipping it open on his chin, and holding it up to his ear.

"We may have cause of death," is all she says.

"STFU."

"I'm serious."

"How certain are you?"

"You know I am not comfortable with conjecture. However, according to Mr. Bray, there is some evidence of cortical erosion on the transverse procecees of the c2 vertebrae suggesting a twice-twisted neck, and the sever of the musculature and soft tissues of the spinal chord.

"Holy Twisted Sister!" says Booth slowly. "How certain is this?"

"I grilled Mr. Bray, and will be meeting with him Monday morning before our 9:15 meeting. He will be presenting his findings, and recommending some experiments to aid in the determination of corporeal orientation of both of the victims and the killer at the time the attack occurred."

"Hm. That can give us an idea of how the murder was acted out. Any idea about murder weapon?"

"Not yet, however, these experiments will begin to point us in the direction toward that end."

"I could kiss you …"

"You can do that later. I'm packing up and leaving," she says, leaving the files open on the coffee table where she will review them tomorrow, but sliding her laptop into its case.

"Gotcha. We just pulled up to the Super Fresh grocery store," he says. "Drive carefully, this is not a race. We'll see you in," he looks at the clock on the dash of the SUV, "thirty."

"With bells on," she says, chuckling. "Not literally, mind you."

"I knew what you meant, Bones," he says, chuckling back. "See you in thirty."

"Great. Hello to Parker!"

"Parker says hello back."

"In thirty …"

"In twenty-nine now."

"Gotcha. Bye," she says, clicking off, tossing the phone into her bag and flipping off the lights as she rushes through her office door toward the double glass doors of the lab.

* * *

><p><em>Things are getting more relaxed between Booth and Bones ... it's actually <em>  
><em>not too stressful being back in the world ... so far.<br>Please let me know what you think of this chapter ... I'd really appreciate it! _

_P.S. My sincerest apologies to those offended by poor spelling.  
>From me, you either get perfect spelling and infrequent updates, or the opposite.<br>You already know which is my preference._


	169. Bones Is Here!

_A/N I've recovered from a wonderful weekend with my cousin, Angela. She left yesterday, much to my chagrin. I wish she lived next door! Anyway, I'm back with a chappie for you! I hope you enjoy the Booth and Bones reunion!_

**Chapter 169 Bones Is Here!**

In the car on the way to her apartment, Brennan is conducting a mental inventory of her pajama options. It's not that her pajama drawer looks like the back room at Victoria's Secret, quite the contrary. Women's pajamas are made for comfort. The fabric is soft, and usually not very thick. Any cool breeze, or an alluring look from a member of the opposite sex, in this case, Booth, and she'll be helpless to hide any physiological reactions her chest region may display … not real appropriate in front of a nine year old boy.

In high school they called this reaction, "nipple hard-ons," or "NHOs." Having been, physiologically as well as intellectually, an early bloomer, Brennan had several times been betrayed by her developing body, and she'd been the unwitting victim of unsought attention from the males in her class. She recalls one time in particular when she ran from chemistry lab after her male lab partner shouted out, "A little cold, Tempe? Hey everybody, look who's freezing over here … or are you just happy to see me?" It was mortifying. She was well aware that boys her age experienced similar completely normal, yet inconveniently-timed, erectile tissue surprises which prove a challenge to hide, but, for some reason that Brennan never understood, it was much more acceptable, perhaps even considered a demonstration of masculinity, for the males. For females, however, that was not the case. NHOs were regarded as a sign of depravity or promiscuity. She never understood the **logic** in that. She knew exactly why, though, because there **was** none.

In the end, she decides to go safe, opting for her old slumber party trick. She and her one girlfriend, Meredith, used to do this when they stayed over at each other's houses. Both she and Meredith had older brothers, and, at thirteen and fourteen years of age, both girls were very self conscious of the changes their bodies were undergoing. In a stroke of brilliance, they figured out that if you wear a one piece bathing suit under your pajamas, it holds everything in, smooths everything out, and, as a bonus, eliminates the need for panties! Bathing suit necklines and leg holes are usually cut deeply enough that no one had to know they were wearing them, except each other. Problem solved.

Dashing into her apartment, Brennan tosses her keys toward the bowl on the countertop, tosses her bag on the couch, and heads immediately for her bedroom. Rummaging through her drawers, she selects a silky soft cream-colored cotton button-front pajama shirt with a matching pair of draw-string shorts that extend half way down her thighs. Laying the pajamas aside, she strips naked, locates her navy blue bathing suit and steps into it. Dragging it up her torso, she pokes her arms through the armholes, and pulls the straps over her shoulders. Unfolding the pajama set, she pulls the top over her head and steps into the shorts, then steps in front of the full length mirror to inspect herself.

The fabric is opaque enough to hide her bathing suit, and it's loose enough to _a-sexualize_ her appearance. _Satisfactorily modest_, she says to her reflection in the mirror, whipping off the pajamas, folding them neatly, and tossing them on the bed. She leaves the bathing suit on. _What the hell, it's comfortable, and it's not like anyone will know …_

Grabbing her extra gym bag, the clean one, from the closet shelf, she tosses her pajamas, panties and bra, a pair of clean jeans, and a deep purple scoop neck jersey shirt into it's open zipper-tooth mouth. Ducking into the bathroom, she collects her toothbrush, toothpaste, all her makeup and hair care products, and the toiletries bag she'd stowed away earlier this afternoon. Even though she knew she would be heading back out of town on Monday, she likes to have her things in their proper places … even if only for one day.

Having collected everything, she catches a glimpse of her face in the mirror. She's felt a little warm since leaving the Jeffersonian, but had assumed it was because of the energetic pace with which she had walked to her car, driven home, then started pulling her things together. Now she can see that her cheeks are just shy of beet red. Make-up free since her shower earlier, her eyes seem to have faded into the background of her face … whose most prominent feature now is a swath of blotchy fuscia splayed against her very light skin. Her cheeks and her neck are covered, and at first she thought she was having an allergic reaction to something.** "What the hell?"** she screams.

Dropping her personal items, she leans in close to inspect. _Was it something I ate?_ Gradually it dawns on her what's causing the reaction. _Face it,_ she tells herself, _this is a reaction to the increased level of chemicals being triggered by your pituitary gland in response to the knowledge that you will be seeing Booth in less than an hour. Honestly,_ she says to her reflection,_ how do people live like this? My heart rate is increased, my skin is on fire, I'm sweating, my whole body is transformed into an erogenous zone no matter where he touches me. It's amazing I can function at all. How do people live like this? Please, please,_ she begs herself, _get this shit under control before Monday morning or I will not be able to focus … what if I can't focus in front of the team? That has never happened to me before. In all the years we've been partners … this has never happened._ She's always been able to compartmentalize … focus on the facts of a case, the details of a stable isotope analysis report, tell-tale signs of an old injury in the gate of a suspect's walk.

For a moment she experiences a sensation she can only describe as drowning. The old demons rear their putrid heads. She leans back against the wall behind her, still looking in the mirror. _What if I can't do both? What if I can't have a passionate intimate relationship and maintain my focus, my professionalism, my edge? This does not bode well. Maybe I just need a day to relax, get my head on straight,_ she thinks, sliding down the wall to sit, legs out in front of her on the cold ceramic tile bathroom floor. The coolness along her butt and the underneath of her legs feels good, calming. _I should call Booth and cancel. Parker will be so disappointed._ At the thought of not seeing Booth, she begins to hyperventilate. **"Damnit!"** she screams._ I thought we worked this all out last night! I thought I was finished with this bull shit! See, this is what happens when you mess with an already established system that has proven very effective … you freak out._

Placing her palms on the floor between her legs, she presses them flat against the floor, increasing the surface area of her skin in contact with soothing coolness. _Breathe in, breathe out. In, out. In through the nose, out._ She thinks about calling Booth, but he will talk her into coming over, or he'll come over here out of concern. She doesn't want to bother him, or for Parker to see her like this. _Get your shit together, Temperance!_ she screams inside her head, pressing her cooled palms to her cheeks.

She considers calling Sweets. He's good at this stuff. But he'll want to know what's going on. She's already talked to Angela … though Angela's most likely catatonic from her Ben & Jerry orgy by now. A year ago, Brennan's impulse would have been to handle this by herself. She's learned, however, that this variety of panic cannot be resolved satisfactorily without repercussions unless she calls in reinforcements. Crawling to the living room, not because she's incapacitated, but because it feels reassuring to stay close to the floor, she grabs her bag off the couch and locates her phone, pressing Sweets' speed dial number.

"Dr. Brennan! I haven't come up with much yet, but I do have one …" having seen her on caller ID, and accustomed to her calls at odd hours, he doesn't find it out of the ordinary to receive a call from her twice on a Saturday evening.

"**SWEETS!**" she interrupts him in a raised, panicked tone, catching his attention immediately.

"Are you okay, Dr. Brennan?" he asks, concerned. She called him 'Sweets,' rather than Dr. Sweets. That is unusual, especially for her.

"Of course I'm okay …" she lies, attempting to sound calm, and failing miserably.

"Liar alarm, what's wrong?"_ I know I shouldn't have allowed her to continue working cases without a thorough grief assessment. If Vincent really was her favorite intern, this reaction was predictable, _he thinks to himself.

Brennan breathes in, then out. Then in, then out. She's now sitting, her back against the couch, her legs sprawled out in front of her, her eyes closed in concentration.

"Okay, breathe," he says, modeling it for her, waving his free hand up at 'breathe in,' and down at 'breathe out. "That's good," he says in a calming voice. "Just keep …" he inhales with her … "breathing" … he exhales … "That's right. In … and out."

After five minutes of this tandem breathing exercise, Sweets sits and waits. Finally, he hears her sigh loudly into the phone.

"Good job, Dr. Brennan."

"Don't patronize me, Dr. Sweets!"

"I'm not patronizing you, I am simply recognizing a successful calming technique … which, have you noticed, takes less and less time to be effective the more you do it. You are becoming quite adept at this!"

"Sweets!" she blurts. There it is again. _Sweets._ _Something is definitely wrong. Speak gently. Tread lightly,_ he says to himself.

"Dr. Brennan, let me assure you that this delayed reaction is completely normal."

"What … are you talking about?"

"Your whole team has had a week to process Vincent's death. You and Booth have been removed from having to process his death. It is perfectly normal that you would experience an extraordinary level of anxiety when first confronted by the reality of such a tragedy. Spending time back at the lab, twenty feet from where Vincent was murdered almost exactly a week ago, predictably set off this attack." Sweets pauses to ascertain her reaction to his assessment. Hearing nothing, he assumes that his suspicions have a fifty per cent chance of being accurate. The other fifty per cent chance is that this has something to do with her relationship with Agent Booth, but surely she would have said something about that by now, right? Wrong. She's usually not that forthcoming regarding her relationship with Agent Booth. Sweets admits to himself that he may have to dig deeper with her. For now, if he can get her past this episode, that will be enough.

"Might I inquire as to what you were doing immediately before this … event … occurred?" He knows she doesn't like it when he calls it a panic attack.

"I was …" _breathe in, and out,_ she continues to tell herself. "I was just getting some things ready for tomorrow," she says. It's not a lie … completely. "I caught sight of myself in the mirror … the capillaries of my face and neck are engorged with blood and my heart rate is increased …" she puts her second finger to her carotid artery and counts for fifteen seconds "… increased by four beats per fifteen seconds."

"Okay," he continues in the same calm, low voice. "Before we go any further, I want you to concentrate on the sound of my voice. Can you do that, Dr. Brennan?"

"Yes," she says, forcing an audible exhale. She knows the drill. They've been through this several times over the last number of months.

"And I am going to remind you that whatever you are thinking, whatever you were doing, that prompted this … event … this reaction is completely normal and rational. It is your body's response to the confrontation of something that has upset you greatly. There is nothing to be ashamed of."

"I am not ashamed of anything, Dr. Sweets! I am simply having difficulty maintaining a modicum of equilibrium regarding … the compartmentalization necessary for processing this new case … and the intensity of recent emotional events …"

"Good. Good verbalization. And what were you thinking about as you were getting things ready for tomorrow?"

"I was … thinking about …" she stops there and can't go any further. She doesn't want to say.

"Okay … just keep breathing. We'll do this by process of elimination, okay?" Sweets loves this technique because he is a human lie detector. Nothing gets past him. He will be able to determine, without a doubt, at least what the object of her attack is. "Were you thinking about the case?"

"Um, no … no I wasn't," she says. _That is true,_ thinks Sweets.

"Were you thinking about Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray, his death , specifically?" He expects an affirmative response.

Brennan thinks for a moment. This is her opportunity to pawn this off as something completely different than it really is.

"Yes," she says, attempting to sound forlorn.

_Wow,_ thinks Sweets. _That is most definitely a lie. But tread lighty._

"Okay. Were you thinking about your position at the Jeffersonian?"

"No." _That is true._

"Were you thinking about your relationship with Agent Booth?"

"No." _That is a lie. But he's willing to let her think he doesn't catch it._

"Were you thinking about your youth, being abandoned?"

"Yes," she says resignedly.

"Okay," he says. _Now we're getting somewhere. So … Agent Booth and abandonment. Fascinating. She must have given him the note she created for him. Maybe he didn't respond well?_

"Thank you for helping me calm down, Dr. Sweets," she says, finally breathing normally, her heart rate slowing. Raising a hand to her cheek, she notes a decrease in temperature. Exhaling audibly, she closes her eyes, relaxing. "I apologize for calling this late. Twice on a Saturday."

"When has that ever stopped you in the past, Dr. Brennan? No, this was fine. That's what I'm here for. Day or night …" His comment sounds incomplete … like there is something more he wants to say.

"I appreciate your assistance, Dr. Sweets. This has been a traumatic week, even though we were not here at the lab. Mr. Nigel-Murray was never far from my mind. As a matter of fact, Agent Booth and I spent a great deal of time talking about him. Crying even …" _Does this sound convincing enough?_ she wonders.

Something about what she is saying is ringing true, but he's not sure which part … maybe thoughts of Vincent were what prompted this panic attack. Hm. He's not usually wrong about these things.

"Dr. Brennan, through our work together over the last many months, you have become more sensitive to the emotional impact of traumatic events which in the past you had successfully insulated yourself from. Though one might consider today's … anxious response … as an unfortunate side affect of our work together, I must posit the viewpoint that it is in fact a significant indication that you are successfully processing those things which before stunted your evolution toward a richer, more intense experience of human life.

"But I thought I was over this! This week, in Pennsylvania, Dr. Sweets, I cried a lot, Booth and I talked a lot … about this … I thought I had exercised my demons and could move forward," she explains, dejectedly, exhausted.

Now he knows for absolute sure, she's not talking about Vincent at all. She's talking about her relationship with Booth. But she's not admitting it. If he's learned anything from Booth, Sweets has learned that you do not rush Dr. Brennan. If she isn't ready to reveal what's in her heart, you give her space. If this were a different conversation … if she wasn't in an emotionally devastating place right now, he might push the issue in the course of their work together. But now is not the time. He will simply speak to her in terms that apply both to her relationship with Booth, and to grief over the loss of Vincent. Hell, it will also apply to the traumas of Dr. Brennan's childhood. After all, her relationship issues with Booth and her childhood traumas are intermingled.

"You can move forward, Dr. Brennan. You will move forward. But it doesn't happen over night. Remember the examples we've discussed? The car accident victim who couldn't get into a car for over a year? Or the rape victim would couldn't even touch her own body for over two years because she felt like she was violating herself all over again? These were horrific, tragic, and reality-altering. These things take time, Dr. Brennan. Time and patience. These people and others like them … many, many others … didn't have themselves a good cry, then get up the next day cured! No, it took a great deal of time, remember? A step forward, a step back. Three forward, one back. All the way back to an emotionally healthy way of living in the world, okay?"

"I remember," she says, quietly at first, then she takes a deep breath in and says it again, loudly and firmly. "I do remember."

"Right. They minimized their fear … over time. Do you remember how they did it?" He knows she does. Saying it reinforces it for the patient.

"Through … relationships with people who loved them, cared for them, were committed to them …" she says, spitting back the answer for the twentieth time this year.

"Right … now … "

"I know. I **KNOW**! I have those things. I have those people in my life," she says, cringing, still uncomfortable with admitting she can depend on others. AGH!

"I heard that … I can hear your discomfort. Let that go, Dr. Brennan. You _do_ have these people, okay. You have me. You have Angela. I'm sure you have your dad …" he says. This is another technique. He is listing everyone _except_ Booth. He's letting Booth's name be supplied by her own brain. This is another reinforcement tool. He waits to see if she'll say it. But he doesn't have to wonder if she's thinking it. He knows she's thinking it. "And what about Camille, Dr. Saroyan?"

"You forgot Booth … Dr. Sweets," she says, looking down at her legs lying flat on the floor, her empty hand lying limp in her lap.

Sweets smiles. "I didn't need to say Booth," he says. "You were already thinking Booth. You've been thinking Booth this whole time. Booth is the one you've gone through all of this … work … for," he says. This rings true. She can hear it in his voice. She wonders if he knows that Booth is what this has been all about. Maybe he does, but she isn't going to admit it, she still cherishes her privacy. "Well, for yourself … and for Booth," Sweets finishes.

Unexpectedly, she feels tears dripping down her cheeks, and doesn't dare say anything because Sweets will know. Covering the receiver, she takes several slow, silent, deep breaths, and shakes her head to clear it. In as normal and light of a tone as she can muster, she thinks about what to say to get herself out of this conversation ASAP. Now she just wants to get over to Booth's apartment as quickly as she can, and she's already running a bit late.

"You think you're pretty hot stuff, don't you, Dr. Sweets?"

"As a psychologist, it behoves me to have a well-developed sense of accomplishment and self-confidence, Dr. Brennan."

"Well, you are pretty hot stuff in my book. Thanks," she says, chuffing, smiling shyly, humbly, "for everything."

"You are most welcome Dr. Brennan," he says, genuinely pleased. She can hear his broad, appreciative smile through the tone of his voice.

"You do know what that means, 'hot stuff,'" she asks.

"I do, but thanks for asking," he says. "Goodnight Dr. Brennan."

"Good night," she says, hanging up, standing up, splashing cold water on her face, and collecting everything she needs for the pajama party.

* * *

><p>Booth hears her knock on the door from his pedestal on the toilet seat across from a bathtub full of steamy hot water and a waterlogged nine year old boy. Fortunately for Booth, Parker doesn't hear the knock over the steam boat sounds erupting from his vibrating lips as he plays with about eighteen colorful, yet faded, plastic boats and other toys, maneuvering them around and through mountains of bath bubbles.<p>

"Did you bring your pajamas in here?" asks Booth, after grabbing Parker's pj's and stuffing them up into the back of his own tee shirt.

"Dad!" says Parker, looking around, "I thought I did, but I don't see them anywhere! Are you sitting on them?"

"Hm. Nope," he says, standing up, revealing nothing between his rear and the toilet seat lid. "Maybe you left them in the living room?" he says, getting up and moving sideways toward the bathroom door. "I'll go get them for you. You have ten more minutes until Bones should be here. Give me a shout when you're ready to get out. Here's the towel," he says, tossing one from the linen closet over to the step stool in front of the sink. He's out of the bathroom like a shot, almost running over to the front door.

Ever since the evening's plan was set in place, Booth has been on pins and needles. He's been vacillating between excitement and panic all evening. It occurs to him that maybe those two sensations are actually the same thing … but he hasn't had time to truly ponder that possibility … he's been occupied with a demanding child this whole time.

If he were honest with himself, he'd admit that he was surprised that Bones agreed to the scheme he and Parker cooked up. In actuality, Parker came up with it, but Booth readily agreed to it. He's half expected her to call and cancel ever since they sealed the deal. He thought she was calling with a change of heart when he answered the phone in his car right outside the grocery store. He was pleasantly surprised when her call was to simply update him about Wendell's findings. Ever since they returned from the store and unpacked the groceries, he's found himself checking his watch every five minutes. Parker has even commented on his agitation, perplexed at what's got Dad all wound up.

"I'm just tired. Can't wait till Bones gets here so we can hit the sack, buddy," he said at one point, forcing a yawn, tousling Parker's golden locks.

"What?" Parker had barked. "We have to make Fostered Bananas and play Life, Dad. Come on, you promised!"

"Oh, right , right, right," he'd replied.

Without even peeking through the little peephole, Booth unlocks and swings the door open. Bones stands in front of him, her gym bag at her feet, her hands behind her back. She looks up, her face devoid of makeup and the grime of a day of travel. Booth's heart falls into his shoes … or it would have if he had any on. She looks so young, and beautiful, and innocent, very much like when he first saw her well over six years ago.

For a moment she doesn't move. She stands, slanting forward, as if being pulled by a gravitational force, and she's smiling for all she's worth.

Booth returns the smile, knowing full well his facial muscles are getting a work out as a result of the size of his own grin.

"You comin' in?" he whispers, his eyebrows raised, his whole face aglow.

Bones leans her head forward, looking inside. "Where's Parker," she whispers, following his lead, her hands still behind her, her feet still haven't moved from their original spot on the welcome mat.

Booth leans against the open door, one hand wrapped around the edge of the door at head level, the other resting in his back pocket. _He looks so relaxed,_ she thinks. _And happy._ That makes her smile even brighter, if that is at all possible.

"Park is in the tub," he says quietly, maintaining eye contact, still grinning, but not moving an inch.

"Thank goodness!" Bones relaxes, flashes an excited grin, and swings her gym bag inside the door while throwing her arms around Booth, almost knocking him over.

"Woah" he rasps, trying not to make too much noise. He catches her as she falls into him. He carefully and quietly closes the door with one hand, while picking her half way off the ground when he leans forward to lock it.

"I'm so happy to be here," she says quietly, as if it weren't obvious enough by the enormous smile on her face and the way she's wrapping her body around his.

"Me too," he says with a goofy grin. He bends at the knees and picks her up. She wraps her legs around his hips and he carries her to the kitchen where he sits her on the counter top. He makes a move to leave her there so he can retrieve her bag from just inside the door, but she grabs him by the shoulders and yanks him back to her, covering his mouth with her own, kissing him hungrily, while happy sounds escape from her throat. He leans into the countertop while reaching behind her at the same time, and slides her forward so she's right up against his belt buckle. She arches into him as he nuzzles her neck, making her absolutely crazy. They are both trying to keep quiet, but it is no mean feat, especially since their heads are spinning and the rushing of their heart beats inside their heads has compromised their ability to hear as well as they usually could.

Booth leans back away from her when he thinks he hears a noise coming from his bathroom where Parker is taking his bath.

"Parker!"

"What, Dad?"

"Four more minutes!"

"Ten, Dad!"

"Three ... Parker!"

"Six?"

"Let's try four again."

"Ohhhhkaay. Fine!"

Bones giggles, pressing her upper and lower lips together between her teeth.

"Just you wait till you have one," whispers Booth. "At this age, they try to negotiate everything like lawyers ..." he says, feigning disdain.

"Oh," whispers Bones, yanking him back into a firm embrace, "you've got it so rough with this one ...!" she teases him.

Booth's eyebrows shoot up as he pretends indignation, chuckling.

Bones runs her fingers through his hair, pulling his lips to hers, and wraps her legs around him, pulling him closer still. After several scandalously intimate kisses, she sighs, as he drags his stubble-coverd jaw across hers. This causes black tingly sparkles all through her. Her happy sighing makes him want to bury himself in her and forget about the world.

This little happy reunion is abruptly called to a halt when they both hear splashing noises coming from the bathroom, followed by an announcement.

"Dad ... I think it's been four minutes! I'm getting out. Where **are** you?"

I'm coming ...!" yells Booth, picking Bones up and setting her gently on the ground. "And guess what, Park? **BONES IS HERE!"**

"DAD! Why didn't you tell me? Where are my pajamas? You don't want her to see me **naked**, do you?"

"We'll be back in a couple," he says to her, kissing her a couple quick times. Their teeth keep knocking against each other because they are both smiling so big. As Booth starts to walk away from Bones, he feels an odd sensation on his back.

"I think you're going to need these," she says, giggling, pulling Parker's pajamas out from under Booth's tee shirt.

Booth turns back toward her, laughs out loud, grabs the pajamas, and grabs her around her rib cage for a final three kisses, then takes off toward the bathroom and his drippy, water-logged son.

* * *

><p><em>Okay ... steamy enough for you? Or do you need more? We may have to wait until little <em>  
><em>Booth goes to bed. Oh - and something interesting happens between Parker and Bones <em>  
><em>in the chapter of this next one ... can't wait to send it to you!<em>


	170. The Game of Life

_A/N The good news first: I have another chapter for you tonight! The bad news ... just finished writing Ch. 171 "Pillow Talk" AFTER 170, which means once you get that one, you may have to wait a couple of days in between chapters as I write them. If you want to follow my progress, check out MoxieGirl44 on_ t w i t t e r_ If Erin M. and Samantha L. are reading this, you better login and send me a note! Enjoy! ~MoxieGirl_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 170 The Game of Life®<strong>

"Dad … DAD! Let me go! Who cares about my hair? Let me GO!" Bones can hear Parker complaining from somewhere down the hall in the direction of Booth's bedroom. Booth's bathroom is the one that has the shower-bath. Parker's bathroom only has a shower.

"BONES!" screams Parker, running out of the bathroom toward her, arms outstretched, wet hair flinging droplets of bathwater onto his Spiderman pajama top and all over Bones. Parker jumps up onto her in much the same way she jumped up into the arms of his father only moments ago. As he does this, she shrieks and laughs, almost falling over. Fortunately, Bones has just set her gym bag on the couch and her arms are free to catch him. His arms squeezing around her neck, his legs wrapped around her midsection, he's trying to ride her like she's one of those penny horses outside the K-Mart store. At only fifty-two pounds, and being the monkey that he is, Parker's not that hard to hold up. He smells deliciously of Mr. Bubble®, Booth's shampoo, clean sweat and, somehow, dirt.

"Hey Park! How've you been? I missed ya!" she squeals, walking over to the living room and attempting to sit down with him still in her arms. As she folds herself onto the couch, he hops off her lap and begins chattering at her about how he's gotten his room set up for her. She's grinning ear to ear, following him with her eyes as he bounces back and forth in front of her, delighted by his enthusiasm at seeing her. She shoots a glance at Booth, who's now seated across from her in an armchair, chuckling at his son fawning over Bones. He's enjoying the spectacle of his son's emotional outburst, and of Bones trying to take it all in.

"Hey, did you guys already have dessert? I thought we were going to make that together," she complains, pretending to be irritated.

"No, Bones! We don't know HOW to make Fostered Bananas! Why would we make it without you?" he yells.

"Parker, sh sh sh. Simmer down, buddy! No one here is deaf … we can all hear you just fine!" admonishes Booth. "Use your indoor voice."

"He's always telling me to simmer down, Bones. Does he do that to you, too?" asks Parker. It's obvious these two are in cahoots when it comes to talking about Booth.

"Heck yeah, are you kidding? You'd think I was a banshee sometimes, the way your dad carries on!" she says, chuckling, teasing Booth.

"WHAT? I do not!" Booth objects, but laughs whole-heartedly.

"Wait!" says Parker, but he's drowned-out by Bones responding to Booth …

"Oh, I've received my share of 'simmer down' admonishments from you, Booth," she says, winking at Parker.

"Hey! Wait …." he finally gets Bones attention. "What is a benshie?"

"A banshee is purported to be a fictitious fairy from Irish mythology that wails sorrowfully to warn people when someone is about to die. Her screaming and crying is believed to be very loud and very disturbing. So … your dad must think I am very loud and very disturbing. Do you think I'm loud and disturbing?" she asks Parker, her eyes big and round, one eyebrow raised, indicating the absurdity of this.

Parker looks over at his dad as if to accuse Booth of something highly offensive. His look pretty much says, 'How dare you, dad?' Looking back at Bones, he says, "No. I have **never** thought you are disturbing or loud. DAD is the one who is disturbing and loud!"

"To be completely honest, and to be fair to your father, I have been known to make some noise, upset people … but sometimes I think it's necessary," she says, introspectively.

"Wait a minute … what is this, gang up on Dad night at the OK Corral? I'm not the loud and crazy one in this family, pal … it's you. **ALL** you!" he says, laughing, standing up and grabbing Parker around the waist, picking him up over his head, landing him with his belly on Booth's shoulder so his body is horizontal with the floor and he's facing the opposite direction from Booth. Walking with him toward Parker's bathroom, he says, "Time to brush your teeth, pal."

"Wait a minute! Wait, Dad!" squeals Parker, trying to push himself with his hands on Booth's back. "I thought Bones was going to make us some dessert. That's why we went shopping and got all those ingredients … and, Bones, wait till you see all the pr-" he says, his face turning red as his arms give way and his head flops back down, his chin bobbing in the air and digging into the back of Booth's rib cage.

"SHHHHHHHHH!" interjects Booth, pulling Parker down in front of him by his legs so he's almost upright again, locked in Booth's arms now, face to face. Booth covers Parker's little mouth with a hand that almost covers Parker's entire face, and holds him tightly as he whispers into his ear, "That's a surprise, buddy, remember?"

"Oh, right. Sorry," Parker whispers back. "Did you hear what Dad just said, Bones?" asks Parker, worried he's given the secret away.

"I haven't the faintest idea what's going on between you two … but you've got me curious," she says, narrowing her eyes, tapping an index finger on her chin.

Parker is visibly relieved. As they were making their grocery purchases earlier in the evening, his dad needed a whole shopping cart to get this surprise. Parker remembers how his dad kept chuckling as he filled the cart, but wouldn't tell him why. Grown-ups are strange, thinks Parker, but he knows when a surprise is supposed to be kept secret, even if he doesn't understand it.

"So … are you going to make dessert for us, Bones? We got everything you asked us to get … and more!" he says, turning to Booth, smiling and winking exaggeratedly.

"Nope," she says simply. She was still sitting on the couch, but had twisted herself around to watch Booth attempting to carry his boy down the hall toward his bathroom. Now she straightens out, facing forward again, and leans back comfortably on the couch.

"WHAT?" exclaims Parker, wiggling away from his dad, pulling his Spiderman shirt back down over his belly.

"Nope," she repeats, feigning regret, waiting for Parker to come over to her.

"But … we got all that stuff!"

"I … am not going to make Bananas Foster, Park. YOU and your DAD and I are going to make it … together," she says, grinning and nodding at him, poking him in the belly.

"Ohhh," he says, his face lighting up. "Awesome, Bones! Come on, let's go," he says, grabbing her by the hand, attempting to pull her off the couch. She doesn't even budge.

**"I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!**" announces Parker, dropping her hand, stopping all motion, and abruptly bounding off toward his bathroom, closing the door behind him.

* * *

><p>Bones rolls her eyes and shoots Booth a look that says how do you handle this much energy all the time? She'd had Parker to herself that one night … the night she made Bananas Foster for him when Booth was already in Philly … and it was enough to do her in. Tonight, he hasn't even had dessert … yet!<p>

"I know, I call him my little Mexican Jumping Bean," smiles Booth, nodding, an amused and incredulous expression on his face. They both stand up and move toward the kitchen.

"Do you know why the Mexican Jumping Bean jumps?" she asks Booth.

"You know, I do not, but I have a feeling this is something Parker would enjoy hearing. Can it wait a couple minutes?"

"It just takes a moment to explain, Booth. I'll tell you, then you can whip out this interesting tidbit sometime and impress THIS little Mexican Jumping Bean," she says.

Booth nods. "Okay," he says. "I'll buy that for a dollar!"

"You don't have to … wait, you're joking aren't you?" she looks at him suspiciously.

"Yes, I am … it means, I'm in, I'm down with the plan, I feel you, you know … edu-ma-cate me, Dr. Bones!" he says, dragging out her name.

She listens to him with a half grin, amused at his string of phrases. I'm going to need to get one of those Urban Dictionaries if I'm going to be hanging around this one in a more informal way more often, she thinks to herself.

"The Mexican Jumping bean has a small live moth larvae inside it. This larvae snaps its body, causing the bean to jump around. He does it when he feels hot, afraid he might dry out, trying to get to a cooler location. If you leave the bean alone long enough, the moth will crawl out through a little trap door and fly away. How about them there melons, Booth," she asks.

"That is actually pretty cool. Thanks, Bones." he says. "By any chance, did you mean to say … how about them apples? Because melons … usually refer to …" he says, gesturing toward his chest.

"Pectoral muscles?"

Booth shakes his head rapidly, and repeats the gesture in Vanna White style this time. "Except not on me … on you," he says, chuckling. "Do I make myself clear?" he asks, eyes open wide, brows up, chin almost on his chest.

"Oh! _Breasts?"_

"Bingo, baby," he says, nodding. "He shoots, he scores, swish!" he says, pretending to dunk a B-ball.

"Can you still not look me in the eyes and say the word 'breasts?' I thought you said you grew up," she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

* * *

><p>"Wow. And … we're heading back around to the subject of Parker and his infinite stores of energy and enthusiasm. I was about to say … that I frequently suspect someone's slipping quarters into the little guy." His look says, moving right along ….<p>

Bones shrugs, letting the breasts topic slide, but scrunches her eyebrows over the quarter slipping comment. Before she can even say, "I don't know what that means," Booth is explaining.

"It's like he's an arcade game that someone keeps pumping quarters into to keep the machine going so they can play the game. He's excited, bouncing off the walls, talking your ear off … like that."

"Ah … " she says, nodding. "Mr. Nigel-Murray would say something about the term "jukebox" which came into use in the United States around 1940, derived from the familiar usage "juke joint", derived from the Gullah word "juke" or "joog" meaning disorderly, rowdy, or wicked. Then I or Dr. Saroyan would enquire as to the relevance of this information," she says, staring forward, expressionless, "and he would explain to us that in the '60s and '70s, a quarter was all that was required to play music in a juke box," she says, her eyes glossing over as she concentrates on examining her fingernails. "Booth," she says, looking up, "I haven't thought about Mr. Nigel-Murray since we left for Pennsylvania …" She stands at the kitchen island, resting her hands now on the countertop.

Booth blows a mouthful of breath through his lips. "It was probably good to get away from … that … for a little while, Bones," says Booth after a pause, opening the cabinets, gathering the ingredients for Bananas Foster. "Nutmeg, allspice, dark brown sugar … Bones," he says, pausing to close the cabinet door, "it makes sense that this is creeping up on you right after you spent several hours at the lab. Was it uncomfortable being there?"

"You know," she says, guiltily, shaking her head, "he never crossed my mind. I was so immersed in the new case … I never even went up on the platform … or turned those lights on. I threw myself into the Rockefeller Schemata … talked with Dr. Saroyan, Angela, Dr. Sweets, Mr. Bray, you, Parker. I don't remember if I talked to Dr. Hodgins … or simply reviewed his notes ..." she says, staring off into space, absently placing her hand on her lips. "Besides, this wasn't the first time I was at the Jeffersonian after … he was killed. I was there Monday and Tuesday, before flying out to Philly …" she says, head down, rubbing her forehead, then dropping her hand back on the counter top. "I am sure Sweets would have something to say about this. Have you thought much about Mr. Nigel-Murray lately?" she asks, looking up at him again, pain in her eyes.

Booth inhales, biting the inside of his lower lip. "He's always been back there in my brain … but there's been so much going on … and then last night … I wasn't thinking about anything other than you," he says, shrugging, grimacing. "Until the three stooges came into the bar … at least. So, I'm sorry, no, I haven't been thinking about Mr. Vino-Delectable. I'm sorry, Bones," he says, noticing moisture welling up in her eyes.

"Why is this coming right now?" she says, wiping away a tear that starts trickling down her cheek.

"Because you had a memory of him, thought of something he might say. It brought him back to you for a moment, that's all," he says, stepping toward her.

"But … I don't want to think about it right now … and I feel guilty about not wanting to think about it now," she says, cocking her head to the right, looking vulnerable, young, in need of absolution.

Booth reaches out and pulls her into a warm, gentle embrace, pinning her arms under his. She's surrounded by wall-to-wall Booth, wrapped in a cocoon of tenderness. He applies pressure, sliding his hands up and down her back several times. It's a comforting gesture, an effective one. Bones closes her eyes and relaxes, burying her nose in his shoulder, releasing her angst on the exhale. He kisses her forehead, squeezing her once more. "You don't have to think about this tonight, okay? Tonight is about Parker, right? A slumber party with two Booths, huh? How cool is that?" he says, chuckling half-heartedly, encouragingly.

Bones' chest rises, then falls, as she exhales again in a long sigh. "Okay", she says, attempting to gain control of her emotions. "We'll have plenty of time for thinking about … " she doesn't want to say his name for fear of losing her calm again. "Right now, we compartmentalize," she says, channeling her ability to detach. Finally, she smiles, but only with her lips.

Looking up and past Bones, Booth sneaks a peek down the hallway, confirming that Parker is still in his bathroom with the door closed. Pulling her hair away from her neck, he kisses her behind her ear, breathing in the scent of her hair. At the sensation of his lips on her skin, Bones shudders, lifting her face to his. A little peck on the cheek turns into another one, and another one, until he covers her parted lips with his own, lingering only for a moment ... not nearly long enough by either of their standards. His eyes darting toward Parker's hallway, he kisses her once more, quickly, then releases her, running his hands down her arms as she steps back and, finally, loosely holding her hands, squeezing them to convey support.

"Okay?" he says, looking back and forth between her beautiful blue-green eyes. She nods.

As he steps backward, he notices that she is blushing from her neckline all the way up to her hairline. He chuckles at her, pleased at the affect he has on her. Pleased and amused.

"You should see yourself," he whispers, leaning forward from his spot two feet away, still chuckling. "Here, have some cold water," he says taking a glass from the cabinet and a pitcher of filtered water from the fridge. "Drink this down. Don't know if it will do any good," he says, his chuckle turning into a laugh at her expense. The cold water cools her throat, but does nothing for the fire across her cheeks and covering her chest, or for the fluttering sensation in her abdomen, and traveling downward.

"Me?" she whispers back after downing the whole glass of water. "You should see your neck … it's as red as Mars." She stops the refrigerator door before it closes completely, grabbing a cold can of soda. "If we can't crawl into the refrigerator to cool off, maybe you could use this to cool your neck down …" she says, finding it entertaining that he was unaware that he, too, was blushing uncontrollably.

"Who says, 'red as Mars?' You say … beet red, or as red as an apple maybe … but who says 'as red as Mars?' What if I didn't know that Mars was red?" he teases her.

"You did know that Mars is red, didn't you, Booth?"

He says nothing for a moment, then a light bulb turns on inside his head. "Actually, I DID know that … but I'd forgotten it. You see, Enri and I had an interesting and lengthy discussion about the planets, and all that other … starry stuff," he says, smugly, wiggling his fingers in front of her face as he explains.

"Oh yeah?" she says, unconvinced. "Which planet has rings around it?"

"Saturn," he answers proudly.

"Which planet was demoted and is now considered a dwarf planet?" she asks.

"Pluto. Which planet has two moons?" he challenges her.

"Mars. Which is the furthest from the sun?" she says, challenging him back.

"Jupiter. Which is the closest to Earth?" he asks.

"Venus. Which planet has yet to make a full rotation around the sun since we identified it?"

"Neptune. Which is the brightest planet?" he says.

"Venus. Why is Venus so bright?"

He pauses, looking in her eyes, but searching his brain. "How the hell should I know?" he answers, proud that he made it this far, but disappointed to be stumped. "I suppose you know why it's so bright?"

"Yeah," she says, "but I forgot."

"Right," he says, not buying it. "Okay, I'll give you one more … which is the biggest planet?"

"Easy, Jupiter. Which is the coldest planet?"

"Uranus. It also has 27 moons, and its days are 84 years long."

"Show off," she chuffs. "Is this foreplay?"

"From now on," he says matter-of-factly without giving it much thought and flashing a beautiful smile, _"everything is foreplay."_

"That is **SO** true," she says seriously, nodding, breaking into a smile herself.

They both crack up.

* * *

><p>"Do you have a couple of aprons we can use? This recipe has a tendency to get messy, especially if we have the Mexican jumping bean helping us," she says.<p>

"Sure do", he says, pulling open a bottom drawer next to the stove. "We'll need three, right?"

"Yep. When is bedtime anyway?" she asks under her breath with a mock worried expression on her face.

Booth laughs and shakes his head. "Never," he says. "The kid's nine years old. He has two speeds … 100 mph, and passed-out cold." Taking her by the shoulders, he turns Bones to face Parker who has just emerged from the bathroom, the sound of a flushing toilet trailing behind him.

He's wiping his hands on his pajama bottoms, leaving dark blue splotches where the water has rubbed off onto his blue polyester Spidey shorts.

"Parker, why don't you take Bones to her bedroom so she can put her bag away while I get all the ingredients out?"

"Got it, Dad!" he says, "Bones … wait till you see Flat Parker!" he says, leading her down his hallway.

* * *

><p>Hanging on the wall to the left of Parker's bed is a life-sized triple layer image of Parker Henry Booth. The top mylar layer shows Parker's body as you might see it today, all dressed up and ready for school. This layer was incomplete the last time Bones saw it.<p>

"Very nice work, Parker!" she says, scanning the entire life-size pastel image, lifting the first sheet to look underneath at the muscle and sinew layer, then at the bottom bone layer. She smiles, remembering the afternoon she brought Parker to the Jeffersonian and they created this masterpiece together. Bones remembers that it was her Footie note for Booth that gave her the idea of creating this project for Parker. She smiles at the memory, wanting to tell Parker about it, but she really can't. That's just between us, she thinks. Maybe Booth will show it to Parker one day, if he kept it.

"Thank you so much for giving up your bed for me, Peanut," she says, turning to Parker, giving him an affectionate scrub on the top of his head.

Parker looks up at Bones and smiles conspiratorially. "You can come and use my room anytime you want Bones. Mi casa es tu casa," he says, pointing at himself then at her. Bones laughs, impressed.

"Where'd you hear that?"

"My dad. He always says it to me."

Bones nods. "Well, that is certainly true when it comes to you and your dad."

Parker plops down on the bed. Bones sits down next to him.

"Dad says, wherever he is, that is my home. So I told him that wherever I am, that is HIS home," he says, laughing. "It's goofy, I know. It's not like we're**_ in love_** or anything," he says shyly, saying 'in love' in a deep silly voice. "It's just, I think Dad worries that I will miss him," he says, shrugging.

"Your dad loves you very much, Parker."

"I know! Why are adults always saying that. Do they think I don't know? I do know, Bones. I'm not a kid. I can see that he loves me."

"Have you told him that lately?" she asks, leaning back, resting on her hands.

"How often do you really have to tell a person? Every time you see them? I just don't get it! If I say it once, it's not like it's going to change … "

"I know EXACTLY what you mean, Park! I feel the same way! I guess people need to hear it on a regular basis. So, what's the harm in saying it, as long as it's true …" she says, shrugging with her shoulders and her expression.

Parker nods, looking at the floor, thinking.

"Looks like you've got something on your mind, buddy. What's up?"

"I kinda do … but I don't want you to take it the wrong way … like a complaint or something. Cuz, it's not …"

"Whatever you have to say, just tell me. I'm tough. I can take it." she says, slapping her hands on her knees, and turning sideways to look at him straight on.

"Sure?"

"Sure," she nods, pursing her lips, then tilting her head to the side, wondering what on earth this could be about.

"Here goes," he says, taking a deep breath, then exhaling. He's not frightened, more confused than anything. "Bones, what have you done to my dad?"

Bones rears back a bit, her eyebrows crawling toward each other, her lips in an inquisitive frown. "What do you mean?" she asks, shaking her head. She didn't expect anything like this.

"Bones, ever since he picked me up this afternoon … he's been … different."

"Can you be a little more specific?" she says, putting her arms across her chest, Parker has adopted a very serious tone and posture. He sits criss-cross-applesauce on the bed facing her. His arms are crossed and there's a tiny vertical crease between his eyebrows. He seems concerned, nervous.

"It's weird, Bones. He's in a really good mood. He seems, I dunno, like, TOO happy. And he's asking a lot of questions."

"Are you saying you need a break from your dad?" she says, laughing.

"No! I mean … no … but he's like, all over me … like he's asking about school and mom and California and my friends and saying he's sorry he wasn't home in time to go fishing with me. It's like that game where you ask twenty questions to guess what someone is thinking about. Do you know that game?"

"Oh, yes. Russ and I used to play it on long car rides. That and another associative game having to do with guess a rule … through a series of questions. I digress, Peanut. Sorry."

"You what?"

"I'm not staying on point, as your dad says."

"Right, well. This stuff with dad? It's strange. He's turned into a Freakus … that means a person who's acting really dorky and strange," he explains.

"Hm. This is a very strange development. What do you think might be causing this?" she asks, leaning forward, resting her chin on her right fist.

"I think I might have an idea … but it's really bad … and scary," he says hesitantly.

"Okay … are you going to tell me, because I guarantee you I am not at all good at guessing these kinds of things," she says, but what she means is, I don't want to guess … I want you to tell me directly.

"I think he might be sick, Bones. And I mean, really sick," he says, the blood draining from his little face.

"Oh, Parker, your dad is NOT sick. He's very, very healthy. I promise you, he is not sick … why would you think that?"

For a moment Parker says nothing, as he inspects his knees.

"Jake's dad got really, really nice after they figured out about the cancer. All of a sudden, Jake's like, 'my dad's bein' all nice to me, and getting me stuff, 'n spending time with me, 'n stuff."

"It sounds like Jake's dad realized that Jake was the most important thing in his Life …"

"But then he died, like, five months later. And Jake was all like, I used to hate my dad, then I loved him, and now he's dead," explains Parker gesturing with his right hand as he speaks, a sad expression on his face.

"Parker, that is a very unfortunate turn of events for your friend, Jake, but I guarantee you that your father does not have cancer. He's much more likely to get shot at work than to die of a disease."

"What? I know he has a dangerous job, Bones … I just try not to think about it. Now I'm going to HAVE to think about it! Shoot, Bones! I mean, like, darn, you know?"

"No, no, no, no. That was not my intention. Here's what I meant, Park. Your dad is an excellent marksman, do you know what that is?"

"A shooter? A guy who shoots guns?"

"Yes. He works with a great number of people who are good marksmen … but your dad is the best, better than everyone else. That's why he gets to work with me. And because I am the best. We are a team of the best people at what we do. He is very safe … always. And as safe and talented as he is, it is more likely that he will NOT get shot, than that he will get shot. The likelihood of him having a fatal disease, a disease he could die from, is even LESS likely than him getting shot," she says, fairly certain her explanation only muddied the waters for Parker.

Parker stares at Bones, squinting, unblinking, lips puckered together. He looks exactly like Booth, Bones thinks to herself. He's going through the mental maze of what he just heard her say. Finally, his face clears up.

"Whew!" he says, abruptly, relieved. "Are you sure?" His shoulders drop as he relaxes. I guess he DID understand, thinks Bones, impressed with both of them.

"Sure as I have ever been of anything." she says, nodding confidently. "But, you know who you should talk about this with?"

"Oh, WHY do adults always tell you to go talk to the person you're talking to them about?" he whines, dropping his head back, then letting his body follow, dropping onto the bed, his head landing on the freshly-cased pillow.

"Because that is the right thing to do. For you. For them. For your relationship," she says, reaching out and tapping him on his knee.

"AGGGGHH!" shouts Parker, grabbing the pillow from under his head and stuffing it in his face to muffle his own outburst.

She stands up, takes the pillow from his face, and extends her right hand toward him. He grabs her hand, she pulls him off his bed, and they head back toward the kitchen.

"Come on, lets go get high on edible crystalline carbohydrates … and don't worry about your dad," she says smiling. "Did it occur to you that he might simply be happy?"

"Hm. No," he answers, screwing up his face, then shrugging dismissively.

* * *

><p>All three apron-clad, they stand at the island in front of a large saucepan containing two tablespoons of slowly melting butter. Booth and Parker have measured out a quarter cup of dark brown sugar, a quarter teaspoon of allspice, and a half-teaspoon of freshly ground nutmeg into a small mixing bowl.<p>

"Smells like Thanksgiving!" exclaims Parker, as he stirs the mixture with a wooden spoon.

"Mmmm, pumpkin pie!" says Booth, leaning over the bowl, closing his eyes and breathing it in.

"That's right," says Bones. "Now, pour everything from that bowl into this pan, and we'll heat it all up until the sugar dissolves." Bones moves out of the way and drags Parker's stepping stool over in front of the stove. Parker steps up, and takes the bowl from Bones' outstretched hand.

"Can I just dump it?" he looks at her, awaiting the go ahead.

"Sure, but gently. You don't want the butter to splash out …. good job!" she says, taking the emptied bowl from him and handing him a rubber spatula. Booth has returned to slicing the bananas on a cutting board opposite where he and Parker measured the first three dry ingredients.

Once the syrup is created, and the bananas are sautéed, it's time to get out the ice cream. Booth digs the half-gallon box of French vanilla ice cream out of the back of the freezer. Pealing back the flaps, he notices that this ice cream is frozen solid!

"Park, hand me the scoop," he says, his right hand outstretched while he stares at his frozen adversary. After two attempts to chisel out a piece of ice cream, Booth runs the scoop under hot water and tries again. Grunting and sweating, his tongue curled around the corner of his upper lip, Booth is finally able to sink the scoop in deep enough to get an actual round ball of the creamy confection. As he tries to dislodge the full scoop, he realizes that the trip out of the box is going to be as challenging as the trip into the box. Grunting and sweating some more, Booth finally succeeds in freeing this first scoop of French vanilla ice cream from its frozen glacier. Unfortunately, he releases it with such force that the ice cream ball goes flying out of the scoop and lands somewhere in the living room.

Bones has watched Booth getting more and more frustrated as he's struggled with this stubborn box of ice cream. Once the creamy ball goes sailing through the air, she's not sure how he's going to react, so she clamps her hand over her mouth, and tries, desperately, not to make any noise. Poor Parker, however, his eyes bug out and his mouth flys open. He's been sitting calmly by, kneeling on a bar stool on the opposite side of the kitchen island, a spoon in one hand, a bowl in the other, as his father performes this solo act … an act which would always be referred to after this as **Dad Vs. The Glacier**.

When the ice cream ball releases from the mother-ship, Parker watches it's flight, as if in slow motion, as it dives in a perfect arc into the other room. For a moment, he is speechless, staring off into the living room. Then, eyes bugged, mouth hanging open, he jumps off his stool and runs to see where it landed. Picking it up off the floor, he slowly looks up at Booth.

"That ... was ... _**AWESOME!**_ Before you do any more, I'm getting my catcher's mitt, Dad!"

Booth doesn't know if he's going to laugh or cry. I mean, who gets their ass handed to them by a half gallon box of frickin' ice cream, Jesus! For a moment, he stares at the frozen box, an arm poised on either side of it. He's thinking, strategizing. _You just have to be smarter than the ice cream_**,** he says to himself. He looks up at Bones who is still standing a couple of feet away from him, her hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes filled with delight at the spectacle of Booth Vs. The Glacier. She says nothing, biting her lips.

Booth stares at the block of ice cream again. Then he turns toward the cupboards, and begins digging around in the drawers. A moment later he hits pay dirt. Onto the counter top he slaps his electric knife, it's electrical cord, and two serrated vibrating blades. This is the knife that usually only sees the light of day at Christmas and Thanksgiving. Booth picks up the ice cream, turns it on its side, and slaps it onto the counter top. He doesn't even peel off the cardboard, he's going to slice right through it.

When he's about to slice into his victim, he stops, roots around in another drawer, and pulls out a pair of clear plastic goggles, sliding them onto his face. Assuming the position once more, he again prepares to slice into the box. Before making his first cut, he looks over at Bones. Up until this point, he's mostly been wearing a serious, pensive expression, but when he looks over at her, as he's about to decapitate the mighty ice cream glacier, he grins a wicked grin at her and she gets the distinct impression that he'd enjoy this a lot more if, instead of an electrical cord, the electric knife was started with a starter cord, like a lawn mower.

The knife plugged in, the goggles in place, Booth proceeds to cut thick slices of cardboard and glacial ice cream. It's Bones' job to spatula the slices off the counter top and deliver them into the three awaiting bowls. Everyone gets to peel off the cardboard skin on their own before slathering on a heaping helping of banana orgasm in a ladle. As for the remaining ice cream in the sawed off carton, Booth tosses the whole mess into the garbage can. Fifteen minutes later, they sit at the kitchen table, each devouring their own small vat of vanilla ice cream covered in delicious, warm Bananas Foster, and speckled with tiny bits of cardboard ice cream box.

"This is the best stuff I've ever eaten in my whole life, Bones! Dad, we should have this all the time. _Every night!_" Parker is slurping up the sweet concoction, getting it on the table, his shirt, and the outside of his mouth.

Booth and Bones chuckle at his enthusiasm. They share a glance across the table, both of them smiling at first, then it metamorphoses into a serious, intimate, and affectionate exchange. Her eyes are saying to him, _thank you for including me, I am enjoying myself, and I'm looking forward to feeling your arms around me again. I'm finding it difficult not to touch you in front of Parker. I wish we had a secret language we could share. _She thought all those thoughts in one instant, and sent them, through one lingering glance, across the kitchen table.

"Booth, do you speak any foreign languages at all?" she says, without breaking eye contact.

"Only a little Pashtu and Dari, but nothing that's appropriate in mixed company," he chuffs, the left side of his mouth turning up in a half smile.

Booth's eyes, in response, are saying, _you are beautiful, this feels really, really nice, like a family. I am so glad you came over, and I'm afraid that I might take you in my arms right here, in front of Parker, and kiss you slowly and deeply until you can't breathe and your knees go weak, or mine do._

Bones' capillaries betray her once again. She's the first to look away.

Scooping up the last of the syrup and melted ice cream in his bowl, Booth gets up from the table and puts his bowl into the dishwasher.

"Who's ready for a rousing game of "Life®?" he asks, rubbing his hands together.

"Me! Me, dad!" yelps Parker, raising his arm as if in class.

"But first, we need to get you cleaned up," says Booth, coming at Parker with a damp face cloth.

"I get the red car! I call banker!" he says, trying to pull away from Booth who has a grip on the back of Parker's neck, and has not yet finished cleaning the gooey goodness off his son or his son's pajamas.

"Is there a blue car? I'll take the blue car, if there is one," says Bones.

"I guess I'll take the green car", says Booth, putting the remaining dishes into the dishwasher while Bones takes a wet sponge to the table.

Sprawled on the living room floor with the game board in the center, the three of them look like mismatched spokes in a bicycle tire, or a Tinkertoy® lollipop with two green hairs and a shorter yellow hair coming out the top and sides.

An hour later, Booth, who went the non-college route, has enjoyed successful careers as a hair stylist earning $30,000 a year, then an athlete earning $60,000 a year. Thankfully, he received many raises and was eventually able to trade in his $80,000 mobile home toward a $500,000 modern Victorian home, which he desperately needed in order to house his three sets of twins, two other kids, a boy and a girl, of course, and a very tired wife. He ends the game with $400,000 in cash and Life® tile bonuses.

Parker, upon Bones' and Booth's insistence, goes the college route and lands his first job as an accountant earning $70,000 a year, but then changes careers later to become a lawyer earning a base salary of $90,000. Being the outdoorsy guy he is, Parker's starter home is a $120,000 log cabin, which he later upgrades to a $600,000 luxury mountain retreat. He has acquired six daughters and two sons. After much begging and cajoling, Parker convinces Booth and Bones to allow him to trade one of his children in for a second wife. He needs one wife to be a lawyer, his work wife, or partner.

"Like you Bones," he explains, looking back and forth between the two adults. Parker's second wife will be his home wife, he explains, whose main responsibility will be to manage the mountain retreat and take care of his children.

Booth still thinks, of course, even in play, that it's not a good idea to allow his son to take two wives, but he relents when Bones launches into an anthropological discussion of polygamist cultures around the world and how that way of life is enriched by this arrangement. South Africans have been practicing polygamy for as long as people can remember. They continue to this day, she explains, citing South African President, Jacob Zuma, who has three wives, as a modern day example.

"Okay, fine. But Parker," he warns, "you are only ever going to have one wife in real life. After you get that first one, you'll understand why," he says, sarcastically, getting a pillow in his face. The pillow comes, of course, from Bones' direction.

Parker ends the game with $1,000,000 in cash and Life® tile bonuses, two cars, and an additional $700,000 penthouse suite which he wants to use in case he gets a third wife

"What's the third wife going to be for?" Bones asks him, furrowing her brow, chuckling.

"She'll be my party wife, of course," he says, as if it was obvious. At this, both Bones and Booth roll over on the floor laughing so long that Parker almost quits playing. He doesn't know what the big deal is … "Adults!" he yelps, rolling his eyes, slapping himself on the forehead.

Joining in the fun when Parker gets his second wife, Booth decides to trade in one of his twins for a second wife. This will be his servant wife, he says. Once that is settled, Parker and Booth look at Bones, expectantly.

"How about a second husband?," suggests Parker.

At this point, Bones is only half way around the Life® track because she'd insisted upon looping through the college route three times in order to acquire all the education she felt necessary to prepare her for her first career … wait for it … as a veterinarian earning $80,000 a year. When the time comes to change careers, she becomes a … you guessed it … a $40,000 a year elementary school teacher. Booth finds this hilarious, of course. Parker doesn't understand why, but it's great to see dad rolling on the floor laughing. After scowling indignantly, Bones starts to laugh at herself and ends up with tears coming out of her eyes.

"Hey! Where's the Life® card for best-selling author …" she objects.

"Or a famous foreign apologist?" adds Parker.

"It's _FORENSIC ANTHROPOLOGIST,_ Park," corrects Booth, as both he and Bones giggle at Parker's mistake.

"What the heck is a 'foreign apologist' anyway," says Booth.

"An apologist is a person who defends a position using arguments based on reason. I believe a foreign apologist is a person who explains foreign cultures so that non-foreigners will understand why the foreigners do what they do, rather than making erroneous guesses which many times lead to judgment and prejudice."

"Well, okay. I think this game is over," announces Booth. "Park, brush the teeth."

"But, dad …."

"Park, brush your teeth … but only the ones you want to keep!" he says.

"Dad, what about the …?" he jerks his head toward the kitchen.

Booth looks at Parker quizzically. Parker jerks toward the kitchen again. He looks like a fish caught on a pole being reeled in the direction of the refrigerator.

"Oh," says Booth, comprehension taking over his features. "That's for later."

"But if I brush my teeth ….?" Parker argues, desperately.

"Parker, have you enjoyed this little party tonight? Having Bones here?"

"Yes," he answers dejectedly, looking at the floor. He knows what's coming.

"Do you think you might want to do it again sometime, if we haven't frightened Bones away with our Boothy craziness?" he questions Parker as if he were a suspect.

"Yeah. That would be great, dad," he says, looking toward Bones, but the conversation is a closed one, just between him and his dad.

"Well, whether or not we do this again is going to greatly depend upon how well you handle doing as I ask in a timely manner tonight. You do realize that, don't you?"

Huge sigh from the smaller Booth. "Yes."

"So … what do you need to do if you want it to be easy for me to decide if we can do this again?"

"Brush my teeth," he says, already walking toward his bathroom, his head hanging back, his feet dragging on the floor.

"Let's clean this up," says Bones. "You are a really good father, Booth. I know I've told you before, but I really do mean it."

"Well, thanks, veterinarian turned elementary school teacher," he says smiling, gathering the paper money while she pulls the plastic peg people out of the little plastic car game pieces.

"I'm getting my pajamas on, too," says Bones, looking at the clock over the fireplace. "What a day!" she says, yawning.

"So you have everything you need?"

"Absolutely, your little man is a very good host. He's so excited. Do you think he'll actually be able to get to sleep?"

"Who knows … the excitement, the sugar. It may be a long night for me," he says shaking his head, putting the game back up on the shelf. Holding out his hand to her, he says, "But it was worth it." He flashes her a wink, kissing her on the forehead as he pulls her up off the floor with both hands.

* * *

><p>Half way out of the living room, Bones stops and takes one step back toward Booth.<p>

"I'm really sleeping in Parker's room … right?" she asks, just in case there's something she missed. "The _whole_ night." She says it as a statement, but it's really a question.

"Bones, this is my kid we're talking about," he says, recalling their conversation a couple of days ago about how impressionable kids are … and how closely they watch what their parents do. "I'm not going to do anything in front of him that I don't want him doing himself. I know you think it's irrational … and the world is not a moral place … and he's going to get exposed to this stuff eventually … but in my house … I'm going to teach him what I believe is right."

"Is this the whole _no sex before marriage_ thing?"

"It's not the 'marriage thing,' Bones, so much as that he will be making choices about his own … you know … sexuality … well before he's mature enough to fully understand what it's all about. He's going to see kids his own age fooling around for entertainment, going from girl to girl, not thinking anything about the emotional toll that takes on both people, not to mention the potential for life-altering mistakes. You know … pregnancy, STDs … and who knows what else. If he doesn't learn self-respect and self-control from his parents, he's going to look to his friends … who will be just as lost as he is," Booth contends. This whole topic … modeling what you teach kids … is important to him. It's something he promised himself he would attempt to do as well as Pops did for him.

Bones steps forward and sits on the edge of the couch. It doesn't look like Booth is finished yet, and that's okay. His beliefs about relationships are important to her. What he is saying has meaning for their relationship, as well, whether or not he realizes she's hearing it this way. It is interesting to her how clear Booth is about his beliefs, and how thoughtful he is about the impact his own behavior has on Parker.

"I'm impressed with how intentional you are about your parenting of Parker," she compliments him.

Booth looks at her for a moment, deciding if she's serious or making fun of him. No, she usually doesn't mock him about things she can see are important to him, he assures himself.

"Look, being a parent gives you the chance to right what you saw as wrong in your own world. Some people care about that, some are just too lazy to give a damn, or too busy with other things to be responsible for what they are teaching the young people around them. No wonder we have so much drug abuse, crime, and kids all over the schools having babies. None of those things puts a person on a straight path toward future stability. Kids don't have it easy today. They don't know WHO to look to as a model."

"Parker has a number of excellent role models, Booth. You, me, Rebecca, Max, Angela, Hodgins, Pops."

"That's his village, Bones. And thank God for that. But, I tell you, he's got some classmates, a lot of them, whose home lives are very different. It's no wonder some kids are so screwed up! The arrangement Rebecca and I have, the sharing of responsibility, it's the exception, not the rule. It used to be that adults didn't even swear in front of kids … now people don't think twice about letting their kids sit next to them watching Pulp Fiction or Reservoir Dogs. I think sometimes we don't realize that when we expose them to that stuff, when they are so young, it's like we're saying that we approve of the behavior in the movies. Were ANY of the characters in those movies happy? Stable? Thriving?"

"Booth, I … I haven't seen either of those movies, but from the context of your statement I can deduce that they contain quite a lot of amoral activity, and swearing."

"Oh, that's right … you haven't even seen Star Wars yet!" he tosses off, crossing his arms against his chest. "I forgot. Guess how old I was before I saw my first R rated movie, Bones. Just guess," he challenges her with a toss of his head.

"Wha … I don't know. I couldn't even guess …"

"Fifteen. And that was because I crawled out my bedroom window and snuck into Mississippi Burning with a buddy of mine. Pops was very strict about that kind of stuff. There were no blurred lines. He made a distinction between what he felt was acceptable 'fodder,' he called it, for a developing young man's brain, and what he considered 'unproductive' or 'trash.' You become what you let into your noggin,' he used to say," says Booth, smiling at the memory. "Pops instilled in me the belief that life has meaning, love has meaning, and the relationships we choose mold our lives. If I get to do any molding of this kid, I want to arm him with the strongest stuff I can find, the best chance for happiness and a rich life. And I happen to believe that happiness, richness, comes from a deep abiding love, the kind that lasts. Love and security, respect for self and others. Some of the stuff out there these days robs them of those precious things. I don't want that for my kid."

Bones sits silently, watching him, a gentle smile playing on her lips. "I wish I'd had someone like you in my life when I was a kid," she says, quietly.

"Bones, you did. You had Max. And your Mom. Maybe not for as long as you would have liked. They gave you a lot of what became your character as an adult … and they did it all in the first sixteen years of your life. Your dad may be a criminal, but he's the most honorable criminal I've ever met. And he has always loved you. He was willing to go to prison to be part of your life … that's gotta mean something."

"You are making sense," she responds, looking at the floor between them. "I find myself trying to imagine what it must have been like for them to make the choice they had to make in leaving us behind. I've spent a lot of time angry, hurt, frustrated … but it wasn't until these last couple of years that I've come to see that what they did, they did out of love. It has been quite freeing to become aware of this," she says, nodding, looking up at him.

"So … please, please, support me in this where Parker is concerned," he asks.

"I'm not disagreeing with what you are saying, I don't disagree with any of it, actually," she says. "I just wanted to understand what your expectations are. Regarding the sleeping arrangements. I'm not taking it personally, if that's what you're concerned about. I know you want to model mature choices for Parker, I just wanted to know how far that goes."

"Look, I want Parker to see me practicing self-restraint, not bringing women in here and sleeping with them just because I feel like it. I want stability for him. And I want him to be respectful of relationships, know they are the best when they are serious and committed, you know? So when he's out there choosing a partner …"

"Or three," interjects Bones, referring back to Park's three wives, and laughing.

"Right," says Booth, chuckling, "But do you see what I'm saying? When he's out there choosing a partner, a girlfriend … or any friends for that matter, I want him to see that healthy relationships are important, and require patience and thought and an emotional investment."

"I can do that," she says. "I'm on board. I'll buy a ticket on that ride, Booth," she says, dipping her head forward at the use of his own euphemisms. "Booth?"

"Yeah?"

She gets up off the arm of the couch and walks toward him.

"Would you mind if I ask Parker if it's okay if I kiss you?"

Booth thinks for a moment, bringing his right hand to his mouth and makes like he's going to chew on his fingernail. "Well," he says, blowing out a breath. He squeezes his lips together, chewing on the inside of his mouth. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. This is a big step, or is it a small step? He's 95.8% sure she's going to stick around for a while … in their lives. "You still can't sleep with me when he's here," he says, making sure that's understood. "That would mean we could kiss in front of him though," he says as if speaking to himself. "That would be nice." He's trying to figure out if there is any reason at this point not to tell Parker. "But … and I mean this seriously, Bones … " he says, sternly, "… No groping in front of my kid, okay? That's private adult activity. He doesn't need to see that. Okay?"

Bones chuckles and smiles, a twinkle in her eye.

Stepping close and pulling at his tee shirt, she leans her head to the right, and whispers onto his lips, "Parker's a lucky kid, Booth," then plants a firm, friendly kiss on his lips, nudging his nose with her own, and smiling twinkles up into his eyes. She stands there after kissing him, looking in his eyes for a moment, then releases his tee shirt and turns to go to Parker's bathroom to change into her pajamas. As she rounds the corner into the hall she tosses back, "And so am I."

"I feel old," says Booth to an empty room, thinking of how much he sounds like Pops.

* * *

><p>Emerging from Parker's bathroom, Bones takes her daytime clothes back to his bedroom and receives quite a surprise waiting there for her. She shrieks, then bursts out laughing.<p>

Neatly lying on the floor, parallel to Parker's bed is a Super Man sleeping bag and a Spiderman pillow. On top of the sleeping bag, sits Parker himself, ready to go to sleep.

"Parker?" starts Bones, not really sure what to say.

"Yeah?" he says folding down the flap of his sleeping bag and climbing inside. He lays on his side, spearing his pillow with his elbow, propping his head up on his fist.

"Does your dad know you're in here? With your sleeping bag?"

"Of course he does, Bones! It was his idea …" he explains.

"Um … what exactly did he say?" she asks, her eyes in slits, her head turned to the side. She sits down on the bed facing him, her feet on the floor between the bed and his sleeping bag.

"Well … he said you could sleep in my bed … duh."

"Parker? Come on, buddy! Parker? Where are you?" they hear Booth shouting from the kitchen.

Before either of them can say anything, the bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, swings open.

Booth spies Parker laid out in his sleeping bag.

_**"What do you think you're doing?"**_ he asks him sternly.

"What do you mean, Dad?" asks Parker innocently.

"What are you doing in your sleeping bag? On the floor?"

"Dad, you said I had to let Bones sleep in my bed …" he answers, confused.

"Park, that means you sleep with _me_, in _my room_," he explains in a serious tone, leaning through the door, not stepping in. This is not going to be a long conversation. It's not open for discussion. "Let's go, buddy," he says, swinging an arm from inside the room to outside the door, whistling a command.

Bones is still sitting on the bed in her pajamas, still holding her clothes in her lap. She's watching this exchange like it's a tennis match. Back and forth. The ball's in Parker's court, but Booth has the home team advantage … and about 140 pounds on Parker.

"That wasn't our agreement, Dad … I thought …"

"That's not how this works, buddy, let's go," Booth says, backing away to make room for Parker to precede him into the living room, then down the opposite hall toward his bedroom. But Parker's not budging. "Now," he says, poking his head back in, assuming the win.

It's a Mexican standoff. Bones understands the confusion, and feels for Parker. Up until now, she's said nothing, but decides to interject her own thoughts.

"Booth," she says, looking over to him. He raises his eyes from Parker to her. "Booth, it's okay. I sleep very soundly. It doesn't bother me at all, him being here.

Booth's expression softens. He considers her offer.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"Absolutely. Besides, Parker and I were going to have some pillow talk," she says, smiling at him gratefully.

"I don't think that means what you think that means, Bones," he says raising his eyebrows and chuckling lightly.

"What does it mean?" she asks alarmed.

"I'll tell you later …" He sighs. Upstaged … once again … by his own son. Switching his attention to Parker, he points at him and says, "You. Teeth brushed?"

"Yep," he nods, smiling like he's a million bucks.

"D'you say your prayers?"

"Not yet, but I will," Parker promises, delighted at this turn of events.

"Okay … now, do NOT talk Bones' ear off. She needs to sleep! Okay?"

"Okay."

"When you wake up in the middle of the night, you can come over to my bathroom if you need to, okay? But don't wake Bones up, okay?"

"Okay, Dad," Parker says, insistently. "Don't worry!"

Booth steps in, gets down on his hands and knees, and kisses Parker on both cheeks and his forehead, then blows a raspberry into his neck. Parker squeals and giggles. Bones chuckles, delighting in watching this affectionate exchange, kinda wishing she'd get the same treatment but oh, well.

"I'll see you in the morning," he says, looking back and forth at them, standing up and shaking his head. As he flips the light off, he says, "Good luck, Bones." He chuckles as he walks through the living room to his own bathroom.

* * *

><p><em>I think my favorite part of this chapter is Booth Versus the Glacier. <em>  
><em>That actually happened to my dad and me once ... the flying ball of <em>  
><em>frozen ice cream. We were in stitches. So are you ready for chapter <em>  
><em>number next? Great! It's on the way tomorrow, most likely! <em>  
><em>Would you mind leaving me some thoughts about this chapter today?<em>  
><em>I'd appreciate it. Thanks!<em>


	171. Chapter 171 Pillow Talk

A/N This is it, folks. After this chapter ... you'll be getting the rest of the chapter as I write them! Sometimes it takes a couple of days. Just a warning to you! This is a fun chapter. I hope you enjoy it. Remember, to keep track of the progress from here forward, look up MoxieGirl44 ... ~ MoxieGirl

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 171 Pillow Talk<strong>

After Booth walks down the hall, Bones folds the clothes she's been holding in her lap, steps over Parker cocooned in his Superman sleeping bag, places her things carefully into her gym bag, and retraces her steps.

"Don't step on me!" Parker yelps. "Can you see okay in here? It is kinda dark. I have a nightlight right over there …" he says, pointing to an electrical outlet to the right of the headboard of his bed. Switching it on, Bones can now see Parker's face in the ambient glow. After Bones folds herself into the twin bed and turns on her side facing the center of the room, they lay in the dark in silence for a while. Then Parker giggles. She giggles. They giggle together.

"I haven't been to a sleepover in … I can't remember how long," she says. "I'd forgotten how nice it is to have someone to talk to as you go to sleep!"

"This is my first … if you don't count family members," comments Parker.

"Well, I am honored to be the first, Peanut," she says in a formal tone. After a moment, Parker turns onto his side facing the bed.

"Bones, I really meant it when I said _Mi casa, tu casa."_

"Well, I appreciate your generosity, Parker, but this is a special circumstance tonight."

"Yeah? What's the circumstance?" he asks, propping himself up on his elbow.

"You asked me to come over, and you _made me an offer I couldn't refuse,"_ she says, doing her best Marlon. This reference is from a tidbit she's picked up from her pop culture book, though it took a lengthy discussion with Booth to understand the importance of the Brando impersonation and why it has become legendary. She found it interesting that this line from The Godfather is one of the best known lines, second only to _'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.'_ Booth absolutely did _not_ have to explain that line to her, as she'd read the 1937 Pulitzer Prize-winning novel in a literature class as a sophomore in high school. "Gone With The Wind," the novel, was part of what inspired her to include romance in her own novels. The Brando reference goes right over Parker's head.

"Why couldn't you refuse the offer?" he asks, looking up at her with rapt attention.

"Come on!" she says, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Two Booths at one time? Bananas Foster?" she says, extending a finger for each item. "The opportunity to play The Game of Life®, see Flat Parker, and be served breakfast? It was an easy decision! Do you think your dad will make eggs and pancakes in the morning…?" she asks, leaning over the edge of the mattress and looking down at him.

"Always does on Sundays. For you, he'll probably get out the waffle iron … we got fresh strawberries," he says, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

"Ohhh hoh. Weeeel! Thank goodness I made the right decision!" she chuckles, laying back down and staring at the ceiling. _How do I begin this conversation with Parker about the change in my relationship with his father?,_ she thinks, exhaling audibly.

"Hey … Bones?"

"What, Park?"

"I'm really sorry about your cell phone and … you know … the picture … It's just that … I was really scared. I thought you were dead …."

"What?" she says, perplexed by this apology. "What about my cell phone …." she asks, confused.

"When we had our own slumber party here before you went to Pennsylvania to work with Dad. Remember? California was in the hospital … Hey! I guess _that_ was my first slumber party. Wow! How about that?"

"I remember all of that, Park, but what does it have to do with my cell phone?" She's shaking her head, leaning on her side and peering over the edge of the mattress once again.

Parker is stretched out in his sleeping bag, his fingers intertwined behind his head, his elbows pointing out to the top corners of his pillow. He looks relaxed, despite the fact that he seems to be attempting to make a confession.

"I'm talking about the photo I took of you while you were sleeping that night," he says, assuming she knows about it already. "I … forgot that you were here that night, in Dad's room, and I had to go to the bathroom and, well, I always use Dad's bathroom … which I did that night …."

"Wait a minute, Park," she says, propping her elbow up and leaning her cheek on it to get a better view of him. "Whatever you are talking about … I need more context. Start from the beginning," she says, looking down at him. He props himself up on an elbow to better look at her as well.

"Dad didn't say anything to you about it? About me calling him on your cell phone?"

Bones shakes her head.

"Oh," he says, looking down at the zipper of his sleeping bag, wondering if he's just ratted himself out unnecessarily. "Bones?" he asks, looking up at her tentatively.

"Yes?"

"Is it true that the truth will set you free?" his expression is serious, curious, trusting.

Bones nods. "In criminal cases, the truth may not set you _physically_ free … but in all cases it almost _always_ sets you emotionally free … it can make you feel better. Release you of the fear and stress of keeping a secret …" she says. "Is that what you mean?"

Parker looks at the zipper pull again, flipping it back and forth, the little metal flap making a small 'tink, tink' sound.

"Have you done something you …?"

"Dad says that humans have a physical need for absolution … that we hold our guilt in our bodies, as well as in our brains and hearts where we hold it … _mortfologelly."_

"Metaphorically, Parker. Metaphorically means '_symbolically_,' or '_imaginarily_.' There is no _actual_ physical manifestation of guilt located in the cells of our brains or hearts."

"But Dad says that guilt creates chemical changes inside our bodies … and that's how it affects us ... in our bodies. He says it can make you sick, or sad, or angry, or some people it even makes … it makes them gain or lose weight. Is that true?" he asks, looking up at her, little vertical creases appearing between his eyebrows.

"I would have to say, Parker, that there is some truth to that. Remember Dr. Sweets, a friend of your dad's and mine?"

"The man I had to talk to about that finger I found in the bird nest? The guy with the dark curly hair and the red lips and the face like a baby?"

Bones laughs. "I guess you could say that! His area of expertise is the realm of the imaginary and it's effect on human behavior and motivation. He would be a much better person to answer that question. But I would concur with your dad that intellectual manifestations have an effect on our physiology …." she says, nodding.

"Well … I don't know about that, what you just said," he says, grimacing. "Dad says that where guilt is concerned, it is not enough to just _think_ an apology, you actually have to tell it to someone. You have to _say_ it to the person you've hurt … or wronged. And that sometimes whatever you've done hurts more than one person. Sometimes it hurts you or God or the world. Thinking an apology can make you feel better, but actually making one, saying it, to a live person makes you feel 100 times better and sets things right between you and the world again. That's why we go to reconciliation … or confession, at church," he says, confidently displaying his knowledge of the practices of his faith.

"We have a physical need to say we're sorry," he continues, "and our priest helps us by representing the community that we've hurt. And it's true, I do feel 100 times better after being able to talk about what I'm ashamed of having done … and hearing that I'm _really_ forgiven. It makes me feel really clean … and ready for a fresh start … a lot more than when I just think it … though, when it's just between me and God, I do that too. Does that make sense?"

"Well, I know that I feel better when I apologize to someone I've hurt. And you are right, just thinking an apology to another person isn't the same …"

"So I want to make things right between us, Bones. I did something I shouldn't have done," he says, looking up at her soulfully.

"Whatever you've done, Parker, I am confident I will forgive you … I love you, kiddo," she says, reaching out and messing up his hair.

"Okay …" he begins, taking in a deep breath. "Here's what happened …"

Parker launches into his rendition of what happened the night he crept into Booth's bathroom to urinate, and ended up afraid that Bones was dead in his dad's bed. That escapade had resulted in Parker using Bones' phone to call Booth, which he has been taught to _NEVER_ do - to touch other people's electronics - and inadvertently taking a photo of her while she was sleeping. In the end, Bones and Parker end up laughing about the whole incident. Parker is greatly relieved.

"Parker, you have no reason to feel bad about that. It was an innocent mistake. Actually, I am impressed that you knew exactly what to do when you thought I was dead … call your dad! I'm pretty sure I've never seen that photo on my cell, though. Did you erase it?"

"Yep. When I called Dad, he wanted to see the picture, you know, to make sure you weren't dead, so he told me how to send it to his phone. After that, we erased it from the phone until he could tell you about it. I was afraid you'd be really mad."

"From _his_ phone? Erase it from _his_ phone?"

"No … erase it from _your_ phone. We erased it from _your_ phone. I was afraid you'd be angry if you saw I'd taken a picture!"

"Hm. Your dad never told me about this. Does he still have that photo on his phone?"

"Sure," he says, then reconsiders, seeing her surprised expression. "Well, I don't actually know. We haven't talked about it since that night." Seeing the alarm on Bones' face, he begins to backtrack. "I mean, like, I'm sure he erased it from his phone. Yeah, he probably, like, erased it right away. I mean, since he could tell you were definitely alive … you know?"

"Right," she says, not at _all_ convinced, but that's not Parker's problem. She'll have to check with Booth about it. Hm. Interesting, she thinks. "Parker …"

"Do you forgive me, Bones?"

"There is nothing to forgive, LittleBigGuy, but if it will make you feel better, then, yes, I do forgive you," she says, smiling at him, laying her head back down on the edge of the mattress. "Parker?"

"Thanks, Bones," he says, exhaling the heaviness from his conscience. He wiggles up out of his sleeping bag and kneels up in front of Bones, stretching out his arms for a hug. Bones sits up and gives him a squeeze, patting him on the back. As Parker wiggles back into his sleeping bag, Bones remains sitting on her mattress and crosses her legs underneath herself.

* * *

><p>"Parker … there's something I'd like to talk to you about …" Bones begins.<p>

"Am I in trouble?"

"No! Why would you think that?" she asks, squinching her face up at him, chuckling.

"Usually when an adult gets that serious sound in their voice, and they look right at you in the eyeballs … it's because something big is coming … usually something you're not going to like," he explains.

"Oh," she says nodding. "I see what you mean …"

"Am I not going to like this?"

"Oh, I don't know," she says, shrugging. "You might, you might not. That's why I want to talk to you."

Parker sighs.

"Are you too tired right now? We can talk later, or when I get back from Washington next week …"

Another sigh. "Nope. Let's get this over with!"

"Parker … this is not about _anything_ you have done, okay? It's about me ... and your dad. Something I'm thinking about doing …"

"Are you going to do something bad?"

"No, Park, nothing bad, at least I don't consider it bad … but just listen to me. Your dad says you have some experience in this area and … what I'm thinking about doing will have an affect on you …"

"What …?"

"I hear you know what _romance_ is."

"Ohhhh man!" he says, hitting his forehead with an open palm. "Dad told you about Caroleena, didn't he?" Parker chagrins.

"A little bit. This has nothing to do with Caroleena, though I understand she is quite a pretty little girl …"

"Then what? What does this have to do with?"

Bones smacks her lips together. Pinned under her right foot, which is tucked under her left knee, is a large swath of the twin-sized cotton flat sheet. She flips the corner of the sheet back and forth, a bit nervous about doing this right. "I've been thinking about having some romance myself …" she says, then stops playing with the sheet corner and looks over at him, gauging his reaction.

"Yeah ….?" he says, as in … _what does this have to do with me?_

"With your dad," she says, tilting her head to one side and shrugging with one shoulder.

"WHAT?" yelps Parker, springing up into a sitting position. "Really?"

Bones hesitates. _What does this mean? Is this a good response or a bad one?,_ she wonders.

"Are you sure?" he asks her doubtfully, watching her face closely in the ambient light. Then, _"Why?"_ he says, when she doesn't say anything.

"What do you mean, _WHY?_ I'm not very good at interpreting people's reactions, Parker. I can't tell if you are upset or angry. Are you upset? Does what I am suggesting upset you?" She's a bit panicked, but trying not to show it.

"Bones, I'm not upset, really. And I guess I shouldn't be surprised …" he fills his cheeks with air and blows it out slowly, making a raspberry in the air.

"Really?"

Smacking his lips together, Parker adopts a relaxed posture, finally. "Yeah. I kinda thought you might kinda … you know … figure it out that maybe some romance would be good … for you. And Dad."

"Really?" she says, raising her eyebrows at his resigned response, his confidence.

"Yep," he says, grimacing, and nodding. "Why not? Wait, you _do_ know how romance works, right?"

"Um … I'm fairly sure I do, Parker. But why don't you tell me what you know. Maybe I don't have all the facts …" she says, smiling with her eyes, but giving nothing away with the rest of her face.

"Okay … first, you gotta be sure about it, because this is my dad we're talking about … and he can tend to be a little serious when it comes to romance and stuff."

"Okay," she says, nodding, hiding a half smile. "How do I know if I'm sure about it?"

"Well, do you feel happy when you are with him?" he asks, his voice rising at the end of the question.

Bones thinks about this for a moment, feeling a peace come over her whole body. She feels a lot of things when she's with him. And, yes, she feels happy when she's with him. "Happier than I've ever been … with anybody," she says, smiling beautifically down toward Parker.

"Really?" he asks, surprised, a little excited.

Bones nods, shrugs, continuing to smile down at him; she can't help it. She is a little surprised how fun it is to share this with Parker. It feels … familial … comfortable … between them. _What was I worried about?_

"Okay," he says confidently, in response to her declaration and the confirming nod that followed it. "That will work!" He then catches Bones off guard by rubbing his palms together in excitement. "Well, then the second thing you have to have for romance is love. Do you have that?" asks Parker, very seriously one again.

"Yeah, I've got that," she answers, nodding.

"I mean, about my dad. Do you think you have love with my dad?" he asks, inquisitively.

"How, exactly, would I know?" she says, tilting her head to the side, wishing Booth were here to hear this whole conversation, trying to commit it to memory.

"Well," says Parker, lying down again with his hands behind his head. He stares at the ceiling and thinks about how he feels about Caroleena. "Do you like it when he smiles at you? Do you like doing stuff with him?"

Bones nods at the first question, pauses briefly, then nods at the second question as well.

"Are you okay with sports? He's kinda totally into sports," he says, a warning tone to his question.

"I think I could get used to sports," she says, nodding, taking Parker's inventory as seriously as he is.

"Do you like old cars? Do you like to watch television?"

"I prefer to read, but TV's okay too, in moderation, though not nearly as intellectually stimulating as reading. And cars, especially vintage cars, can he fascinating." _I have to remember to tell Booth that his huge television was delivered and is sitting in the middle of my living room!_ she thinks.

"And …" he thinks for a moment, "how about comic books? You know, graphic novels? And fishing … do you like to go fishing?"

"I'm always open to new experiences …" answers Bones.

"Good. That will help," he says, absently chewing on his lip as he thinks. "I already know you like to eat … so that pretty much covers everything Dad likes to do," he says, puckering his lips, deep in thought.

Bones can't help giggling at this comment. Parker looks over at her and giggles too, then grows serious, quiet.

"Do you think about my dad all the time? And more than anything, do you want him to be happy?"

"Yes, and yes, most definitely," she whispers, but loud enough for him to hear her.

"Well then, I'd say you've got happiness and love," he says, smiling, "that leaves just one other thing …" Before going any further, because he figures this last thing might be difficult to explain to her, he wants to know another thing from her first.

Bones waits patiently while Parker consults with the thoughts in his head.

"First, before I tell you the last thing I know about romance, you have to answer the most important question of all, Bones," he says quietly, turning his head to look at her.

"And what is that?" she says, matching his serious and gentle tone.

_"WHY_ do you want to have romance with my dad?" He drops the bomb, then waits.

"That is a very astute question, Parker. I am impressed," she says, a small smile playing on her lips. What a good kid. "You kinda take care of your dad, don't you?" she asks, sweetly.

Parker looks back up at the ceiling, considering the question, then nods slightly.

"I guess I do," he says. "Dad says we take care of the people we love. You know, spend time with them, treat them with respect, make sure they know you love them, pray for them, cheer them up when they are sad, help them when they are hurt. You know, like that. So … I guess I really do take care of him. He's my dad," he finishes, shrugging. Finally, he looks over at Bones, and he's smiling warmly.

"You know what?" she asks.

"What?" he asks, furrowing his brow slightly.

"I love you, LittleBigMan," she says, kissing the tips of the fingers on her right hand, then leaning over to place them on his forehead. She then adds, "I love you a _googol_, you know!"

"What?" he asks, "I know you love me, duh, Bones. I can totally tell. But what do you mean, you love me a Google? That's an internet thingy, isn't it?"

"Correct, Park, but it is also a unit of measurement," she says, nodding once at him.

"Like, a tablespoon?"

"Precisely, but much, much more than a tablespoon. The word 'googol,' spelled g-o-o-g-o-l is a term, created by a 9 year old boy by the name of Milton Sirotta in 1938 to describe ten to the one hundredth power, or one with 100 zeros after it."

"Wow! That's a lot of zeros," he says, eyes big, mouth agape.

"You can safely assume it simply means _a lot_," she says. "Okay?"

"Got it. Thanks. I love you a googol, too," he says, smiling sheepishly. _He looks just like Booth when he does that,_ she thinks to herself, smiling back at him. "So, where were we?" he asks.

"Why do I want to be romantic, or have romance, with your dad … you'd asked me that before I sidetracked you."

"Right," he says, nodding. "So?"

Taking a deep breath, she thinks for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. _How to answer this question? How much to say?_

"Well," she says, sighing, putting her hands behind her head now, her elbows pointing in opposite directions on either side of her face. "Your dad and I have known each other for more than six years. That's since you were three years old ..." she begins.

"I don't even remember when I didn't know you ... That's more than half my lifetime."

"Exactly. Very good math, Parker," she says, without looking down. She's playing the movie of her relationship with Booth on the ceiling above her. "I guess I've gotten to know your dad very well, and I trust him," she says. "It isn't easy for me to trust people. I've always been more comfortable trusting only myself, relying only on myself. But I trust your dad, and I find him very pleasing to look at."

"Being trustworthy and cute isn't enough for romance, Bones. There's gotta be more than that," he says, shaking his head, watching her silhouette even though she's not looking over at him. He notices that her eyes, at least the one he can see, are wide open, she's concentrating on something in front of her that he cannot see, and her lips are relaxed and curled up around the edges. She looks peaceful, happy, beautiful, he thinks.

"I really like your dad, the person he is, the person he works very hard to be. It _is_ important to me that he's happy. I'd like to share more of my life with him, Parker. Do you think that would make him happy?" she asks, finally rotating her head to the left, looking over at him from her supine position two feet above him and to his right.

"Well, yeah … cuz he's been kinda grouchy lately … at least, until today. He gets angry a lot," Parker says, grimacing, he feels guilty for telling her this, but it's obvious she cares about his dad … so maybe it's okay.

"He's been through a really tough time, Park."

"I know," he says, looking away, then back. "You're talking about Hannah, aren't you?"

"That's part of it. We all go through really tough times throughout our lives. I've been through quite a lot of that myself …" she says, turning on her side to peer over the edge of the mattress at him. She slides her hand up under her face and rests it there.

"Really?"

"Yes. But do you know how I've gotten through it?" she asks. Parker shrugs, not losing eye contact. "Friends. And your dad has helped me … a lot. I don't think I could have made it through without him helping me," she says softly.

Not sure what to say, Parker returns to his previous comment. "You know what, Bones?"

"What?"

"At first I thought Dad liked Hannah much more than she liked him, but then, most of the time, I think she liked him much more than he liked her."

"And why is that?" she asks, pinching her eyebrows together.

"I don't really know, Bones. It was just a feeling I got. I think maybe he was happy enough being with her … but he wasn't, you know, truly excited …"

"Hm. But is your dad ever excited, Park?"

"Yeah, sure," he says, his eyes lighting up.

"Like when? Give me an example."

"Well, he's sure been pretty excited tonight!" he says, nodding exaggeratedly, chuckling. Bones chuckles with him, her eyes sparkling in response to his words. "He's always excited when we go swimming at your place … even though we haven't been there in a while. He always gets excited when he talks about things he's learned at work - you know - science stuff …"

"Really?" says Bones, an incredulous expression on her face. _Booth doesn't usually show a great deal of enthusiasm for science at work. Hm._

"Yeah. He's always saying _'Bones taught me this'_ or _'Bones taught me that'_ or _'Do you know who could answer that question? Bones!'_ Or, _'You know who would really enjoy doing this? Bones' …"_

"What does he think I'd enjoy doing?" she asks, fascinated by this new perspective on Booth.

"Rollerblading, the zoo, the Children's Museum, my tee ball games … lotsa stuff."

"Wow," she says. "I had no idea he talked about me that way, Parker," she says, laying back on the mattress, quite intrigued by what Parker's telling her. For a moment, she loses herself in her own thoughts.

_It never occurred to me that he would do this, talk about me in this way with Parker,_ she thinks to herself._ It stands to reason that if he talks about Parker with me, he would talk about me with Parker. Hm. It is wonderful to hear it now, and quite affirming._ These thoughts send butterflies up and down her abdominal cavity. What she'd really like to do right now is crawl out of this bed, cross the living room, and crawl into bed with Booth. She'd like to wrap her body around his, intertwine her legs with his. Booth, who is over there right now, warm and beautiful and sexy, all by himself. Smelling fantastic, scratchy mandible and all, beautiful brown eyes that twinkle when he's happy and steam up when he's about to kiss her. These thoughts give her a prickly sensation along her own mandible. She has to close her eyes, and take a deep breath. How will she sleep tonight knowing he's right over there? And knowing how he's been speaking about her to Parker, and how freely he shows his excitement about her to him. This isn't a sensual conversation, but her mind, her imagination, is having very sensual thoughts. She feels an overwhelming need to be close to him. Now. _Tuesday is way too far away,_ she thinks, closing her eyes and covering her mouth with her left hand, sighing. _He's making me crazy. Bringing me over here, this is all a plot to drive me crazy._ She chuckles, feeling her cheeks to see how warm they are. Hot. They are hot. _Of course,_ she grins to herself. Blowing out two lungsful of air, she fans herself and turns on her side to look at Parker.

"You know what, LittleBigMan?" she says, propping her cheek up on her fist once more.

"What?" asks Parker, turning on his side toward her as well, his face propped up on his fist.

"He's always pretty excited when he talks about you …" she says, winking at him, and grinning ear to ear.

"Yeah?"

"Yes …" she says, nodding slowly, as if to underline the truth in her statement.

"Like … what does he say?" Parker asks shyly, wanting to know, but not wanting to seem too eager.

"He says Parker's a smart little guy and I want the best for him," she says, laying her free arm down the side of her body, resting her hand on her hip. She is content and happy, though heady with the anticipation of sneaking over to Booth as soon as Parker falls asleep. Hopefully he won't be asleep. "Parker … do you mind if I go check on something real quick?"

"No," he says, though he's a little surprised at this question. _What could possibly be more important than this conversation,_ he wonders.

"I'll be right back," she says, hopping out of the bed and heading into the living room. All the lights are off and Booth's bedroom door is only slightly ajar. She quietly knocks on his door.

* * *

><p>Bones hears some movement from within Booth's bedroom. She can see that his bedside lamp is on, so she slowly pushes on the door, peeking around it as soon as her head can fit through. Booth is sitting on the edge of his bed, looking through some papers.<p>

"Hey," she whispers, knocking gently once again. She smiles so brightly when he looks up at her, she almost can't contain herself.

"Hey," he whispers back, smiling at her as well. "Is the LittleBigMan asleep?"

"No …" she says, "We're still talking …"

"Oh. So …"

"It's been quite educational for me so far …" she says, raising her eyebrows and grinning.

"Oh really?" he says, setting his papers on the bed, standing up and coming toward her.

As he advances, she feels a stab of adrenaline through her chest. Her attraction to him is almost painful, now knowing what she knows combined with what promises to be a stamp of approval from Parker. She can't move, and she can barely breathe. When he reaches her, she just about falls into his arms. "I just needed a … a hug from you," she says, noticing that she's shaking. But she also knows that touching him calms her … and that's a good thing, right? However, this time it's not working.

"Are you okay?" he says, concern in his eyes, noticing that she's trembling a little. He leans back, searching her face. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright. "What's going on?"

Bones swallows. "I, uh … I just wanted to see you for a minute," she stammers. _He's completely unaffected, how is he always so damn calm? Of course,_ she thinks, _he hasn't been hearing the kind of things I have been hearing … he's been reviewing case files._ She feels a little foolish.

"I'm sorry for interrupting you, Booth," she says, searching his eyes as if she'll see what she's feeling reflected there. She sees affection, of course, but he has no idea what's been going on in Parker's room between the boy he loves and the woman he adores. Hm. It dawns on her that he is most likely unaware of the things Parker sees in him. Getting to share these things with Parker gives her a sweet sensation underneath her sternum … fondness, sweetness, preciousness. _What is that? Wonderful, is what it is,_ she tells herself._ It is going to fucking hurt if the relationship fails,_ she thinks, with a flash of panic she stuffs immediately back into the craggy crevice from which it came. "Oh, I keep forgetting to tell you ... your television is sitting in a huge box in the middle of my living room. When do you want to come get it?"

"You came all the way over here, in the middle of a conversation with Parker, to tell me this?" he asks, knowing there's got to be more to this than that.

Bones steps up on her tiptoes and slides her arms around his neck, pressing her body into his, covering the right side of his face with her own, the rough stubble causing her to inhale sharply, but quietly, because she stifles it. Her face is on fire. She stands there for a moment as he rubs her back, soothingly. Something's up, he thinks.

"Are you sure you're okay, Bones?" he asks, concerned. He attempts to pull away to get a look at her face, but she holds on tightly, just needing to be held for a moment. _Stuff it back. Stuff it in. Don't even think about folding it neatly. Just get it back in that blasted crack._ she thinks, attempting to quash the panic.

"That is one extraordinary boy you have," she says when she can find her voice. She rubs her cheek back and forth against his. Booth relents, decides just to go with it. He squeezes her more tightly and lifts her slightly off her feet, then lets her back down, swaying her very slightly side to side. As he closes his eyes, he breathes in the scent of her hair and her skin, warm under his fingers, somewhere hidden beneath her pajama top. "You feel so good," he whispers in to her ear.

"I know," she says.

"So, what's this all about?"

"Um," she says, her eyes closed, she's soaking in all the sensory input she can handle about him. "Not much, really, I just needed to … be here like this for a moment," she says into his ear, their cheeks still pressed together. "Crazy, huh?" she says, tickling his ear with a nervous gentle chuckle. Her eyes are squeezed closed.

"I think I could get used to it," he says affirmatively, nodding. "You won't find me complaining," he says, chuckling.

"Oh … " she starts, remembering something else she wanted to tell him. "Hannah came by the Jeffersonian while we were gone."

"Oh?"

"Yes. She returned my sunglasses …"

"Interesting," he says, opening his eyes. He still hasn't told Bones that he met with Hannah on Monday. Nor has he told her everything Hannah said. "Did she leave them with Cam?"

"No … she left them on my desk. With a note," says Bones, still holding onto him, not looking like she has any intention of letting go anytime soon.

"Hm," he grunts, not wanting to give anything away. "What did the note say?" he asks, moving his cheek against hers.

Bones sighs, enjoying the vibration of his voice through his mandible, then paraphrases what was written on the curled-up piece of notepaper that had been held on by a rubber band. "It said, '_Temperance, I am returning to Afghanistan. Here are your sunglasses. I enjoyed wearing them, but they were never mine. They look much better on you,'_ that's a paraphrase, of course … "

"Wow," says Booth, saying nothing more. "What do you think prompted that?"

"Clearly, she's leaving for Afghanistan and trying to tie up loose ends …" she says, wondering if this will prompt Booth to say anything about his Monday morning meeting at the diner with Hannah. Bones loosens her grip on Booth and steps back, but doesn't let go of him. She looks in his eyes, expectantly.

He says nothing, looking at her. He's watching her, nothing more.

"Okay … got a boy waiting for me … will you be up for a little while?"

Booth smiles. "Sure," he says, leaning down to kiss her on the lips, then the forehead, where he lingers for a moment, closing his eyes, then releases her.

She smiles back, gratefully, feeling … what? Feeling how she imagines her mother's ring would feel if it were sentient and it knew what it meant to her. _Cherished. That's it._ She steps back, turns and walks swiftly back to Parker's room, hoping he hasn't fallen asleep.

* * *

><p>Parker is most definitely still awake. He's sitting on top of his Superman sleeping bag, tossing a baseball back and forth between a catcher's mitt on his right hand and his bare left hand. It felt to him like she'd been gone for an hour, though it was really only five minutes.<p>

"Bones," he says, setting the ball inside the mitt and tossing it on the floor under his desk chair. "You gotta tell me the rest … the rest of what Dad says about me. No one ever tells me this stuff!"

"I'm sorry for abandoning you right in the middle of our conversation, Peanut," she says, baring her teeth apologetically. "I had to tell your dad something before I forgot it again … so, where was I?" She crawls from the bottom of the bed up to the middle, sitting with her legs crossed underneath her once again.

"You were telling me that Dad's usually excited when he talks about me …" he answers, encouraging her to continue.

"Well, let's see …" she says, rolling to the side to pick up the sheet underneath her and wrap it around herself. "He says you're the best thing in his life. He worries about your education, your happiness, if you have friends. He loves planning things for you to do together," she says, pausing, smiling down at him. He's got his palms wrapped around his feet, pressing his soles together at the center of his body. He looks up at her expectantly. "We talk about you a lot, Parker … one would think you live with him all the time."

"Well, he is my dad all the time - that's what he tells me … 'I am always your father, even when I'm not there'", Parker says, mimicking Booth's voice. "I think sometimes he wishes my mom and he had gotten married so we could all live together …" Parker says wistfully.

Bones sighs, understanding the dreams of a kid whose living situation is different than it could have been. "Well, I _know_ he wishes you could live with him all the time … But these things do not always happen the way we want them to … and we can't control a lot of what happens, either," she says, empathetically.

"Yeah … Dad says things are what they are and we do what we can," says Parker shrugging.

"He's a smart man, your father."

"He says you're smarter than he is, Bones, is that true?" Parker asks, looking up at her.

Puffing her cheeks out on the exhale, Bones considers how to explain the truth, as she knows it, to Booth's son. Go with the facts … right?

"In some ways, yes. In other ways, no," she begins. This elicits a confused expression from Parker.

"What do you mean?" he asks, his lips bunched up, his face almost appearing angry, but that's not what it is … he's not sure how this could work - smart in some things but not in others …

"Well … " she begins again. "There are many kinds of intelligence." A quizzical expression is still plastered across Parker's face.

"Okay … I'll give you a visual - an example. Kind of a science example, okay?"

"Sure … that might work," he says, exchanging a perplexed look for an intrigued look.

Bones adjusts herself in her seated position, preparing for an imaginary demonstration. "Imagine we have two clear glass beakers." Noticing a confused look on Parker's face, she quickly explains. "A beaker is a pitcher used in experiments, okay?"

"Oh. Got it."

"You also have two identical empty glasses … like for drinking out of."

"And what do they represent?"

"They represent your dad and me. One is me, the other is your dad. Our brains, actually."

"Oh … I can see right through your brain, Bones!"

"Well, okay, I guess you can right now … but that is unimportant, though necessary for the purposes of this example. Stick with me here, Park."

"Okay," he says, regaining his focus.

"In one of the beakers, one of the pitchers, you have red juice, in the other you have blue juice. These two juices represent different kinds of intelligence. Now, you need both kinds of intelligence in order to succeed in life, work, and relationships … and you need your glass, which represents your brain, to be completely full of intelligence. However, it does not matter how much of each intelligence you have, as long as your glass is full … and you have _some_ of each color, got it?"

"Got it," he says, nodding once.

"Okay. So. The red juice represents intuition, reason, moral certitude, emotional intelligence … life smarts, people smarts, relationship smarts. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I think so. Dad is really good with people … and figuring them out."

"Exactly, among other things."

"What does the blue juice represent?"

"The blue juice represents academic intelligence, logic, scientific comprehension … book smarts, science smarts, got it?"

"Yeah …" he says, nodding, seeing where this is going.

"So, we pour enough red juice, people smarts, into your dad's glass to fill it five-sixths of the way full. Do you know what that means?" she asks, pouring imaginary juice from an invisible beaker into the invisible glass in her other hand.

"Yep. If you split up the glass into six equal parts, five of those parts would be filled with the red juice. And let me guess, the last part would be filled with blue juice, right?" She pours another one fifth of liquid into the beaker, but from the other invisible beaker.

"Precisely, right up to the top. Completely full. Then, we pour red juice into my glass. Red juice, again, is the people smarts." She goes through the motions with her imaginary chemistry set of beakers, juice and glasses.

"How much red juice do you get, Bones?"

"Not nearly as much as your dad, sport. My glass is about one quarter full of red juice … which is better than it used to be when your dad first met me. I've learned a tremendous amount from him, you know," she says, tilting her head to the side and nodding.

"Really, Bones?" he says, surprised, disbelieving.

"Ho ho, oh yeah!" she says. "A _googol_, believe me."

Parker elongates his face, grimacing. He's impressed. "Wow," he says. Bones nods in affirmation, smiling.

"So the other … how much blue juice for me, Parker?"

"Three quarters …" he provides, doing the calculation in his head.

"Yes, the other three quarters of my glass is filled with blue juice. Filled all the way to the top," she says. "So … both glasses are equally full, right?"

"Right."

"But the combinations of juice are disproportionate … not the same amount of each color of juice in either of the glasses, right?" she asks. Parker nods. "Yet, both glasses are full, right?" She holds up the imaginary glasses for him to inspect.

"Right," he says, rocking back and forth on the sides of his ankles.

"So … sometimes when I have a question about life things, like how I should do something … I watch your dad … and see how he does it, or I ask him. And with people things, I pretty much always ask your dad. Then, when he needs to know about science and history and bones, he asks me," she says, pleased with the example she's provided for Parker.

"You make a pretty good team, you and Dad," he concludes.

"The best kind of team, Park. A complementary team. We go well together …" she says, smiling at him.

"Bones, What kind of smarts do you think I have?"

"Well … you're still developing your smarts, kiddo. We won't know the full answer to that question for a number of years …"

"But I want to know what _you_ think …" he says, sternly.

"I think you have a very good chance of having an equal mix of both," she says, nodding, shrugging.

"Wow …"

* * *

><p>"Okay Bones," says Parker, crawling back into his sleeping bag, yawning, "If you have love and happiness, there's just one more thing you need to make the romance complete."<p>

"What's that?" she asks, furrowing her brow.

"You're going to have to kiss him," he says, apologetically, grimacing and looking up at her.

_"What?"_

"Yeah … it might be kinda gross. I don't know. I've never tried it. I like Caroleena and all … might even marry her one day. But I am _not_ going to kiss her. Ever," he says with confidence.

"Do you think I _have_ to kiss him?" asks Bones, biting her lips together between her teeth so she doesn't start laughing.

"Well," Parker says, exhaling and shaking his head. "He's going to expect it, Bones. So you may want to think about it first. It could be a game-changer …"

"I don't know what that means, Park …"

"A game-changer is when everything is going along fine, then something happens to change everything. Then either things start going even better than before ... or everything stops completely. That's a game changer."

"Hm. Wow," she says, in a monotone voice. "What about you? If I decide to go ahead with this … um, romance with your dad … and I do decide to kiss him … would it gross you out if I kissed him in front of you?" she asks, anxious to hear what response this elicits, more curious than concerned. She peeks over at him with her eyes, not moving her head.

"It would be fine with me, but it's kinda a private thing, kissing. At least, that's what Dad says. I don't really care. But you should think about it long and hard before starting something like that. Remember, this is my dad we're talking about. He takes these things seriously," he says, a warning expression on his face.

"What do you mean?" she asks, looking concerned.

"Well, if this stuff starts going on between the two of you, he's probably going to make you hold his hand crossing the street."

She can't hold it back any longer. Bones bursts out laughing. His tone is so serious and confident.

"I'm serious," says Parker, thinking she must think this is a ridiculous thing his father demands.

"But I'm an adult!" she says. "I think I'm pretty good at getting myself safely across the street, Park."

"I've tried explaining that to him. He's going to disagree and make you do it anyway …" he explains resignedly.

"Weeeeeeel, I suppose I could get used to that. Are his hands sweaty?" she asks crinkling her nose, twisting her lips into a disgusted expression.

"Not usually, but they are really big … though your hands are pretty big too. Let's see …" he says, holding one of his hands up to compare it to hers. She holds out her hand and they compare. Her fingers are about one and a quarter inches longer than Parker's. "Dad's hands are definitely bigger than yours, but I think this could work," he says.

"What a relief!" she says, chuckling and rolling her eyes. They both laugh, curing up in their own cocoons, staring at each other.

After a moment, Parker's expression turns serious.

"Bones, if you are asking me if it's okay if you have some romance with my dad, it would be fine, and I do think it would make him really happy … but you've been warned about what that means, okay?"

"Okay," she says gently, nodding, the sound of the cotton sheets scratching against her ear as she lays on her side looking at his little Booth body wrapped in a sleeping bag.

"But … " he says, then pauses. _"Just don't have so much romance that you forget that I'm here too …"_

"Parker, I would _NEVER_ do that," she says vehemently, yet gently.

"It's just that I've seen it happen before."

"With me?"

"No. But with other people who get into romance," he explains, not getting specific, but the message is clear.

"Listen, if you feel like that is happening with your dad and me … and you … you better tell me right away."

"Are you sure you won't get mad?" he asks, doubtfully.

"I'm absolutely sure - so you'll tell me, right?"

"Right," he says, yawning.

"Pinkie swear?" she says, extending her little finger.

"I'm really tired, Bones," he says rolling over, facing the opposite wall, thrusting his pinkie straight up into the air. "Pinkie swear in the air."

"Pinkie swear in the air, Parker," she says, smiling, but he's already asleep and doesn't hear her. One hundred miles an hour or out cold, that's Parker Booth.

* * *

><p>Once she's confident Parker is down for the count, Bones grabs her cell and creeps out of the bedroom. Entering the living room, she notices Booth drowsing on the couch. <em>Just as well,<em> she thinks,_ I have a quick call to make._ Sneaking over behind him, she presses the send button and listens for her own voice singing the Cyndi Lauper song, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. After a moment, there it is. It's coming from Booth's bedroom. She minces through his bedroom door and rushes over to scoop up his cell and turn it off before it rouses him. Sitting on the edge of his bed, she scrolls to the photo section of his cell archives. Finding what she's looking for, she clicks on the item. The screen fills with a photo of herself in Booth's tee shirt and in Booth's bed, asleep. A smile creeps across her face. Not bad, she thinks, impressed at how good she looks even when she's asleep. Clicking away the image, she taps the phone on her chin, thinking. _How should I react to this?_

In the middle of her reverie, she's startled by Booth's voice.

"What are you doing?" he asks from the door to the bedroom.

"A better question is, what the hell did you think _YOU_ were doing?" she scowls at him. She finds the photo again and holds it up to him, walking toward him so he can see exactly what she'd been doing. "I think an explanation is in order here!"

Booth's mouth falls open and the blood drains from his face. He's seen this expression ... she's pissed.

* * *

><p><em>Okay - needing your thoughts on this chapter. <em>  
><em>Please review ... and remember MoxieGirl44 will <em>  
><em>post the NEXT chapter as soon as I can get it <em>  
><em>written and edited!<em>

_Oh, and I've been known to release a new chapter on Twitter the day before it gets anywhere else ... just sayin' ;D_


	172. Chapter 172 Caught Red Handed

_A/N At long last ... here's the next chapter. It took three re-writes as I was struggling with a concept that just didn't work. Then, thanks to the comments from acobn, nertooold54, Diko, cheysma2000, & crys82 & spartybaron53, (who I thanked on Twitter as MoxieGirl44, btw!) you showed me the light ... and what we now have is the result. Enjoy! ~ MoxieGirl_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 172 Caught Red Handed<strong>

Booth stares at Bones as she advances toward him. She holding out his cell phone with her sleeping photo glowing on the display. He's speechless. He notices her neck is red, and her eyes are shiny and sharp, piercing. _Crap, I should have told her,_ he thinks, feeling a surge of guilt. _She would have insisted on seeing it, then maybe she would have made me delete it. But I didn't want to delete it. I love that picture. It's sweet. And she's wearing my tee shirt to bed … which I hadn't known until I saw the photo … and I just … it's sweet. But it was wrong not to tell her. I can't even say I didn't have the opportunity, because I did. I had plenty of opportunities. I know she's a very private person, I should have realized she might consider this to be crossing a line. Damn, why didn't I tell her?_

Bones watches his face go through several transformations. She'd been thinking of playing with him, letting him sweat it out … letting him think she's upset. But he looks miserable. If she teases him, it can't be for long. She doesn't want to torture him. Much.

Before Booth had walked in on her, Bones had had several thoughts whizzing through the frontal lobe of her cerebral hemisphere. She wasn't upset, surprisingly. She was touched, flattered. If it were anyone else who had taken and kept a sleeping photo of her, it would have been creepy, a violation even. But come on, this is Booth we're talking about. Booth who loves her and respects her. But … that doesn't mean she can't play with him a bit … tease him about it.

* * *

><p><em>What I do find interesting is that this picture was taken Monday night, or early Tuesday morning, actually … BEFORE I arrived in Philly. Before the flirting and teasing, before the panty raid, which lead to the kissing and the touching, then the holding, then all kinds of intimate and emotional conversations, <em>she thinks,_ tapping the phone against her chin again. That was the night we'd spent two hours talking and laughing on the phone while he was in Philly and I was in D.C. I was lying on his bed surrounded by his scent on the pillows and sheets … that intoxicating Boothy scent._ She'd taken a tee shirt out of his laundry basket and worn it._ Sigh._ That night, surrounded by his things, she had relived the memory of the night she'd slept with him in that very bed … She has an onslaught of those love hormones again now, fenylethylamine-inspired poppies creeping up her neck in response to her thoughts. A wave of heat radiates from her chest southward at the memory. _Woah … here it comes, the Adrenaline, the dopamine, the Endorphin, Oxytocin. Actually, I could use a little more of the oxytocin, the cuddle hormone, the stuff that cuddling itself produces._

Her mind wanders, as minds often do, and she realizes she's sitting in that same room now, holding a picture of herself, feeling more than a little turned on. She glances behind her at the pillows against the headboard, remembering sleeping in a cocoon of Booth-scented linens, alone, that night. She reaches out and touches the closest pillow, the one on the left side of the bed. That's the side he slept on the night Mr. Nigel-Murray died. Without even thinking about it, she leans over and sinks her face into the cool pillow, breathing in the Eau de Booth. _God, if I could just bottle that and take it home with me. Focus, Temperance!_ says a little voice shouting from her frontal lobe._ It's your damn fault, Amygdala! How can I focus when most of my blood is running and screaming toward all of my erogenous zones!_ she argues. _Bla._ She sticks her tongue out, shaking her head, fanning herself, ineffectively. She needs an oscillating fan or a large format magazine to more effectively cool herself off.

Still unable to get any relief from the self-generated heat, she smiles, wondering about the Footie Note._ I Wonder if he kept the Footie Note. Most likely not, that would be foolish, right? It's just a piece of paper with a pencil drawing on it, _she thinks._ Granted, it's a highly accurate drawing of human bones, drawn exclusively for him by the world's leading forensic anthropologists … it could be worth millions one day. But Booth would never sell it, he's a romantic, and a traditionalist. I would never do anything like that, keep a silly scrap of paper for sentimental reasons. Scraps of paper cause clutter … garbage in, garbage out, literally, right?_ she thinks. No sooner does that thought crawl across her frontal lobe when she has to turn around and eat it. _Here, put some ketchup on it to make it go down more smoothly, Temp, _she thinks. She's remembering the two pieces of paper she took from her suitcase and slipped into her back pocket before coming over here tonight; his notes from this morning. Notes signed, "B-OX." From Booth, with a hug and a kiss._ Interesting behavior. These are obviously a sort of "reinforcing behaviors." For both of us._

_This is how it happens … this is how humans seem to easily sustain their affection,_ she thinks. _Mementoes, frequent contact, touch, lingering emotive glances. This is how people get emotionally and intimately attached to one another. Commingled sustainably. I see how this works. I find it quite effective, she thinks to herself, nodding, smiling, fanning herself once more. Maybe I can do this._ For some reason she'd thought she would have to regenerate attachment on a daily basis in order to keep a long term relationship going … she'd assumed that it would prove tiring, boring, over time, and a waste of energy, energy that could be put to better use tackling the scientific mysteries still plaguing life on our planet. Take that energy and put it into cancer research, or cold fusion. _No, far better to be an island,_ she'd told herself, _a lone wolf, her own self-sufficient rock, right? Nah, now that's some copulating donkey turds talking, unfortunately,_ she chagrins. Slowly but surely she's figuring out that humans are made with these built-in mechanisms created to ensure the perpetuation of the species in ways she hadn't counted on. Of course, she's always known about the biology and the chemistry of it. But the experience of it is quite different. It isn't a myth, or an anthropological trope. It's real and true and effective, these attachment mechanisms. No wonder the experience is foreign to her … in this concentrated dosage at least._ Now I get it,_ she thinks._ No wonder it's addictive. Actually … it is addictive … very literally physiologically addictive, that's why it's effective._ But no one ever explained this feeling accurately for her. With previous men, she'd had fun, enjoyed their company, their physical compatibility, their sex. But she'd never felt an unquenchable hunger for them to stick around ... not like this. No one had warned her. How could they? It's like orgasm … how could anyone fully and accurately describe the experience of orgasm? No. They can try … but until you are the blessed recipient of one, you are sadly and hopelessly clueless.

* * *

><p>Meredith, her childhood friend with whom she's been sporadically in touch ever since, tried to explain the experience of orgasm to her before Brennan was planning to have her first experience with sexual intercourse. Brennan knew she was going to have sexual intercourse because that is exactly what she had requested. She'd chosen an experienced partner who, she felt, could provide a satisfying introduction to sexual intercourse then she'd made a proposal. He accepted, of course, and thus began the sexual experiences of Dr. Temperance Brennan.<p>

Meredith was the perfect person to have this conversation with. Meredith is always all about the sex.

"I've read everything I can get my hands on about the physiology and chemistry of sexual intercourse," complained Brennan. "I've read Kinsey, Masters & Johnson, and Dr. Ruth. I've been a prescriber of the journal from the Deutsche Gesellschaft für Sozialwissenschaftliche Sexualforschung for ten months … and I'm still not sure I know what to look for!"

"Tempe, that's the problem with you … you're always looking for something tangible. You have to learn how to close your eyes, let go ... and just **feel**."

"Feel what? That's what I'm asking you … how does it feel? What am I looking for, Mere?"

"No … I'm not getting pulled into a biological, or technical description for you, because the big "O" is beyond that." she'd said, in a pleading tone. "There's a kind of … physical euphoria that is indescribable. It's just indescribable. It's not some BIG SECRET we're all keeping from you as you seem to think. It is truly beyond description. Who knows if it's even the same from person to person?" she'd said, her eyes widening in exasperation. "Now _**that**_ would be an interesting research project. I'd sign up for that," she said, raising her hand enthusiastically as if she was that kid in algebra class who always knows the answer and wants desperately to prove it. "It's more than just chemical …"

Brennan had looked at her friend dumbfounded. "I just don't get it!" she'd said, throwing up her hands and shaking her head, shrugging.

"And you _won't_ get it … till you have _an orgasm yourself. I guarantee you this though, Tempe: when you have one, you will know!_" Meredith had said, getting in her face, almost rubbing noses with her. "But I will also tell you this: if orgasm is really what your are interested in, your wasting your time going off with … old what's-his-name. I don't care if he _is_ mature and experienced … which … by the way ... YUCK ... girlfriend!" One thing Brennan loves about Angela is that she reminds her of Meredith, for obvious reasons.

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

"Jesus Christ, do I have to spell everything out for you?" Meredith was putting on her jacket and collecting her purse to leave. She stood in front of Brennan, her hands on her hips. "Go sit under a rushing water faucet as it fills the bathtub, put the clothes dryer on full blast and sit on it, though that never did it for me. Geez, use a kitchen utensil, or, I know, straddle one of those exercise bikes your so fond of!"

"Are you talking about …" she'd asked following Meredith's outburst. Brennan had held her hand out, wiggling her fingers toward Meredith.

"Sure, Tempe, whatever floats your boat. What do you think _PHALANGES_ were created for, huh?" she said, dramatically grabbing at her own crotch and faking several moans that increased in volume, culminating in a scream. After a "do you get it?" expression from Meredith, they both broke into giggles.

"Okay. Message received, Mere, though I don't understand what floating a boat has to do with it … but I'll let that slide. I do understand your creative references to self-pleasuring."

The very next day, Brennan received a package wrapped in brown paper bag paper. Inside were three items. The first and largest was something called "The Mitten Kitten 1800," accompanied be four C batteries and a copy of a book entitled, 'A Woman's Touch," sporting the silhouette of a woman's nude body stretching across the cover.

When she opened the package … at work, by the way … she'd screamed and ran to her tiny cinder block office to have herself a good laugh. She called Meredith immediately.

"You got it," was how Meredith greeted her.

"Mere, how thoughtful," she said in a sweet appreciative tone as they both broke into giggles, and Brennan closed the door to her office. Scooting around her little desk, Brennan sat in her stiff generic company-issued desk chair, and leaned her elbows on her desk. "You act like I don't know anything about masturbation. I am a scientist after all. We are explorers. I got your message yesterday, and I will take your … suggestions into consideration …"

"Tempe …!"

"_Serious_ consideration … and you're not getting this gift back," she said, chuckling.

"Ohhhw. That's for you anyway, darlin' … I don't ever want to see it again. Besides, I just got the 2500, which …" she'd started to launch into one of her descriptions of her sexual escapades, but Brennan cut her off.

"Alright, alright, Mere!" she'd exclaimed, smiling appreciatively. "Everyone needs a friend like you, Mere. See you Tuesday at the Korner Kafé? Noon?"

"You got it. And I want a report!" she'd laughed a cackely laugh.

"Well, I will most likely not give you a report … I'm not seeing … old what's-his-name," she'd laughed into the phone, "until next week."

_"DON'T WAIT FOR HIM, GIRL!_ And if you show up at the Kafé looking all relaxed, and happy, your hair messed up and your short not tucked in, that'll be enough to let me know you've taken my advice and enjoyed a _climactic_ autodidactic experience."

"I'm not entirely certain that means what you think it means, Mere. The word you're looking for is _autoerotic_."

"What?" she'd asked, a disgusted look on her face. "That works too, Tempe. Whatever … gotta go, babe, have fuu-unnnn!" Brennan could hear Meredith grinning and waving over the phone waves.

* * *

><p>Returning from her memories of Meredith and the Smitten Kitten 1800, Bones ponders the feelings she's experiencing now with Booth ... and what she thinks they might mean.<p>

_Sustainably commingled, attached, intertwined, interdependent. These are words,_ she thinks, _that accurately describe both the act of making love, and the relationship between those who participate in it, if it's done right_ … at that last phrase, she smiles, remembering Booth's theory about love making._ There goes another surge of … damn, I can't even think of the word for that hormone anymore. I'm intoxicated,_ she thinks, _worthless, at this point. I need a cold shower._

These were the fond memories of her life-long friend, Meredith, and her newly identified lover and partner, Seeley Booth, that Brennan is entertaining - or, are entertaining her - when she's interrupted by Booth standing in the doorway to his bedroom. _Who's the hungry lion and who's Bambi now?_ she thinks, chucking to herself._ Damn, he's fine,_ she thinks.

Face to face with Bones and the cell phone screen, Booth swallows, furrowing his brow, his mouth moving, but no coherent sounds come out. He looks back and forth from her face to the phone. He reaches for the cell which she's now holding out toward him, her picture staring him in the face. As he reaches for it, she pulls it away, grinning mischievously at him. She steps back, glances at the cell display, punches the delete button, snaps the cell shut and tosses it toward the mattress five feet away. Her hands both free, she plants them on her hips and walks toward him again. _Those are some nice hips,_ he thinks. _Focus! Is she pissed? Or just yanking my chain? Her neck is red and her cheeks are filled with color. She could be really pissed, or …_

They are standing nose to nose. Electricity, like the static created when two socks are pulled apart fresh from the dryer, crackles between them.

"I'm waiting …" she says, clenching her jaw to keep from smiling. He imagines her in a nun's habit, tapping a thick-soled black orthopedic shoe against the floor of an over-waxed tile corridor lined with dull brownish metal student lockers. He shakes his head, rubs his ear, throws his hands up in the air, and turns to walk out of the room.

"Hey!" she says, following him, grabbing his bicep. "Don't walk away from me, Booth."

He walks three more steps then turns toward her.

"Bones … that was … wait … how'd you …?"

"Parker." She nods grimacing.

"Parker?"

She nods. "What does it matter how?" she whispers, shaking her head in mock shock.

"I know, I know," he says, shaking his head, taking a step toward her. "I was going to …"

"Of course you were …" she cuts him off. She's letting him believe he's in deep doo doo. She crosses her arms once more, stares at him, expressionless.

Sighing, buying time, he turns and walks into the kitchen, opening the dishwasher, and starting to unload it, praying for inspiration. _Come on, Holy Spirit, I got a lot on the line here. Have you got anything? ANYTHING I can use?_ The Holy Spirit crosses his arms over his chest, taps his own shoe against the over-waxed tile floor. "_You're on your own, buddy,"_ he says, pulling down a shade with "Out to Lunch" written across it. The Filthy Stinking Bastard, on the other hand, is bounding through the air in gleeful exultation surrounded by the buttery aroma of microwave popcorn popping. "_This is so awesome",_ thinks FSB. The only words knocking around in Booth's own voice are _**crap, crap, CRAP!**_ Fortunately, he thinks better of choosing this as an acceptable response to her demand for one.

"There's just been so much … you know … and I had every intention of … " he manages to say, weakly, his back to her.

Pulling hot, dripping plastic, earthenware, and stainless steel items out of the dishwasher, Booth is still buying time until he can come up with something._ The truth shall set you free, right? After it kicks you in the testicles,_ he thinks.

"I can't do it," she says, lowering her shoulders which she notices she's been holding high. Her face softens as she shakes her head then bends over and lays her forehead on the counter top, her arms laid out on either side of her head. She rocks her head back and forth on the counter top. "Oh, this is nice and cool," she coos, closing her eyes. She lays one cheek then the other against the surface, having to move over to an area that hasn't already been warmed by her skin. She's leaning over, her legs a bit weak from all the chemical abuse she's suffering. She's attempting to slow her breathing, calm down, relax. She can't jump him tonight. They'd agreed, and she wants to honor that agreement ... even if it kills her._ I can't jump him tonight. I do need that cold shower, or maybe about an hour sitting in a commercial grade chest freezer._ She blows out two lungs full of air, her puffed cheeks deflating as the breath leaves her body.

"What?" he says, panic in his eyes. _Is she backing out of our relationship? Or is it that she doesn't want to have an argument? Or that she can't spend the night? Everything was going so well! What does she mean?_

When she's pulled herself together she stands upright. They stare at each other for what feels like fifteen minutes, though in actuality is closer to 45 seconds. Bones almost cracks a smile. _I'm enjoying this way too much,_ she thinks, _but I can't keep it up, he looks like he might experience reverse peristalsis any moment now._

Booth is continuing with his own thoughts._ By what she's saying, she sounds pissed, kinda, and she looks a bit pissed, I think … or something … but there's something else I've never seen here … tread carefully, Booth,_ he thinks to himself. _But … she actually looks a little … aroused? WTF? I don't. Get. Women._ He shakes his head, widening then relaxing his eyes. Then, out of nowhere, Booth chuckles, wondering if she's really turned on, and just playing him. "Bones …"

"Wait! Were you planning to use this as a masturbatory aid?" she's aghast, chuckling, working it for just a moment more. She saunters toward him.

At her advance, he steps back and runs into the open dishwasher, tripping and almost falling ass first right into two racks of plastic covered dishwasher spokes. When he slams his hand down on the counter top to break his fall, he smacks the edge of a stack of cereal bowls which fly into the air, then tumble to the floor.

"No! God! Come on, Bones … " he spits out, bending down to collect the bowls. He tosses them into the sink, not feeling the need to put them away in the middle of this … tongue lashing … or whatever it is. _Maybe she isn't playing me._ A panic begins to mount in his gut. "That's not what I'm … I'm saying that would have been ridiculous … it was really an innocent …"

"What? … a photo of me isn't alluring enough to be a masturbatory aid, is that what you're saying?" she asks, looking hurt. She's thinking: _look shocked, and disappointed, maybe a little indignant._ Then she scolds herself, unable to keep the corners of her lips from cracking a mild amused grin. _I'm a bad person. I am going straight to hell for this!_

"Uh No! Any photo of you … you're … woah … " he says, bending at the knees and rocking backward like he's dodging a right hook. "You … are … very … You would be … alluring no matter what you were …"

"Because I can be alluring, Booth. Maybe not in a navy blue lab coat … smelling like …."

"Bones … This is getting way out of hand … I wasn't, I mean … simmer down for a minute!"

"If you are in need of a masturbatory aide, Booth, you could have just asked."

"What? I don't need a …! Woah, what? Really?" He goes from desperate-to-deny-any-untoward-intentions to surprised at this offer. _Was that an offer?_ he wonders.

She shrugs. "I'm not a prude, Booth. And I photograph well … maybe some soft lighting ..." she says, shrugging. "Modest cosmetics. Maybe with my hair up, some tendrils gently falling across my face …"

"What? I could have ASKED? But … how would THAT conversation go?" he asks incredulous, putting his hand up next to his ear, his thumb and pinkie fingers extended as if he's talking on the phone.

"Uh, hi, Bones, we have a case, and could you take a photo of yourself in some sexy, black, skimpy, uh, sexy lingerie," he says, getting tongue tied while backing up as she continues to advance toward him. "Could you send that to me on my cell phone … yeah, you're a pal, thanks!" He shoots her a dumbfounded look. "Now THAT would be creepy …" He throws his hands up, dropping them against his thighs with a smack.

She can't do it any more. She cracks a smile.

"What? What are you smiling about?" Now he's really confused.

"Oh, I love you like crazy," she coos, grinning at him with adoring eyes, not moving. "Come here," she says, reaching back toward the island counter top. He gives her a confused look. _She actually looks relaxed now,_ he thinks, _and she's smiling. Is this a trick?_ To his surprise, she hops backward up onto the counter top and reaches out to him with her arms and both legs. "Come on …" she says, nodding once encouragingly, wiggling her fingers at him. She's so encouraging, she could be calling a favored puppy to crawl onto her lap.

He moves toward her tentatively, looking at her sideways through his eyelashes. He nervously starts to grin, just a little. Just in case, maybe he should grease the wheels of reconciliation a bit. He stops half way to her, turns toward the cabinets behind him. Flipping one open, he peaks inside, then closes it. He then peeks inside the next one and opens it all the way so she can see what's inside. He grabs a slender red cardboard canister off the bottom shelf, walks over to her, and holds it out toward her, a contrite look on his face.

"Pringles®?" he says.

"Booth …" she whispers, her hands covering her mouth. Her face breaks into a huge smile. Behind him, the cabinet is full of Pringles® potato chips. Chock full. Red cans, green cans, orange cans, a couple burgundy cans. None of that low fat crap. Just good, pure, crack cocaine.

Taking the proffered red can, she looks at it, shoots him a sweet and amazed glance, and tosses it behind her where it lands on the floor with a hollow smack.

She grabs him and pulls him to her, tickled, touched, hungry to press her drug-abused and tingling body up against his delightfully solid, firm one. She wraps her arms around him, their faces nose to nose. They stare into each others eyes for a moment. She drags her chest side to side against his several times, still looking in his eyes, trying to get a little relief from the aching in the non-muscular tissues of her upper chest. Aching to be touched, she knows it won't do any good, these puppies aren't going away for quite some time, she chagrins, but giggles.

"What?" asks Booth, chuckling himself, a slightly confused expression on his face.

"I prefer this kind of Pringles®," she says, covering his mouth with hers, her lips and teeth brushing against his at first, then reaching further, grasping for his responding touch and taste. He can't breathe … but not because she's exploring his mouth with her own and digging her fingers into the hair on the back of his head, but because he's relieved, and he's being flooded, I mean flooded, with dopamine … his anxiety transformed into passion, fueled by years of unrequited desire for exploring every part of her.

_Oh, thank you, Holy Spirit,_ he thinks distractedly. Good ole HS stands by, pops Booth a proud wink, then does one of those _'I'll leave you two alone'_ gestures and goes back to being invisible … because we all know he never _really_ leaves us alone.

His energetic response quickens her pulse. He can feel her heart beating against his chest. Then, before he knows what's happening, he feels what must be the heals of her feet, digging into the back of his thighs, pulling him closer so their bodies are touching from stem to stern, as much as is absolutely possible with one of them up on a counter top. She's still exploring the warmth and taste of him, the strength of his teeth, the firm and very pleasing softness of his lips, breathing in through her nose for the taste of his breath. She should have told him to brush his teeth, but she doesn't care, she enjoys the uniqueness of him. Somehow, he doesn't know how, because he was drunk at the time, her arms have ended up under his and her hands are now traveling up his back between his now damp skin and his tee shirt.

"I'm so … hot," she says gasping, opening her dreamy eyes, pressing her cheekbone against his chin for a moment, and then, when she looks up again, letting him lean into her with his mouth, capturing hers again, diving in sensuously to demonstrate just how hot he thinks she is.

**"That's an understatement,"** he whisper-sighs between kisses, then starts chewing on her neck, cutting an almost painful path down the underside of her mandible toward her chin. When she raises her head so he can continue up the other side, she grabs the hem of her pajama top and says, "This can come off," without even stopping, except to lean back for a moment to whip it across the room, probably landing it on top of an abandoned red canister of regular flavored Pringles® potato chips.

As she snuggles back to him, he becomes aware of the sirens of **Defcon 1. Warning! Warning! All systems alert!** _STFU,_ thinks Booth. _Or at least, just give me a cotton-pickin' minute!_

Up against his chest with her own soft aching one again, Bones wastes no time in sliding her palms underneath the back of his tee shirt. She's pressing the tips, then the pads of her fingers into his skin, dragging a long path downward, heading toward the waist band of his jogging shorts.

"Bathing suit?" he asks all of a sudden, leaning away from her for a moment. He's become aware that there's a lot more of her skin exposed, and surprised at what she must have had hidden under her pajama top. He places his hands on her hips, then slides them behind her to encircle her in his arms. Her back is bare, and so soft and warm. At the same time, he can't stop dragging his lips over hers ... _Oh, Jesus!_ he thinks, weakly. Despite his heartbeat throbbing at his temples, he pauses and tries to clear his head, attempting to channel the mighty North Atlantic salmon who travels hundreds of miles upstream against strong currents and rapids in order to spawn. Booth, however, is strenuously trying **NOT** to spawn at the moment ... rather, he's attempting to swim _against_ the current of the human biological imperative. This time he listens to the Defcon 1 warning.

"Old sleep-over trick," she says, arching her back to drag her chest back and forth across his once more. Was that a sigh or an exhaled breath? It's hard to tell. IT was desperate, whatever it was.

"What?" he says, his hands on her arms now, holding her away from him.

"Bathing suit," she says, smiling drunkenly, winking tauntingly.

"Oh, you are not making this easy for me," he whines. And I wasn't paying attention to that anyway," he says, distractedly, dragging a hand through his hair. "Someone's gotta put the brakes on this, Bones, or we're going to get in big trouble here," he says, shaking his head and closing his eyes for a moment in concentration. When he opens his eyes, he can't help leaning in to kiss her again. Her hands slide up his arms, under the sleeves of his tee shirt. She squeezes his biceps, loving their firm sponginess. _Like elastomer over hard, smooth, metal,_ she thinks.

"I know," she says, breaking away from his kisses, removing her hands from his sleeves, sliding her arms loosely around his neck instead, their faces connected at the cheekbones, each of them facing behind the other. "Whew," she says, "If you just weren't so … umm!"

"I know … but …"

"I know, I know," she whines, leaning back to look in his eyes. "Oh hoh hoh," she whimpers, closing her eyes. _This is not easy_, she thinks, but she smiles, happily frustrated. "You can't put a coke addict in an apartment with a pile of coke and expect her not throw herself at it. She's gotta have it, Booth," she says, teasingly, laughing at the two of them. As she says it, she leans back, and pulls him gently back and forth a couple of times for emphasis, squeezing his hip bones with her knees the same way. Booth leans in and kisses her one more time. Then kisses her again, but quickly, and then slaps her playfully on the butt.

They sit like that for a moment, frustrated, but accepting the parameters that they've both agreed to. This choice they've made together, agreed to because of their commitment to something bigger, makes exchanges like this even hotter than it would be if they were simply two people hungry for each other. This burns. Excitingly. Frighteningly. Consumingly. Oh, holy sex in a bucket.

"I had no idea making out could be so much fun," she says in a throaty voice, chuckling hot breath into his ear. "I guess those will have to do for now, huh?" She says, leaning back and gesturing toward the cabinet crammed from top to bottom with canisters of Pringles® Potato Chips. She leans to the side to get a better view of the selection. "Can you hand me a green one?"

He looks back toward the cabinet when she points, then turns to face her once more, grinning ear to ear. He leans in and kisses her again, his lips grabbing hers as he starts to pull her butt across the counter top towards himself. He stops for a moment, just to look at her face, her lips swollen from their energetic skin on skin friction. Finally he leans in, one last time, to give her _one … long … deep … wet … killer … kiss._

**"DAD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"** It's Parker, standing at the entrance to the hallway.

Bones and Booth, they are startled to say the least, both of their heads snapping toward the younger of the two Booths.

* * *

><p><em>Faithful readers, if I don't acknowledge your remarks promptly,<br>it's cuz I'm writing! But I will get to them asap ... they are what keep me going!  
>Did this chapter work for you? Can you feel Booth's pain and confusion?<br>Let me know! ) Thanks! _


	173. Chapter 173 We're a Team, Right?

_A/N Thank you to all you who found MoxieGirl44 on twitter! It's great to be able to back and forth with you while going through the writing process. I had some fun with this chapter ... hope you enjoy it! ~ MoxieGirl_

**Chapter 173 We Are a Team, Right?**

Parker had startled them, walking up on them in the middle of a fairly heavy duty lip lock. He stands in the gap between the hallway to his bedroom and the tile where the kitchen begins, rubbing his eyes, whether from sleepiness or from disbelief at what he just witnessed, no one knew for sure. Opening his eyes, which are still adjusting to the light of the kitchen, Parker can see that what he just saw was real. And he's not happy.

**"DAD!"** he shouts, louder than he'd intended. If her were much older, he'd follow this pronouncement with a succinct interrogatory, simply, WTF?

Booth backs away from Bones, trying not to panic. Bones slides off the counter top, bracing herself with her hands along the edge. Neither of them saying anything for a moment that feels like it's stretching unnaturally.

"Dad?" Parker asks again, leaning his head to one side and squeezing his eye brows together. "That is **so** not fair!" he says.

Booth looks to Bones standing at his side. They exchange a glance that says, here we go.

They both start to speak at the same time.

"We were just … uh …"

"I told your dad that we talked about … you and I …" she starts, gesturing palm up to Parker then back to herself.

"I thought you were asleep. Did we wake you?"

"… that we had talked and …"

"Listen, buddy, this is … uh …"

"… I listened carefully to what you said about the kissing, and …"

"Parker, Bones and I, we …"

**"STOP!"** shouts Parker, after watching the two of them like a tennis tournament, unable to understand what either of them is saying. **"Just … stop!"** he says, making one of those **You're Out** gestures referees at baseball games make … crossing his hands in front of himself, then waving them swiftly out to the sides.

Booth and Bones stare at him for a moment. Both are wondering what to do next.

Booth is reviewing exactly what they were doing when he walked in. How much does he have to explain? _We were kissing, that's all, he thinks to himself, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He looks over at Bones, her cheeks and chest are varying shades of pink and red, her lips are still … he watches her lick them as she's thinking a hundred thoughts a minute just like he is._ She holds up a hand to her mouth. _Wow. She is beautiful. God, focus, please!_ Especially since that color on her skin was in response to his touch, his kisses, and her feelings for him. He notices the bathing suit again. This time he really sees it, with his eyes rather than his hands. _Where's her pajama top? Crap - her pajama top is on the floor! That does not look good! Where were my hands? Were they on her back, her smooth, warm, naked back? Thank goodness for the 'no bathing suit areas' rule Bones thought up._ He relaxes for a moment. _But wait … Crap! I think my hands were on her ass, pulling her across the counter top toward me! I was going to try to help her get off of the counter, that's what I was doing._

_Yeah right, buddy,_ interjects Fat Stinking Bastard, who until this point was standing by in rapt attention, a piece of pop corn hanging off his lip. _You were trying to cop a little feel there, Seeley. Enjoying a little grope. Geez, I'm an ass hole_, FSB says under his breath.

The Holy Spirit is also standing by, one arm folded across his chest, the other arm holding a hand up to cover his grin. You see, the Holy Spirit has a great sense of humor. That's part of the gig. Besides, HS knows exactly what's going on, what Parker saw, and what Parker is thinking. He also has a pretty good idea of how this is all going to shake out. He has to admit it is entertaining watching God's children when they are caught between a rock and a harmless hard place. He flicks a couple of 'carry on, everything is going to be okay... you don't need me for this' fingers toward Booth.

Booth shrugs these guys away with a shake of his head, not finding any of those thoughts helpful. He attempts to refocus on what Parker might have seen._ Okay. We have to address the kissing and the pajama top … We were almost done, Bones and me … I was … we were stopping. I was stopping. I just couldn't resist kissing her again. I'm only human! And why should I resist? This is my house. I'm an adult. This is Bones, not some … not anyone else. And he loves Bones …_

At the same time, Bones is thinking too. _Maybe this was too soon. Maybe we should have started with a couple of innocent kisses on the cheek and the occasional hug in Parker's presence. Maybe he's rethinking his position on romance between Booth and me. Maybe it's really not okay with him. Please don't let that be the case. When we talked tonight he sounded so mature, and confident on this topic. Maybe this is part of the struggle of growing up … thinking one thing, then feeling differently when faced with the reality of it._

_We shouldn't have done this in the kitchen,_ she continues to think._ I should have just told Booth I knew about the sleeping photo on his cell phone, told him I didn't mind, then we should have gone back to our separate bedrooms. Like that was likely to happen, Booth is my cupboard full of Pringles® Potato Chips! How could I have resisted? I'm weak, I'm so weak! And he HAS an actual, literal, cupboard full of Pringles® for me. I am quite touched that he did that for me._ She looks over at him, her eyes full of affection, and grows concerned when she sees the expressions on his face. She deduces that his expressions and pallor are the results of increased heart rate and the other affects of an excess of glucocorticoids in his hippocampus, amygdala, and frontal lobes._ Stressors. He's stressed. Or he's become spontaneously constipated. Hm._

"Let's all sit down over here," she suggests, taking Booth by the arm and gesturing toward Parker to go sit on the couch. "Now. Are you okay, Parker? Did we wake you?" she asks calmly.

"No … I had to go to the bathroom. Dad told me to come over to his room and use that bathroom in the middle of the night …"

_"That's right, Parker. That's exactly what I said," he says, clearing his throat. There's been entirely too much stress tonight. I haven't gotten in this much trouble twice in one evening since I was eighteen years old!_ He shakes his head at a distant memory involving a girl, a haystack, a case of beer, and an angry father with a .32 Winchester Special. He can't help cracking the tiniest of grins, then shakes it off. He's the dad in this scenario, but why is he always the one in trouble?

"So, Parker, a good scientist knows to always start with the basic questions," she says, looking back and forth from Booth to Parker. Booth and Parker are sitting on either ends of the couch. Bones is sitting on the comfy chair adjacent to Parker. Booth is silent, but she can read the 'go ahead' look in his eye. "Let me start with a question. Is that okay?"

"Sure," says Parker, but not sounding very sure. He looks back and forth between the two adults, who both appear to be very concerned. His hands are sweaty. He makes two fists, rubbing his fingers across his palms to feel the moisture there, rub it in maybe. _Maybe this is more serious than I thought,_ he thinks._ How? What did **I** do? I have nothing to do with this. I'm not the one who's breaking the rules here. I've done everything I was told. I've behaved myself. I was simply following orders. I got into my pajamas when I was told, I took a bath, I brushed my teeth when I was told. Okay, I **pretended** to brush my teeth, but only put a dab of toothpaste on my tongue to make it smell like I'd brushed my teeth. But this isn't about me! This is about Dad and Bones! How could they? It's not Bones' fault. She didn't know any better. I can't believe Dad betrayed me like this! And involving Bones … it wasn't her fault. I should have warned her … what question does she have? It's a little too late for questions, if you ask me. The damage has been done, and it can't be undone. You can't un-ring that bell, like Dad says. What question could she possibly have? This is really between me and Dad …_

"My question for you, Parker, is if it is okay with you that I am here?"

"What? What do you mean?" he asks, looking at her strangely. "You mean for our sleep over? Of course! I was the one who invited you … and this isn't your fault, Bones!

"No, I mean, do you want to talk with your dad alone? Should I leave the two of you alone? I can do that if you want me to." She senses Booth on the other side of her panicking a little, but she's fairly confident of Parker's answer, so she doesn't even glance toward Booth.

"Of course you can stay here, Bones. Why couldn't you, even if this wasn't your fault. And I'm not **that** mad, I'm … well, I guess I am mad …"

Booth exhales loud enough that the other two turn to face him. He scoots toward the edge of the couch seat, puts his elbows on his knees, and rubs his whole face a couple of times.

"Okay, Parker. What you've seen here is something that …"

"Dad! Bones was doing fine, you should let her talk. Besides, **you're** the one I'm mad at!" Parker scowls at Booth, staring him straight in the eyes.

"Park," says Booth, shooting him a pleading glance. "I'm sure you must be feeling ... betrayed, maybe embarrassed … maybe you have some questions. Well, I'm all about answers - so lay them on me …" he says, leaning back against the couch cushions, attempting to sound confident. He actually said he's mad at me. This is bad, he thinks. Excrement!

Parker looks toward Bones, expectantly. He nods at her.

"Let's start off with this question," says Bones, her voice calm and steady. "What questions do you have for us?"

"Bones, I told you, this has to do just with my dad, even though you can stay here too … and I just want to know … yeah, Dad, how could you break your promise to me? How could you do this to us?" Parker looks from Bones to Booth, tears welling up in his eyes.

Booth's heart is breaking. _I really should have thought this through, dammit! He's not ready. He wasn't ready at all. He's still just a little boy, even though he acts all grown up at times._ He exhales, scoots closer to Parker, and looks into his little face with compassion. _He must feel like he's being replaced. Gulp._

"Parker," Booth begins in a quiet, gentle voice, "Bones and I have known each other for a very long time, going on seven or eight years …"

"Dad, that still doesn't make it right!" he says, big round tears pooling on the top of his cheeks, then tumbling down onto his Spidey pajama top. "You've known **me** for longer than that." Parker's face has gone from pink to red and now he's sweating as well. His voice is turning gummy from the mucous running down the back of his throat. He leans his head to the side, like a hungry puppy, just wanting to know why he has to go back to the animal shelter. He bats at the tears on his face, and takes an industrial-sized sniff to suck up the slime threatening to run out of his nose.

If Booth's heart wasn't already breaking for his child, it would be now. He looks over at Bones. She's looking at her hands in her lap, playing with her fingernails, silent tears falling down her face too. She never got the chance to talk to her parents about being sent to the pound, or into the system, as the case may be. Booth knows she can handle her own issues, so he returns his attention to his son.

"Parker," he whisper-speaks his name, pausing to scoot closer still, and putting his arm around the little person who rocks his world. He feels the pulsing of the expelled breaths of Parker's cries. Booth grimaces, Parker's face against his chest. He looks up at Bones. She's wiped away her tears and is smiling, tenderly at Booth, nodding her head. Her nod says, 'You are doing a good job.'

"Listen, Parker, here," he says, lifting the trembling little boy chin with the inside of his index finger. Parker's face looks so small against Booth's full grown hand. It reminds him of how delicate a little boy's heart is. "Parker, you are my number one, buddy. My Numero Uno. You will always be my Numero Uno. Nothing will ever change that. Never, ever."

"But Dad …" Parker whines.

"Listen … whatever happens between Bones and me, you are part of that, okay? Huh?" He pauses, letting this sink in. "You will **always** be a part of that, buddy. Always. You know what? It was Bones' idea to tell you ... about this, what's going on here. Bones loves you, Parker, almost as much as your mom and I do," he says, never looking away from Parker's soulful eyes.

"That is absolutely correct," the two Booth's hear Bones saying, and turn to look at her. "That is an accurate statement, Parker. I do love you. And although love cannot be quantified in any universal manner, I feel comfortable stating that I love you almost as much as your Dad and mom do. That is as much as anyone can who is not your biological or legally adopted parent," she says, her voice cracking.

Parker looks over at Bones lovingly, then springs off the couch and throws himself into her arms, letting loose another decade of tears against her bare shoulder. Bones rocks him side to side, as Booth has done for her many times. She and Booth exchange a glance. Booth nods at her. She holds his gaze and they both know this is the first of probably many discussions they will have with Parker on any number of emotional subjects in the future.

"I love you too, Bones," Parker says, hiccuping into her shoulder, then righting himself, pulling his pajama top back over his belly, and sitting down on the couch next to his dad.

The color has been slowly creeping back into Booth's face. He releases a relieved sigh and runs his hand through his hair, letting it drop onto his lap afterward.

The three sit in silent relief for a moment. Then Booth sighs. Might as well address head on what no one has said directly as of yet.

"Parker," he begins, pulling his boy over to sit next to him, draping his arm around Parker's little shoulders. "On occasion, you are going to see affection between me and Bones. Maybe I'll hug her, or kiss her," he says, peeking cautiously at Parker out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge his response. "Or maybe she'll kiss me, or hug me, or we might hold hands …" Parker isn't responding. Is this bad, or good, thinks Booth. Bones is also watching carefully. She has learned over the years that where relationships and politics are involved, the theoretical is exponentially less impacting than the literal.

Parker looks at Booth. Then he looks at Bones. Something's up but he's not sure what yet.

Booth tries again.

"Park, sometimes you are going to see us kissing. Kissing is a healthy expression of affection between people in …" he searches for a word that fits. He's not sure he wants to speak for Bones by saying they are in love, that might still be a little … something … private or too intimate? … for her as far as the public is concerned, even Parker.

"… a romantic … " Bones assists, nodding at Booth, who she's been watching closely as he tells his son about this part of life. She feels a pleasing sensation in her upper chest in response to watching this tender informational exchange between father and son. And Booth is doing a pretty good job, she thinks, impressed.

"A Romantic …" agrees Booth, nodding appreciation at Bones, "… relationship, okay? A romantic relationship. That's just how it is when two people feel … when they … want to, um …"

"… express how they feel about each other," Bones again with the assist. I'm getting good at this, she thinks, smiling to herself. The teacher is now the student … I wouldn't go that far, she chastises herself.

"Exactly," he says, nodding toward her, "Thank you, Bones. See, Park? Bones and I are a team …" Booth smiles down at Parker and squeezes him. "Like you and me, but different." He squeezes him sideways once again. "You and me, we are still a team. Always will be. You and your mom are a team, and now we have a third team … you and me and Bones!" The closing argument, landed with panache, thinks Booth, smiling at both of the two others.

"But, Dad," Parker looks confused. "I thought you and me and Bones were already a a team?" he asks expectantly and with great sincerity.

Booth and Bones look at each other and chuckle. Parker looks from one to the other, then back, not sure what is so funny.

"Yes, we are," says Booth as Bones gets up off her chair and sits on the couch on the other side of Parker to join in the hugging.

Booth remembers something else he wanted to make sure Parker understands.

"Parker, the kind of affection Bones and I will have toward each other, that's only okay with a person you have a serious, committed relationship with. Do you know what I mean, Park?"

"Agh," says Parker, rolling his eyes, "don't go around kissing a bunch of people, right? Dad, you've already told me that! But I can't help it that Caroleena wants to kiss me! I will never, ever kiss her," he pleads. "I already told Bones that, didn't I?" he looks toward her for confirmation.

"That is correct, he did tell me that," she says, nodding at Parker. She smiles at Booth.

"You're too smart for your own good, Park," says Booth, hugging Parker again. "Now, if there isn't anything else, you need to get into bed. I'll tuck you in," says Booth, sliding to the edge of the couch seat to get up. Parker scoots forward as well.

"Dad, is it okay if Bones tucks me in?" he asks, apologetically.

"Sure … that's fine," he says, grimacing, then sighing. Bones chuckles and gets up to take Parker to his room. "And Park, I'm sorry you walked in and saw us kissing like that without any warning. I'm sorry that was so upsetting. Some kissing between people in a relationship should be private … and that really should have been more private. I'm sorry buddy …"

"Dad," says Parker, shaking his head and grimacing. "It's ok-kay. It wasn't upsetting to see you guys kissing. Maybe a little gross … but I knew that was going to happen before you did," he chuffs. "No biggie," he shrugs, then turns to follow Bones down the hall, but she'd stopped in her tracks when she'd heard Booth continue to talk to Parker.

Surprised, Booth calls him back. "What were you so upset about, then, Park?"

"You let her sit on the counter top! You told me, when I turned nine, that I was too big to sit on the counter top, Dad," he says, trying to mask his disgust at the injustice of it all. "She's WAY bigger than me. Even I can see that!"

Booth just stares at Parker, speechless.

"And to top it all off … you showed her the Pringles® Potato Chips without me! Not cool, Dad. Not cool. You promised me we could do that together … but I'm over it all, now. Can I go to bed now?" He glances back to Bones, then turns back to Booth who is still dumbfounded, sitting half on, half off the couch seat.

"Sure, kid," he says, no change in his expression. As Parker comes toward him to hug him, Booth raises his eyes to Bones who is standing stock still, right behind where Park had been standing. They both stare at each other, then slowly shake their heads at each other, starting to giggle.

As Parker and Bones head down the hall, Booth collapses against the back of the couch, spent. **"Holy crap,"** he says out loud, rubbing his whole face with both hands. The only ones who hear him are the Holy Spirit and FSB. HS is laughing his ass off. FSB throws his tub of popcorn on the floor, turns and walks away. He hasn't been this ginormously disappointed since the Flyers won a game against the Bruins because Giroux landed that sweet slap shot with only two seconds on the timer. FSB hates the frickin' Flyers, just to spite Booth.

Bones sits on her bed while Parker climbs into his Superman sleeping bag.

"I told you he'd expect the kissing, Bones," he says, matter-of-factly, shaking his head, laying it on the pillow. He stares up at Bones, noticing she's not saying anything.

"What?" she says, absently looking down at him. Bones is still dazed about Parker's distress over her sitting on the counter top and eating Pringles® Potato Chips without him. It's good to always ask questions … never assume you know what you are looking at, she thinks. Geez. She chuckles to herself. Poor Booth!

"So … how was the kissing?" Parker asks.

"What?" she says surprised that he'd ask such a personal question. Considering they did have a lengthy conversation about this only hours ago, maybe this falls within the parameters of a line of questioning already introduced by the prosecutor.

"What was it like? The kissing?" he asks, showing a great deal of curiosity. He sits up, waiting for her answer.

Bones looks down at him, thinking about her answer. She considers telling him it was awesome, but decides against it.

"Some things between people in a romantic relationship are private, Parker." she says, aware that one could argue that what he'd witnessed was very private, yet he saw it nonetheless. "Well, they **should** be private. I think your father would consider it inappropriate for me to comment about what it was like to kiss him."

"Oh, okay. I get it. Adult stuff, right?" says Parker, disappointed, but relenting. But there's just one thing he's just gotta know …

"Can you tell me one thing?" he asks, hopefully.

Bones smiles at Parker. "Sure. What is it?"

"Was it gross?" he raises his eyebrows, anticipating an affirmative answer, prepared to feel bad on behalf of his dad.

"Not at all," she says, smiling at him. She bends down, messes up his hair, and kisses him on the forehead before flipping off the light.

"Bones?" he says, as she starts to leave the room.

"Yes, Parker?" She takes one step backward and twists at the waist to face him. The hall light is on, and the whole front of her body is in darkness. He can't see any more than the outline of her face.

"You must be relieved," he says. It's a question that goes unanswered.

Bones chuckles. "Goodnight, Parker," she says, and heads down the hall.

* * *

><p>And ... reactions? was it forced? Too cute? Did you sense they were really panicking? Let me know!<br>And if you're still jazzed about_** The When and the How: A Bone to Pick**_ ... go to the top of this screen and click  
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	174. Chapter 174 Deconstructing Parker, I Mea

_A/N Okay folks ... not a real exciting chapter, but I hope you'll find it worth the read. ~ MoxieGirl (MoxieGirl44 on Twitter)_

**Chapter 174 Deconstructing Parker, I Mean, Booth**

Bones takes a circuitous route back to the living room stopping in the kitchen to get two glasses and the pitcher of cold filtered water from the fridge. Standing behind the couch where Booth still sits in a dazed heap, Bones calls to Booth.

"Booth," she says so he'll turn and look at her.

"Yeah?" he says with a sigh, looking up at her. She gestures for him to take the pitcher and the water, which he does, setting them on the coffee table in front of him.g

Next she scoops up the pajama top/Pringles® combination from the floor between the island and the couch. Standing behind the couch again, she taps him on the shoulder with the pajama top-covered canister. He reaches back without even looking at her and she hands them to him. He drops them in his lap. She returns to the cabinet of carbohydrated bliss and reaches in to get up close and personal with a can of saddle-shaped sour cream and onion flavored fried potato stuff.

Back at the couch, she plops down beside a deflated version of Parker's father, her lover _(that moniker still sounds strange inside her head),_ Seeley Booth. He's still got the pajama top draped across his forearm; the red Pringles® canister laying, unopened, in the gully in the middle of his lap.

"There's something seriously wrong with this picture," says Bones, rotating her head 45 degrees to the right to look at him. She glances at his lap. "Why is that Pringles® container not yet open?" she asks, adopting a thoroughly amazed tone.

Booth lets loose half a chuckle, and glances down at the canister. Raising his left arm, he holds the pajama top out to her. She smiles and takes it from him, slipping it over her head, arms through the arm holes, then she sits back. They both flip off the plastic Pringles®lids and peal back the silver-colored cardboard seal. Booth tips his red canister toward Bones' green one. She knocks hers against his and they both mutter, "Cheers," before digging in. Booth starts first, sliding a stack of chips into his hand, taking a bite out of the ragged edges of the remaining stack look like they are the victim of a shark attack. Bones pulls out one chip and takes a bite chewing with her mouth closed, leaving half a chip still in her hand.

"Weeeell, that was fun," says Booth, referring to the scene between them and Parker, shaking his head. Staring straight ahead, he begins telling her what he's been pondering for the last ten minutes. "Why do we make parenting so hard?" he begins. "You know, we worry and we sweat, we over-think our parenting choices," he chuffs "… and we tell our kids to do things this way, or that way," he looks to his left where she's sitting, listening.

"Sometimes I forget he's just a kid, you know?" he says. "Because of how large he is in my mind." Booth tilts his head to the right, and taps on his forehead with his index finger. "He's huge, Bones." He chuckles, a momentary twinkle in his eye. "Sometimes I'm even surprised when I see a photo of the two of us together because he looks so small next to me … because in my mind he's … he's really huge," he says, tossing the jagged second half of his chip stack into his mouth, then brushing the crumbs off his chest and letting them fall onto the couch.

"Crap, look at this mess!" he says, then shrugs and returns his gaze to Bones.

"So then, thinking he's this huge person, I think he can handle more complex ideas … sometimes. I give him too much context. I try to download everything I know about the hockey puck … or how wrong it is to bully another person. I probably should shut up and listen more." He shrugs.

"You've been thinking a lot about this, haven't you?"

"Well, yeah. It's important. He's important, and the more information I give him, I keep thinking, the better prepared he will be to make good choices, the best choices, right?" he looks at her again. His expression tells her he requires an affirmation.

"Yes." she says, not sure if that's the right thing to say. She's not a parent. She's never been a parent. She can only imagine, but she's never really spent time thinking about this before tonight. "You are a good father, Booth."

"I hear that, but I don't always believe it." he says.

"I always tell you the truth."

"But how do you measure the quality of parenting? You said we can't measure intelligence, how about measuring good parenting, huh?"

"Well, we certainly can't judge it by the outcome …" she says, smirking.

"What do you mean?" he says, concerned, the creases in his forehead deepening at her comment.

"Look at your childhood, Booth … your relationship with your father … and look how you turned out," she says, waving her hands about as she speaks. "You turned out well, extraordinarily well, to be precise," she adds when she sees his uncertain expression.

Booth chews on the inside of his lip, considering.

"And look at me," she continues, "I was abandoned! Left to fend for myself! Yet, I'm a highly successful person in numerous impressive arenas … so I turned out okay."

"So are you saying that parental involvement has no impact?" The smirk falls off her lips when she sees the panic in his eyes.

"Yeah, that was not a very well thought out line of thought … sorry," she says, gritting her teeth and crinkling her nose. "Sorry."

Booth rolls his eyes. "Fat lot of help you are," he says, laughing at her.

"Sorry," she says, shrugging. "Just an anthropologist," she says by way of an excuse, pointing at her own chest with her other hand.

"Bones, I think I overwhelm the little guy with too much information and my message ends up getting lost …"

"I know how you feel …" she says, chuckling, rolling her eyes. "So that is when you teach him discernment, Booth. Give him the tools, he'll learn how to pick the gems out of the detritus."

"Discernment, huh." he says, thinking. "Remind me exactly what that means, I know I know it, but …"

"Discernment is, simply put, the ability to judge well."

"Oh yeah, got it, got it. Now I remember … being able to put your situation into context so you can understand and maybe be able to feel inspired by the ultimate plan, get some spiritual direction, right? IT's taking the long view approach, knowing there's something more than what you currently know or understand …"

"Now you're going all philosophical on me, Booth. Referencing the Jñana: that living which is to provide spiritual wisdom that will best provide us with a direct understanding of the loving nature of the Absolute. Have you been studying the Bhagavad Gita? Ancient Hindu scripture?"

"No …" he says, making an 'are you kidding' face. "Good old Christianity, as a matter of fact, my friend."

"Oh," she says. "More enlightened than I anticipated. Got it."

"So how does all that translate?"

"Pull the meanful out of the meaningless. Be able to tell the difference … get what he needs out of all the information you provide him."

"Man, he's only a kid!" he says, exasperated. "Sometimes I can't even do that!"

"Then learn to become discerning yourself … and stop giving him way too much information …"

"You're right. All he wanted was to be included in the potato chip reveal … and he wanted the same rules about sitting on the counter top to apply to everyone," he says, looking over at Bones. She smiles at him. "He just wants to be included, and treated equally." He turns toward her, resting his knee on the seat, draping his arm across the back of the couch, brushing crumbs off the ledge under his hand.

She nods, reaching out to lay her hand on top of his on the back of the couch.

"He wasn't irreparably damaged by walking in on his dad playing tonsil hockey with … someone other than his mother … or something like that," he says.

"Tonsil hockey?" asks Bones, assuming it refers to open-mouthed kissing, and making a 'yech' face that lets him know she finds that term distasteful. Ewww, basically. "And what does Rebecca have to do with this?"

"All these years, I've been trying to protect his dream that some day Rebecca and I would get back together and we'd all live happily ever after together in a little house with a swing set in the back yard, a basketball hoop hung above the door of a little detached garage sitting back from the street … " he says, painting a picture in the air between them with his right hand. She smiles at him as he sneaks his fingers between hers on the back of the couch.

"Yeah, a basketball hoop … and a box garden full of flowers hanging from one of the front windows," he continues, shrugging, his eyes widening, then almost closing. "I thought the finality of me being with someone else would crush him. Crush the dream … of a family …"

"Booth, you and Parker ARE a family," she says, lifting their joined hands, squeezing several times. She moves a little closer to him, their fingers still intertwined, but now they are forearm to forearm, elbow to elbow as well.

"Yeah, but not the kind of family I imagined."

"I think that's the key right there," she says, cocking her head to the side, lowering her chin, and looking up at him through her lashes to underline her meaning.

"What do you mean?"

"The family YOU imagined. It's not the family YOU imagined," she says, looking straight ahead, giving him the space to feel whatever he needs to feel, allow those feelings to show up on his face unobserved. "You told me once that you never understood why your father didn't choose you over the alcohol, and why he only challenged Pops' custody of you one time. Once is never enough when you love someone, right? You told me that," she pauses, looking down but not at him and releasing her intertwined fingers from his to quietly place her hand on his thigh, the warmth of her palm radiating through the fabric of his jogging shorts and into his skin. It's an offer of comfort. 'When you love someone, when they are your whole world, you fight for them,' you told me that as well," she says, bowing her head, trying to see out of the corner of her eye if it's safe to step into his private emotional space. Booth sits completely still. He didn't even cover her hand with his like he usually does when she touches him like this.

"Um," he thinks, swallowing dryly, furrowing his brow and bunching his lips into a pucker that will never deliver a kiss. Booth shrugs. "Every kid wants that, don't they? I mean …" he clears his throat, "who doesn't want that … their parents together … a nice home?" he attempts a chuckle but it lands in his ears clearly false.

"We never had a basketball hoop or a flower box … at our house,Booth," she says.

"That's not the point …" he whispers toward the air in front of her, still not looking at her. He tips the canister and slides another three inches of the saddle chips into his hand. Along with the pile come a dusting of additional crumbs from the bottom of the can. He takes his shark's bite out of this pile, ignoring the chip shard fallout.

"Maybe it is, Booth," she says, placing the top on her Pringles canister, setting it on the coffee table, and pouring cold water into each of the two glasses. She hands one to booth. He takes a bite out of his stack of Pringles, chewing slowly. He's looking at her, askance, as if she's clueless about what he's talking about. He sighs, sucks down half of the water in the glass she handed him.

"Basketball hoops and potted flowers are not a … requirement for having a healthy, happy, childhood experience," she says, sliding back to lean against the cushions of the couch, her glass of water in her hand.

"I know that, Bones," he says, thinking she's taking him way too literally. Again.

"Let me continue …" she says, waiting for him to concede the conversational floor to her. "I may not be a foremost social scientist on the subject of what is good for a child, but it stands to reason that the rudimentary requirements might be simpler than what you are suggesting or have convinced yourself to believe."

"I have no idea what you just said, or where you're going with this, Bones. You're going to have to translate for me," he says, stuffing the second half of crunchy goodness into his mouth, chasing it with the remainder of the water in his glass, wishing he was drinking something stronger.

"Perhaps," she begins, "perhaps what is more important, and necessary, at least in your mind, are what those ingredients represent," she pauses, disengaging her hand from his, leaning toward the coffee table for her glass of water, then the green canister once again. He's paying attention. She can see it in his eyes. He's following along, knowing this will lead somewhere he's probably finally willing to go. He waits for her to continue.

"Okay," she begins, slowly, putting down her glass, sliding back next to him on the couch, and replacing her hand on his thigh as before. "According to Sweets, when we envision images in a thought, those images are, more often than not, simply indicative of something deeper, something associated with a desire. They are clues, per say. Clues to our innermost wishes. However, upon further inspection, one usually finds that what we seek is not as esoteric or enigmatic as it appears on its face."

"What?" His look tells her he has no clue what she just said. Still. "Bones … this is simple … sometimes a basketball hoop, some potted flowers, and a swing set are just a basketball hoop, some potted flowers, and a swing set."

"Or, what if … the basket ball hoop represents a game to play with your father … a sport to enjoy together … a relationship of mutual trust, respect, admiration between a parent and a child … a father and a son. Time spent together to the exclusion of all else? Relationship," she says, raising her eye brows, a suggestion. A good suggestion.

"Hm," he grunts, thinking, his brow furrowed. He shrugs half-heartedly, his right shoulder rising then falling noncommittally.

"… What if the swing set represents longevity, stability. Swing sets are erected in the early years of a child's life, long before he can throw a hoop …"

"Shoot a hoop ..."

"Right," she says, nodding. "… so if you have a swing set … and a basketball hoop, it means you've been there for a number of years, right? The swing set was perhaps purchased and assembled by the father when the child was perambulatory. Though now … maybe it's abandoned … but it's well worn, well-used … and the child moves onto games for bigger boys. Maybe the father and the son hung the hoop together. Maybe playing a couple rounds is a form of communication between them that has developed and evolved over years of continual interaction …" She pauses, shaking her head as if being released from a demonic possession. "But this is all psychology, which we both know isn't ... really ... science. So it could all be... bovine feces ..." she says, smirking.

"And the flowers, Bones? What do the flowers mean?" he asks, not acknowledging her dismissal of the softer science, and doubtful she can turn this into anything meaningful. I mean, come on, flowers? he thinks.

"Ah, the potted flowers suggest a mother … a careful, nurturing, domestic, soft-bodied, sweet-smelling mother. Why is it that in the seven years we've known each other," she says, watching his face carefully. "I still know next to nothing about your mother."

When he hears this, Booth looks at her for a concentrated moment, focusing on one of her eyes at a time. Looking down at her lone hand on his thigh, he slides his left hand under her wrist and places it on top of her right hand, covering it completely. Finally, he looks away, sighing. He stares at the half empty Pringles can on the coffee table in front of him. "I don't want to talk about my mother, " he mumbles, raising his hand off of hers to rub the back of her hand in one direction, from her wrist to the tips of her fingers, then starting all over again, unidirectionally. He does this several times in silence, finding comfort in the softness of her skin, the warmth of the blood circulating just below the surface, the straightness of the individual bones connecting from her wrists to the first knuckles of her fingers.

"That's fine," she says quietly, looking down at her other hand, rubbing potato chip grease between her thumb and index fingers. "Perhaps you will when you're ready."

Booth simply nods, the corners of his mouth turning up microscopically. He's grateful she figured out a long time ago when he needs her not to push him when he's not ready to talk about something.

"So …" she starts again, continuing. "The flowers are healthy, well-tended, colorful, fragrant, aren't they?"

Booth nods, exhaling, his hand now at rest on top of hers.

"My scientist's eye, noticing patterns and their relationship to each other, their repetition, their constancy, tells me you seek symmetry, balance. Add to that stability, normalcy … perfection, perhaps?" she says, leaning her head down so he will look up from his lap where he's been staring.

"Symmetry?"

"Yes. A mom and a dad, a house and a back yard, a swing set AND a basketball hoop, a well-tended yard, a Christmas tree with the whole family, an Easter basket and a thanksgiving turkey … symmetry."

Booth shakes his head. "Who doesn't want that? Need that? Parker needs that, Bones," he argues.

"He needs that … or **you** need that, Sweetie?" she asks quietly, compassion in her eyes. She's never called him that before, but it comes out easily now and expresses the affection she feels for him, going through this ... whatever it is.

"I can be happy anywhere he will be happy," he answers, looking at her defensively.

"He's already happy, Booth," she says, slowly moving her head side to side, the corners of her mouth turned down.

"But …" They stare at each other while his defensive expression softens. She blinks, then smiles gently at him, agreeing to the unspoken realization he'd just had.

"You have had it in your head that he would be happier if his parents were married, and living together, and bla bla bla …" she says, waving her hand in the air, letting it fall back into her lap.

"Did you just … bla, bla, bla?" he chuckles, loosening up and cracking a smile.

"I did … it's ambiguous … perhaps unintentionally disingenuous, and I'm tired. I was being lazy."

"Hm."

"My point is … Parker is a happy, happy kid. And his parents aren't married. He still gets Christmas, and basketball, and two awesome homes." She smiles.

"All I know is … that symmetry you mentioned, Bones? I want that for Parker," he says.

"Yes, but is it … for Parker?" she whispers, raising her eye brows, grimacing.

"Of course," he says, shrugging, but not sounding all that convinced himself.

"Look," she says, choosing her words carefully. "I've learned a lot over the last couple of months. I think what has frightened me about relationships is that I expect them to take the place of the relationship I didn't have with my parents. What I fear is that if someone fills that abandoned place, he will also follow in the footsteps of that substandard parental relationship I had as a teen … and he will eventually abandon me," she says, actually sounding apologetic. She grimaces, and takes a deep breath before continuing. "Sweets says I'm the one who has to do the abandoning now, abandoning that old paradigm, the one that ... hurt and disappointed me. I have to create a completely new one … which I get to author, choosing my own acceptable constructs … with whomever I choose … as my partner … a partner who will be nothing like my parents," she finishes, squeezing his thigh, then rubbing it slightly before resting it back in it's original warm spot.

Booth leans further back and looks in her eyes for a moment. "Something new," he says, a slow smile creeping across her face.

"Precisely," she nods, relaxing at what she perceives to be his acceptance of her revelations. "New and different, if I want it to be. Healthy. More than adequate … with rich soil, he says."

"Rich soil? Rich soil …" he chews on his bottom lip, looking past her. "Are you in love with Sweets?" he looks serious, then cracks a smile.

"What?" she says, not quite understanding what he said, then figuring it out before he has a chance to repeat the question. "Well, you know he has that prominent mandibular mental protuberance and his central, lateral, and cuspids are perfectly aligned within his periodontium …," she smiles, chuckling. Leaning toward him, placing her hand on his shoulder for leverage, she leans into his face, rubs her nose back and forth across his, and whispers, "You know I'm not …"I'm in love with you, she thinks, but doesn't say because sometimes it still feels awkward, uncomfortable, untrustworthy. She can't think that thought while continuing to look in his eyes, so she looks down at his hand on the Pringles canister in his lap. She can feel the capillaries screaming to burst open … so she closes her eyes trying to shrug them off.

Booth lifts her chin with his free hand, finding a crooked smile there.

"You are," he says. "You are in love with Sweets! You know I'll have to shoot him now?" he laughs. He puts his arm across her shoulders, his hand around her rib cage and pulls her over so she's lying across his lap. He turns her toward him so he's cradling her upper body like a baby, her neck resting in the crook of his right elbow.

"Agh!" she yelps, laughing at being unexpectedly manhandled. He bites her on the nose, chuckling, but then his laugh softens into a quiet smile as he runs the backs of the fingers on his left hand up and down her right jawbone and cheek. He scoots down further in his seat, putting his feet up on the coffee table. She turns to get more comfortable, bringing her left elbow around to the other side of his body, and propping her head up on that fist. She ends up with the upper part of her rib cage, her arm pit, and triceps leaning across his abdominal muscles and hip bones. It's not extremely comfortable, but no one could say it isn't fun. She rests her right hand on his chest. It feels good there, he decides, smiling at her. She traces his lips with her index finger. He startles her by reaching out and capturing her finger between his teeth.

"You BIT me!" she yelps and giggles, tossing her head back. Once she gets her finger back, she examines the teeth marks he left behind.

"Ouch," she says, her comment an accusation.

"Swim with the sharks, you're gonna get bit," he says, winking at her and smiling. She rolls her eyes and leans back, laughing, shaking her head.

* * *

><p><em>Okay ... the next chapter is called, "We Are The Champions," or did I already use that <em>  
><em>as a title? My brain is fuzzy! It's another conversational piece, with more affection though. <em>  
><em>After that is a funny chapter ... so if you can hang on till then, friends.<br>Feel free to provide feedback, good or constructive  
>(she says, peaking out behind her covered eyes, biting her lip.) <em>


	175. Chapter 175 We Are The Champions

_A/N People ... we are still on that couch ... we take what we can get. I hope you enjoy this chapter! ~MoxieGirl_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 175 We Are the Champions<strong>

"Booth, let's not overlook what's really important here," says Bones, the upper half of her body laying comfortably across Booth's abdominal muscles and hip bones.

"What's that?" he asks, they've talked about a number of things already tonight.

"Parker has absolutely no problem with us kissing, or advancing our relationship," she says, grinning at him.

"That is a very good point, Bones." he agrees. "A very good point." He smiles.

"I did prime him," she says. "Before I came out here tonight, after tucking him in the first time, I asked him if it was okay if you and I had some romance."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You said it was okay. So I figured, why wait?"

"What'd he say?"

"A lot. He was quite vocal on the topic of romance," she chuckles.

"That's my boy," says Booth, chuckling as well. "So what all did he say?"

"He wanted to know if I love you, if I'm happy when I'm with you, and how important your happiness is to me … and he wanted to gauge my tolerance for sports, television, comic books, and fishing."

Booth squeezes his eyes shut, his shoulders shaking through his laughter. "Wow," he says.

Bones, still stretched across his lap, lays her forehead on his chest as they both crack up.

"Well," she says, a twinkle in her eye as she runs her index finger over his tee shirt from the his left scapula to the tip of his left clavicle, toward the center of his chest, stopping momentarily at the clavicular notch, and then continuing along the right clavicle, ending at the tip of his right scapula.

"Wait a minute. Stop," he says, closing his eyes and grinning. "I love it when you do that …"

"What?" she says, watching his face which is relaxing more and more as she retraces that clavicular path, backwards this time.

"Uh, when you braille my bones," he says, his eyes still closed, a full toothy grin plastered on his face.

"Ohh ho," she says, grinning herself, pleased that he enjoys her knowledge of the skeletal system, and how she is able to use it as a sensual exploration of his body.

"It's like you're taking a little tour … a Tour de Booth," he says chuckling. "I'll give you fifteen minutes to stop doing that," he says, sighing in the note of G Sharp.

"Well, I am pleased that you enjoy this," she says, her voice throaty and unintentionally provocative, she's just being Bones, "because I find it equally enjoyable. Maybe even more than you do …"

"Not possible," he says, opening one eye for a moment, just to see what expression might be on her face. The sound of her voice so close, coupled with her gentle, trailing touch, sends a shiver through him, culminating in pure, unadulterated, and complete relaxation. Closing that eye, he sighs again, resting his left wrist against her hip. "Ahhhh … life is good on Planet Booth."

Bones chuckles, tickled that he is so thoroughly enjoying this little exploration that is uniquely hers. She watches him, the slow rise of his chest as he inhales, the steady silent pulse at the base of his neck, the facial muscles completely at ease. _How is it that a face, an ordinary face, which would look the same today as it did a week ago if you were to compare photos of it ... how can that face be so much more beautiful, more precious, and have a much more profound affect on an observer ... over such a short period of time?_ she wonders.

"I find that I quite enjoy _**brailing**_ your bones," she whispers. "Sometime I'll braille all 206 bones for you," she leans forward and whispers to him, brushing her lips back and forth, languidly, over the contours of his ear. She then lays back to watch his eye lids and his lips, which move ever so slightly as he drinks in the drowsy sensations she's created by touching him in such as way.

"And I will look forward to that day …" he sighs. "Do you know when the first time was that you did this?"

"Hm?" she knows, it was the morning she woke up in Booth's bed, with Booth in it. That was the morning after Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray was assassinated with a bullet meant for Booth. It was a night followed by a morning she'd relived over and over, in her memory. It was with her when she went to sleep every evening, and greeted her when she awoke each morning. Waking up in Booth's bed, she'd traced the bones of his beautiful face, his cervical vertebrae, and everything in between, all the way down to his clavicle, naming each bone as she went. It had been an exquisitely intimate and bitter-sweet experience to tenderly touch the familiar features she'd been looking at for over six years and was uncertain if she'd ever get to do it again. So, yes, she remembers when it was, but she wants to hear him say it.

"It was …" he says, barely opening both eyes so he can make eye contact, "A week ago this morning."

"Really, is that all? Was that just a week ago?" she says, disbelieving. "Yeah, I guess you're right. It feels like a lifetime ago."

"I thought I was going to die right there in that bad," he says, grinning, his eyes closed again, his eyebrows raised at his memories of that morning.

"Huh," she says, considering what this might mean.

"I thought I'd already died ... and gone straight to heaven," he rolls his head back and forth against the back of the couch. "It was so ... relaxing ... and ..." he shakes his head, pursing his lips, searching for the perfect word, unable to find it. "I don't know ... how to describe it. Moving? Intense? A bit erotic in a gentle way ... And then you said that when you look at me, tracing the structures of my face ... you see a miracle," he whispers, opening his eyes. "I almost lost it ..." he says, an intense depth in his eyes as they sit still for a moment, a thousand thoughts going through his mind. _Uh oh,_ he thinks, _I'd really like to pick her up and take her ... just take her. Forget everything else, just take her. If I kiss her now ... that will be all she wrote. Breathe. Breathe._ "You blow me away, Bones," he says, leaning to the side, resting his temple against an upraised right fist. "On a regular basis. But that morning, if the phone hadn't rung, I don't know what would have happened ..."

Bones exhales, never breaking eye contact. She knows exactly what he's talking about. She'd felt it too, all the way down to her bone marrow. She felt it in her capillaries, and in her ovaries, if that is at all possible. She remembers having those exact thoughts that morning ... that she could feel what was between them coursing through her body like an electrical current. She would have done anything with him that morning, if he'd made even the slightest gesture in that direction to let her know he wanted her completely.

"Why didn't you say anything?" she says in a very small whisper. He can barely hear her, except that all his senses are acutely attuned to her every motion right now. Her expression is one of ... what? Regret? No, subtle pain at what she perceived to be a rejection that morning.

Booth takes a sharp breath in and lets it out slowly, staring off into the space to the right of her. He chews on the inside of his lip for a moment. _I was still in hell,_ he thinks, _and knew I would screw everything up if I wasn't discerning. Hey, that's a good way of putting it,_ he decides so he tells her exactly that.

"Bones, at that point, I was still in hell ... still screwed up about a lot of things. I was ... I don't know ... not really ready ... not that I knew it at the time. But somewhere in the recesses of my mind, in my heart, I knew ... I just **knew** I couldn't discern what was the right thing to do, the best thing to do, for you, for me, for us. I was pretty sure that making love to you that morning was not the best choice. Not that it was an easy one to make ... or to stand by," he exhales, blowing some of her hair back off her forehead. "Believe me, it wasn't easy. I mean, there you were, in my bed, inches away, touching me like that ..." he exhales again. "I deserve a medal. I really do. A medal of valor ... for not ..."

He'd been so serious and intense up to that point, but at his suggestion of formal recognition for his actions, or lack thereof that morning, she couldn't keep from cracking up. Maybe she laughed because she broke under the tension, or because she was so very relieved to find out that he'd felt the same way ... the same attraction, desire, yearning ... that she had felt that morning. Most likely, though, her hilarity was due in great part to how absolutely serious he looked about deserving a medal for his self control. It was priceless, she felt. So she broke into giggles. Watching her reaction, Booth couldn't help grinning himself, then following suit by chuckling himself, an incredulous expression on his face.

"You do know that the definition of valor is great courage in the face of danger, especially in battle ... right?" she says, trying to regain control of her face, biting her bottom lip, trying desperately to stop chuckling.

"Yes, I know exactly what valor means! And I **was** in serious danger that morning ... danger of going off the deep end and screwing up ... everything," he says, shrugging. "And it was a battle, let me tell you," he says, grinning at her with an expression of sincerity ... and amusement in spite of himself.

'"Serious delusions of grandeur ... that's what you suffer from, Romeo. You are priceless."

Booth tries to look hurt, but can't sustain it for more than five seconds. They both chuckle until the moment is over.

"I was confused that morning, but I am satisfied with how everything turned out," she says, laying her palm flat against his chest in front of her. She looks down at her hand on his chest, dragging her finger back and forth over his clavicular notch. She thinks for a moment, then looks up into his eyes. "Yes, I am quite satisfied with how things turned out," she says, sliding her hand up his chest, then behind his neck. Still looking in his eyes, she leans forward and covers his lips with her own, giving in to the impulse to once again confirm that they've thrown the embargo on deep, sensual kissing straight out the window.

Booth finds himself relieved to take the offered opportunity to do what he'd been thinking of doing ever since she walked back into the living room however long ago that was. He's been wanting to hold her close, feel her warmth, her softness against his chest, taste her skin, breathe in the scent that lingers in her hair behind her ear and at the base of her neck, and everywhere else. He slips his left hand along her jaw and into her hair as she's kissing him, and he starts to sit up ... in response to an urgent need to have his arms completely wrapped around her, holding her against him. She turns in toward him and melts in his arms, sighing, giving in, taking in the experience of being loved and held and kissed. Eventually, things have either got to go forward, or stop.

"Booth," she whispers, reluctantly, as he starts chewing on her neck, pulling on her skin with his teeth, "Save some room for dessert," she breathes against his skin, chuckling inaudibly, though he can feel it in the short tiny bursts of air being expelled through her nose.

"What?" he says, pausing, not sure he heard her correctly. "Did you say, save some room for dessert?"

"There will be pie, I assure you. Pie on Tuesday. And we agreed to save something for then. Right now ... as much as I thoroughly and … **_completely_** …" she says emphatically, "would love to sit on this couch making out with you until the planet's very last ancient remains are recovered and identified ... we have **got** to ... ..."

"You're right," he says, squeezing her against his chest and kissing her on the neck. "I don't like it, but you are right. Though, I'm fairly confident that no matter what happens on this couch, I would still have plenty of room for pie on Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday. And Friday. And this time next year ..." he says, trailing kisses from her clavicle all the way up to her lips in between each phrase. He finishes with a kiss on her nose, then her forehead.

"That's because you're high," she says, wrapping her arms around him and rubbing her cheek against his. "Oh, I love that," she purrs, sighing.

"I've noticed that," he says, agreeing.

"You have?"

"Oh, yes, I've been paying attention."

"Now why doesn't that surprise me?" she asks, tossing her head back, giggling at him, exposing her neck.

"You like this too," he says, dragging his stubble-covered jaw from her chest all the way up to her ear.

"Tabernac!" she says, cursing in a French as a shock of adrenaline stabs at her chest. "**You. Are. Dangerous.** Dangerous, dangerous, dan-ger-ous!"

"It helps to be inspired," he concedes.

"Flirt," she says.

"Seductress."

"Uh, tease."

"Wha? Bigger tease!" he insists.

"Whatever ..." she says, finishing it.

Booth sits up, pulling her with him. She lets her arms fall from being wrapped around him so they don't get pinned behind him. She sits up and slumps beside him, laying her head on his shoulder, tucking one foot under her, laying the other leg across his lap. He kisses her on the top of her head, and rests his cheekbone against her hair. They've alluded to it being late, but just like last night, neither of them wants to make the move to separate.

"Too bad there's not a bed in here ..." he says.

"Ha ... I was thinking the exact same thing!" she says, surprised, chuckling. "But how would that be any different from sneaking into your bedroom and sleeping together there?"

"Because out here is a public area ... no 'hinky pinky' allowed while minors are present … anywhere in the house. It's a completely G-rated environment. In the bedroom, well, that's a private area. That could get as bad as R-rated."

"Or X."

"Or XXX. And not appropriate with Parker in the house."

"Right," she says, almost smirking, but not, because that would be snarky.

"Right."

"Grrrr," she says, looking up at him, biting him playfully on the neck.

They sit in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts, but strangely still not tired enough to get up and call it quits.

Bones thinks back to that morning they woke up together in his bed. Then she thinks about the night before, sitting with Mr. Nigel-Murray's body, memorizing the perfect shape of his cranium. Without realizing it, she lets loose a mournful sigh.

"Woah, what was that?" asks Booth, lifting his arm and putting it around her. She looks up at him and he watches a shadow flit across her face.

"What's up?" he says, placing the hand that's wrapped around her waist onto her hip bone and squeezing it. He rocks her back and forth several times. "I saw that look you just tried to hide …" he says, narrowing his eyes. "What's going on inside that beautiful head of yours?"

"Oh … just thinking about Mr. Nigel-Murray," she says, stopping right there. Booth looks at her, expectantly, encouraging her to continue.

"It's like a dream … followed by a nightmare. I can still hear his voice inside my head. The cadence of his sentences. The angle of his hair swished across his forehead, the shape of his cranium, his facial expressions, his quirky irrelevant factoids. The entertaining way he said, 'It was the hooch!'"She gets a worried look on her face, meeting Booth's gaze. They look into each others eyes for a while, saying nothing. Booth grimaces, leaning his head to the right.

"I know," he says, exhaling audibly. "He's going to be here with you, in your head, for quite a while. I still think about Parker. My other Parker. The one my Parker is named for, the one I couldn't save … the one whose ghost, or whatever, saved me … got me through the gravedigger ordeal."

Bones shrugs. "Don't want to think about it now," she says. "Put it in a box. Put it in a box," she says, her eyes closed.

"You know, you don't have to do that …" says Booth, sliding his hand from her hip to her waist, hugging her sideways, his hand covering most of her left rib cage. "You can just let it out … give yourself permission to cry ... whenever and wherever you need to."

"I fear I will drown if I do that …" she says, sticking out her lower lip to blow a breath straight up to her hairline. She finds this comforting for some reason.

"I'll throw you a life vest if you look like you'll go under, or I'll jump in after you … promise."

"Hm," she opens her eyes, a wan appreciative smile on her lips. "Thanks," she says meekly.

"No problemo, kid."

"You are very good to me, you know?" she says, smiling a crooked smile at him. "I'll remember that the next time you're an ass." She chuckles.

"I would really appreciate that ..." he says, laughing with her. He squeezes her into a hug, followed by a raspberry just under her right ear before he lets her back down.

Bones sighs, resting her cheek on Booth's chest, listening to his heartbeat. She sighs again, then remembers where she left off before all this talk of bone brailing and then Mr. Nigel-Murray.

"Hey," she says, tapping on his chest with her left index finger.

"Hmm," he grunts, his eyes closed.

"Park, when we were talking about romance, he warned me that you would expect me to kiss you," she says, her chin digging into his pectorals major.

"Ow," says Booth, reaching over to rub his muscle under her chin. "You gotta spread the weight around, not concentrate it all in once place or it hurts, lady … did you say Parker **warned** you?"

"Yep. Assumed it was the distasteful side of romance, pardon the pun."

"Really? Very good pun, by the way."

"Thank you and yes. Apparently this Caroleena has been putting ideas into his head."

"Yeah … it's always the woman … with the apple … " he says chuckling, kissing her on the forehead.

"And apparently, the idea of us together as a couple isn't new to him," she says, as if revealing something earth-shattering.

"STFU!" he exclaims, a look of incredulity on his face. "I never said anything!"

"Uh huh," she nods, disbelieving. "Perhaps not verbally, but apparently you've said a lot … enough for him to think you had feelings for me. Talking about me all the time …" she teases him.

"What? I have no idea what you're talking about …" he insists, smirking.

"He said you are always saying things like, 'You know who would enjoy this? Bones, and Bones would know the answer to that question … like that," she says. **Gotcha**, say her eyes.

"I plead the fifth."

"Any way …" she says, giving him the **get real** stare, "Parker said he was wondering when we'd figure it out."

"Figure what out?"

"Us. Figure out that we should have some romance in our relationship …" she says, lifting her face, giving his lips a smooch, followed by a kiss on his chin before she rests her head back on his chest.

"And here I was … so worried. Go figure …" he muses.

"They are smarter than we think they are, Booth. Kids are."

"About some things, yeah."

"I think the reason Parker can accept us being together is that you have created a world for him where love and permanence coexist unquestionably. They are the facts of his life. A kid doesn't have to have his parents living in the same household. They don't need a basketball hoop or a swing set, or even a window garden. Or, heck, even two parents, though two parents would be optimal. Anthropologically speaking, offspring have a better chance of survival when there are two adults to care for them … one to nurture, one to protect ... but the past tells us that where there is a gap, if the tribe is to survive, others will, or can, step into that gab to complete the needs of the offspring. It's the simplest form of community."

"The village …"

"Correct … a kid needs love … and at a minimum, one person to be solidly and completely crazy about them. That's all it takes. They say that's what makes the difference between two kids growing up side-by-side, but one grows up to become a drug dealer, and the other a NFL footballer.

"Football player."

"I have it on good authority that footballer is a legitimate moniker for one who plays some kind of football …"

"We don't live in Europe and rugby isn't our national ball game."

"Some would contend that Rugby is the real man's version of football … you know they don't wear as much protect ..."

"Okay! Stay on point, Bones … and leave the he-man sports stuff to me. Let's move on …"

"Anyway," she says, smirking at him, then looking away. After a pause during which she assessed the likelihood that she could have won that argument, she continues … "The difference between those two kids with the exact same dreams and obstacles, big or small, that's what we're talking about."

"What's the difference, again?"

"Having one person who is crazy about him. That is what makes the difference. For a lot of kids, that person is a parent, but not always." She lets that sink in. She yawns, stretches her legs out in front of herself. "A champion. He needs a champion. Just one. And you know what, Booth?"

"Hm?"

"Parker's life is full of champions ... you know, **Parker fans.** Primarily, you and Rebecca, but then there's me, and Max. Max adores Parker. So we are champions. And whomever Rebecca chooses to attach her truck bed to, how could he not fall in love with him as well? It's a rational assumption, Booth."

"Whomever Rebecca **hitches her wagon to** … he better love my kid, or I'll have to shoot him."

"I think you just want to shoot someone," she says, feigning surprise, concern.

"We need this case to advance. My trigger finger is getting itchy."

"It's only been a week, Booth!"

"It feels like four months!" he says, exasperatedly, running his free hand through his hair, then rubbing his closed eyes with his thumb and index fingers, blinking away the fatigue.

"Good things come to those who wait …" she says, winking.

"Here, here" he says, offering her his fist to her. "Here's to Tuesday!"

She bumps her fist with his. "Hell yeah. Here's to Tuesday!"

* * *

><p><em>You and I are not the only people anxious for Tuesday to get here ... but <em>  
><em>first we've got a session with Sweets Sunday afternoon, then a Monday morning <em>  
><em>with the squint team. It should prove interesting. Sweets already suspects there's <em>  
><em>something going on between, and Angela is certain of it.<em>

How will we survive until Tuesday?


	176. Chapter 176 We Believe In One Holy Unive

_A/N Booth is a devout Catholic. Bones is atheist. Christians are taught not to be 'unequally yolked' in their pairings. That means, do not marry a partner who is not of the faith. This is of great concern for Booth, understandably. So, it stands to reason that this conversation, the first of many, was inevitable. Also, Bones sees this as an opportunity to begin to understand how faith is practiced and modeled for Christian children. I hope you find this chapter interesting, and enjoyable, maybe even a bit educational. I am no expert, but I have been a practicing Christian for ... most ... of my life. ~MoxieGirl_

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Preface for the Discerning Reader:<strong> **

I struggled with how I should have Booth talk about his faith. We already know he is not a lapsed Catholic, but a practicing and devout one. In view of that, I figured I could go one of two ways:

1) He's a devout Catholic who follows along and memorizes all the right prayers, knows when to genuflect/stand/sit, attends services every Sunday as well as all religious holidays, gets married and buried in the church, and baptizes his children as an insurance policy just in case there really, really, really is a heaven and hell ... but is not well informed past what he learned in religion class or CCD, if you went to public school, ten or twenty years ago. This is the case with many in my, and the previous generation's cases.

2) He's part of the increasing numbers of twenty-, thirty-, and fortysomething Christians who are standing up and saying _"If I'm gonna do this, and bring my children up in it, I want to know what the hell it's all about!"_ For many of us, we start to get involved at this point. We teach Sunday school or Faith Formation classes, we become lay ministers, liturgical ministers, event volunteers, adoration ministers, and maybe we even participate in one or more bible studies. In the end, we rekindle our love for our faith, becoming passionate at most, well informed at least, but we've now clarified for ourselves what we DO believe and how we want to practice it.

Though mainstream media may not believe or admit that Christianity is sexy, I feel that it is. And I am not alone. The willingness to surrender to something bigger than ourselves brings everything in life to a new level, in my experience. It has provided me with the grace to do what I could not, can not, do on my own. Believe me, I've tried. For example, I'm able to:

1) Accept that my spouse cannot fill all of my needs and shouldn't be expected to  
>2) Forgive others for wrongs they have committed against me<br>3) Forgive myself for the times I've been an ass to those around me in what I have done and what I have failed to do  
>4) Apologize and take responsibility for the stuff I did in #3<br>5) Have confidence that no matter how misunderstood, misguided, or selfish my actions and commitments may appear to others, God knows my heart, and that should be enough  
>6) Understand that sexuality isn't naughty and it shouldn't be treated as such. It is meant to be a life-giving celebration between people who love and respect one another ... which is why I try to write my scenes as sensual and respectful. Whether or not I hit that mark is subjective<br>7) Get over myself

Perhaps the Bones writers were merely looking for a device that would put the scientist and the alpha male at polar opposites … most likely that is the case, writing and entertainment being what they are: revenue generators. Regardless, it delights me that we have such a compelling character who is committed to his faith and willing to defend it, played by an actor who has stated that he himself created a great deal of the personality of his character. I do not pretend to know David Boreanaz by any means, but it is more likely than not that his faith is what has carried him through his personal struggles and reaffirmed for him what is most important in his life.

_We are all entitled to our own opinions. If yours and mine clash, please do not let that deter you from enjoying The When and the How: A Bone to Pick. I believe it has something for everyone._

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><p><strong>Chapter 176 <strong>**We Believe in One Holy Universal and Apostolic Church, or Booth On Catholicism**

Bones, her eyes still closed, her head on Booth's chest as she lays across his lap, wiggles around a bit, snuggling in closer. Booth drapes his left arm over her waist, intertwining his fingers with his other hand at the small of her back, and lays the side of his chin against the crown of her head. They've got a little loose cocooning thing going on.

"We gotta get some sleep," she mumbles into his tee shirt, not opening her eyes.

"Oh yeah, sleep. Interesting concept. I think I had that once," he says, sleepily, scratching the stubble on his jaw, then draping his arm across her again. "You know what? We're going to have to start sleeping together if we're going to get any rest at all …"

"Oh, I don't think that's necessary," she says, teasingly, grinning to herself, getting high off the scent from his tee shirt which she keeps dragging in through her nose and deep into her chest. Her closed eyes flutter at the headiness of all the sensations lulling her into blissful complacency.

"You have _got_ to be kidding," he drones, amused, but feigning shock.

"I am, couldn't you tell?" she drowses, serious, but still smiling, eyes closed.

"What?" he asks, peaking down at her with one eye, incredulous, then relaxing again, closing his eyes. "Of course I could tell. You're not that good at hiding your attempts at humor … fortunately for me."

"Why do you say that?" she intones, barely moving her lips.

"Well, if you were into that really complex mathematical scientific abstract theoretic establishment high brow dark dry wit humor, it would be … so very lost on me. I don't think we could ever sleep together then …" he says this with an absolutely straight face.

Now she opens her eyes, props her chin up on the hand she's got laying across his chest and looks up at his droll expression.

"I don't think there is such a thing as mathematical scientific abstract theoretic establishment high brow dark dry wit humor, Booth, and I'm not even going to try to explain that to you," she snorts. "The deconstruction of that distinction alone would take … wait. You're joking aren't you?" Her eyes widen in sleepy surprise … and regret. Surprise that he came up with something that sounds real, but isn't, and regret that she didn't catch it sooner. Then she chuckles. "Dammit, Booth!" If she had a pillow, she'd hit him with it. Since she doesn't, she can only reach up and pull his ear lobe playfully, resting her hand on his shoulder afterward, too tired to drag it back to his chest.

Listening to her, he finally can't contain the grin that's been threatening to spread across her face. He flashes her some big eyes and shakes his head at her, like he's saying_ "Ta dahh!"_

"You were joking, right? Right? How do you do that, keep a straight face like that?"

"Oh, I got skills you ain't never seen, baby," he says, returning his chin to a nest of her hair, and closing his eyes. "But you, how do you say all those super long words about bones and … " he pauses to rub his chin against her scalp, satisfying his own itch and, of course, causing more than a little bit of tingly hormonal branches of electromagnetic lava to trickle down through her trapezii, "where was I?"

"You were massaging my scalp with your stubble-covered chin and lulling me into a false sense of security despite the fact that I'm drowsing here in the lion's den of iniquity … iniquity, which means, by the way … _**grossly unfair behaviour**_ …" she mumbles.

"You're just one big erogenous zone, aren't you?"

"Around you I am," she says, matter-of-factly, chuffing, then sighing in the key of C minor.

"Something about protuberances and tuberocities …" he says, remembering his train of thought … though how he wrested his attention away from the idea of her whole body being an erogenous zone baffles him. "How do you keep all of that in your brain … all those long science-y words … and remember what they all mean?"

"It helps to be fluent in Latin. Everything points back to Latin. Or French. Once you have those mastered, you can learn to ascertain the etymology of just about any word," she says, shrugging.

"Well then, I'm screwed. I don't know French, and my Latin is crushingly limited to two hymns I learned in grade school choir. This is all I can remember from the first one …" he says, rousing, giving her a sample.

_"Grassy ass, ah gee, moose tee pee propeller magnum glory gum I'm too, am."_

"You totally mangled that one, Catholic boy," she says, opening her eyes and squinting at him, a crooked grin on her face. "It's from 'Gloria In Excelsis Deo,' and it's pronounced 'grátias ágimus tibi propter magnam glóriam tuam,' isn't it?"

"What do you mean, **'isn't it?'** As if you don't know already," he spits accusatory in small burst of exhaled breath, raising one eyebrow and smirking. He looks at her for a moment, then continues. "How about this, this will knock your socks off … and this I know I have right. I had to memorize this for a solo I did as a sophomore:

_**"Magnificat: anima mea Dominum.  
><strong>__**Et exultavit spiritus meus: in Deo salutari meo.  
><strong>__**Quia respexit humilitatem ancillae suae:  
><strong>__**ecce enim ex hoc beatam me dicent omnes generationes"  
><strong>_

Then he translates:

_**"My soul doth magnify the Lord.  
><strong>__**And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Savior.  
><strong>__**Because He hath regarded the humility of  
><strong>__**His handmaid; for behold from henceforth  
><strong>__**all generations shall call me blessed."  
><strong>_

"It's a beautiful song about what the Virgin Mary says when her cousin … Elizabeth … I think … comes to visit her while she's pregnant with the Christ Child. Elizabeth was pregnant with John the Baptist at the time … and Jesus apparently kicked when Elizabeth showed up." he says, anticipating a baffled response to how perfectly pronounced his recital and translation are. He gets nothing but a blank stare from Bones. She's still gathering her thoughts, careful about what she's going to say, as this is a touchy subject between the two of them.

He continues, sharing a musing from his early years as a substitute alter boy at the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul, downtown Philly, right off Logan square, not even a half mile East of the Schuylkill River.

"You know, I always wondered how that conversation would go between the Virgin Mary and her cousin Elizabeth … can you imagine it?

_"Yo Mare, 'sup?"_  
><strong>"Like, I'm totally knocked up."<strong>  
><em>"How'd that happen? Sorry, stupid question. Your folks know?"<em>  
><strong>"Yeah, they freaked."<strong>  
><em>"What'd you tell them?"<em>  
><strong>"I told them I was artificially inseminated by an angel of the Lord."<strong>  
><em>"Bet that went over like a lead balloon,"<em>  
><strong>"Got dat right. They kept looking at my pupils like they thought I was high."<strong>  
><em>"Damn!"<em>  
><strong>"Yup. Then I just said Joey and I left the sheepskin condoms in the donkey saddle pouch and got a little carried away on a bed of palm leaves after temple one Saturday."<strong>  
><em>"SHUT. UP!"<em>  
><strong>"No lie."<strong>  
><em>"Girl, you in for a world of hurt."<em>  
><strong>"Tell me about it … got any goat's milk cocoa? I need some chocolate."<strong>

Bones continues to stare blankly at Booth. He begins to wonder if she's fallen asleep with her eyes wide open. He whistles a high-low while waving a palm in front of her eyes.

"That's the _Virgin_ _Mary_, talking to her cousin Elizabeth … after realizing the visit from the angel of the Lord wasn't a hallucination, and that she really is pregnant with The Christ Child …" he explains. "Mary hadn't had sex. **At all.** Wouldn't that be hard to explain to your …" He's getting a blank stare from Bones. "Forget it. What were we talking about?"

Bones continues to stare at him, hoping to gain clarity. "It is impossible to conceive a child without the presence of both the sperm and an egg, Booth. I don't understand how an entire religion can be based upon a biological impossibility …" she shakes her head, sitting up to face him. She stretches her arm over him and plants her fist on the couch beside him so she can remain where she is across his lap, but can speak to him at eye level. Booth props his feet up on the edge of the coffee table, providing a back rest for her. She leans back a bit, knowing she'd have been unable to support herself leaning on that one hand for very long.

"Bones … in order for the Savior to become incarnate without sin, he had to be conceived of a virgin. Everyone knows that."

Bones is furrowing her brow … appearing to be ruffling through some mental files, looking for the rationality behind what is obviously very important to Booth.

"You know what? Now is not the time and this is not the place. Let's move on …" he says, beginning to feel irritated and not wanting to have this discussion right now.

"Can I just say one more thing?" she asks in a soft, almost pleading tone.

Booth stares at her … he doesn't want this to get to him, and he has a hard time saying no to her. He gives her a penetrating stare, then nods slowly, bracing himself. maintaining ye contact the whole time.

Bones sighs, then exhales. "The belief in … God," she begins, nodding toward him when she says _'God.'_ "It is very important to you …"

"It is," he says emphatically, sitting completely still. He considers expounding on that, but decides against it. He brings his arms up across his chest, defensively.

"If it is important to you … it is important to me … important that I understand it. I want to understand, Booth. But it is difficult for me to blindly accept something …"

"Religion … faith isn't …" interrupts Booth,

"Let me finish … I've been thinking about this for a long time, and I have to say this to you," she says, laying her hand on his forearm to stop him from interrupting again. "It is difficult for me to blindly accept … anything …. without thorough and adequate investigation. And that takes time. The disambiguation process, for me, includes challenging, questioning, studying the established precepts, the doctrine, the ideology. I know I come across as … combative, or … condescending … or arrogant and disapproving ..."

"Ya think?" Booth snorts, but begins to relax, realizing that at least she understands that this is important to him … and she hasn't yet said anything he disagrees with. Well, except that it is impossible for conception to occur without sperm, but he's willing to listen.

Bones grimaces, knowing she has a reputation for being intolerant of supposition, theory, conjecture, even philosophy, and definitely psychology … anything not based upon the empirical.

"… It is not my intention to attack you … or Catholicism, Booth, regardless of how it might seem to you," she says apologetically. "I want to understand. I know I haven't … had the slightest interest in the past. But you have to understand, I've based my life's work on the rational, the empirical … what we can see, feel, and touch. Results in the scientific world are required to be reproducible, observable, and testable. Outside of those parameters, I'm circumspect, I admit. However, over the last number of months, Dr. Sweets has taught me the value of being open-minded and tolerant of ambiguity in the interest of gaining a deeper understanding of someone with whom I desire … symbiosis." She then grimaces, looking down at her hand on his arm, removing it and making a loose fist which she rests across her own midsection. She timidly looks up at his face, moving only her eyes, hoping for an opening.

"Wow, and what the hell did that all mean?" he says finally. "You lost me after … "I want to understand," says Booth shaking his head, eyes wide open in confusion.

"Okay," smiles Bones, patiently. _At least he's calming down,_ she thinks. "I understand all things scientific. Religion and faith are not scientific. Therefore, if I want a close relationship with someone to whom these things are important, it behoves me to study them, to investigate, to question and consider the findings.

"There's more than just findings, and proof when it comes to … your soul, Bones," he insists.

She stares at him. _Nope, not going to bring up my thoughts on the existence of a soul. Not gonna do it. Not now, at least, she thinks._

"This might be a challenging area for us to … explore," she shrugs, then finishes the sentence, "you know … together. Perhaps there is someone at your church, a priest maybe, that I could …"

"Argue with? Piss off? No," he stammers, "Absolutely not."

"Just to have a couple conversations with, Booth."

"Bones, these people know me. I don't know that I want to sick you on any of them," he says, his lips set in a tight line. She can see his jaw flexing, and knows he's frustrated, probably confused, feeling confronted before he's ready to deal with this difference between them.

"Hm," she sighs eventually, crestfallen, her shoulders drooping. "I have to say I'm disappointed in your unwillingness to support me in my attempt to understand your faith," she says, grimacing.

"Aghhh!" He exhales audibly, closing his eyes in resignation. "Alright. Alright!" he concedes, smirking. "I'll see if Monsignor Mike would be willing to meet with us!" he says, shaking his head regretfully.

"No," she says, shaking her head, frowning.

"What do you mean, no?"

"No, Booth. If you're there, it will be upsetting for you. You'll want to make excuses for me to Monsignor Mike. I can hold my own. I am my own person and I have my own methods. Trust me, you do not want to be there," she says, confidently. "Besides, this Monsignor Mike has had years of study, right?"

"Years," agrees Booth.

"Well then, he's a professional apologist, mandated to inspire conversion, right?"

"Wha huh?"

"Apologist: a person who defends a religious, or other, position through the systematic use of reason. Mandate: having an official commission to do something. Conversion: persuading someone to change their religious beliefs."

"Yes, I know what conversion is, Bones," he says.

"Then he is trained to engage in provocative conversation with scientists and atheists … So, one could assume that Monsignor Mike will not only hold his own, he will be invigorated by the opportunity to converse with a potential convert. Regardless, I cannot have you there with me."

"Um. Yeah. Okay …" he says, warily, but knowing she is absolutely correct. "But I'll be waiting for you, nearby."

"Deal," she agrees, smiling. After a pause, she adds, "What is said to a priest is completely confidential, isn't it, even if I'm not Catholic or a parishioner?"

"Yep," he says, nodding.

"I won't embarrass you," she says assuredly.

"I'll take that one on faith, I guess."

_Good luck with that,_ she thinks, unconvinced that her discussion with Monsignor Mike will make any difference in reference to her beliefs, but hopeful that her efforts to understand Booth's faith will show him that she is making an effort to be open-minded.

"Which brings me to another point …"

"Oh geez, what now," he says, sounding more irritated than he intends, his head drooping to the side then rolling to the front to rest on his chest.

Bones pauses for a moment, hoping that this doesn't inflame him further, but committed that she must say what's on his mind.

"Booth, you know I speak my mind," she begins.

"Yes, unfortunately for me, at times," he says, with snark, raising his head to look at her.

"Hey, it is unnecessary to speak to me in that disdainful tone of voice. I am on your side, in case you have forgotten …" she says, not hiding her disappointment.

"You're right. I'm sorry," he says, his voice softening, but the concern lingers in his eyes. "Listen, this whole topic of faith is a can of hot messiness between us. We have never, I mean, never, had a conversation that went smoothly about our differing beliefs about God and spirituality. This is the one and only area that I …" he's shaking his head, looking around for how to say this.

"… that you fear has the potential to drive a wedge between us?" she suggests.

He exhales, resigned. Then nods, sighing. "It frightens me, to be completely honest, Bones, he says, cupping his chin in his hand."

"Well … then let's not run from it, Booth," she says, furrowing her brow and raising her eye brows at the same time. "Give us a chance, isn't that what you keep telling me?" She pauses, encircling each of his wrists in each of her hands and gently pulling his arms apart from their clenched barrier between the two of them. With his chest accessible, she lays her cheek back down, and waits. He puts his arms back around her, tightening them into an apologetic, appreciative embrace.

_Get me through this, Holy Spirit,_ he thinks, shaking his head back and forth, shrugging, grimacing.

_That's what I'm here for, Seeley,_ HS says back, smiling and nodding at him. Booth sighs and exhales.

"Okay," he says. "You're right. You're absolutely right. This is exactly what faith is for … walking through the valley of the shadow of death and fearing no evil," he says forlornly, returning his chin to the top of her head and resting it in her hair.

If she thought he was just being a drama queen, she would have teased him about his comment, but she's beginning to realize that he is very serious about faith and it's power to get him through frightening experiences. She interprets the fact that he actually spoke that thought out loud as a sign that he's beginning to believe in her willingness to take a genuine interest in what he believes about God and grace and faith._ It's a good step forward,_ she thinks.

"Parker takes the concepts of right and wrong very seriously," she says then, rubbing her cheek against the tee shirt covering his pectoralis major. _Despite this controversial topic between them, it still feels amazing to be right here in his arms like this,_ she thinks. "You two, you and Rebecca, have given him a solid moral foundation, a strong sense of values."

"Yeah? So? You can't tell me that's a bad thing."

"Absolutely not. But this whole cell phone photo thing … Park was wracked with guilt about having used my phone without my permission. Said he was confessing to me in order to receive absolution. He wanted to make things right between us."

"He said that?" says Booth, surprised. "Nothing wrong with that, Bones. That's what we've taught him to do since he was five, or younger … be responsible, be honest, respectful of other people's things."

"There isn't anything at all wrong with that. I find it commendable, remarkable actually," she says. "I don't know at what age kids are able to assimilate those values, but I did not think it was that early," she says, admiringly. "Did you know he recited an entire section of the Catechism to me," she says, "about the sacrament of reconciliation. He explained to me all about the priest being a representative of the community, a conduit for God. He explained mankind's need to divest itself of the physiological ravages of sin …"

Booth nods, impressed at Parker's knowledge and willingness to share it. "I guess his faith formation classes are having an impact. He had his first communion and his first reconciliation last year, in second grade."

"I would agree that his training has made a tremendous impact. I assume he does that through the church?"

"Of course."

"So … is the training based upon learning the precepts of the Catholic faith … or simply the sacraments … you call them sacraments, right?"

"Yes," he says, nodding. "There are seven of them, seven celebrations and outward signs of what we consider to be sacred."

"And what are they?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"I don't ask questions I don't want the answers to, Booth, you know that."

"True. Okay. One: Baptism, it's the first step into a life of commitment to a life of discipleship," he says, holding out the index finger of the fist resting on her hip. He's not doing it to show her, he's doing it to keep track of it for himself.

"Okay," she says, sitting up, tucking her right leg underneath herself, draping her other leg across his lap. She faces him, draping her right arm across the back of the couch.

"Two: Eucharist …" he says, pulling out his second finger.

"That's the bread and the wine transformed into the body and blood of Christ?"

"Yep. To us it's a celebration of the sacrifice Christ made through which we are nourished spiritually and brought closer to God."

"Okay. Though that's not unique to the Catholics, you know. The Baptists, Presbyterians, Pentecostal Church of God, United Church of Christ …" she begins to name other Christian faiths, but he finishes the list ...

"... Missouri Synod and ELCA Lutherans, Episcopalians, Methodists. Yes, I do know. I took a class two years ago as part of a program called _'Renew: Why Catholic.'_ I learned a lot that I'd never understood before. Part of that was a comparative study between Catholic sacraments and the similar celebrations, or faith signs, of other Christian world religions. It was very interesting. Each Christian religion assigns their own meaning and significance to the signs ..."

"Wait a minute. Two years ago? I don't remember you doing that," she says, grimacing, leaning her head on her upraised fist, her arm still resting on the back of the couch.

"Why would I have told you? It was Sunday afternoons, right after mass. No reason why you would have known."

"Touché."

"But listen, our faith isn't about being the best or the only one practicing signs, following tradition, reverencing Holy Scripture. We don't focus on the other faiths. We pretty much do what we've been brought up to believe is right … for us. Isn't that what all faiths do? I mean, who can claim to know the heart of God? That's part of the reason I didn't know much about the practices of other faiths before two years ago. Catholicism is based upon the teachings of the apostles, the guys who knew Christ Himself, and were tasked with building His Church. That's what our faith is based upon. Other Christian faiths share our practices and precepts, some have variants. All Christians believe in Christ and most all of them have an apostolic foundation. As Catholics, we believe in One Holy Universal and Apostolic church … meaning all Christians are part of our family of faith … all equals … united … universal. I don't think many people understand that. But it's right there in our creed, and we say that prayer every time we come together to celebrate mass."

"Now I'm the one feeling like I'm in a lecture hall," she says, grinning warmly at him. "I wasn't aware that you had an academic interest in Christianity …"

"If you're going to base your life on something, I believe you should know what that … something … is all about, right?" he says, turning sideways to face her. He lays his arms across his chest, tucking his fingers under his arms, leaning on his right side against the back of the couch. He looks into Bones' eyes and recites one of his favorite verses. She recognizes the reverence he holds for it as the same reverence he demonstrated during his speech about crappy sex versus making love.

**_"I pray that out of his glorious riches He may strengthen you with  
><em>_power through His Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in  
><em>_your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established  
><em>_in love, may have power, together with all the Lord's holy people, to grasp  
><em>_how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this  
><em>_love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all  
><em>_the fullness of God."  
><em>**

"That's from a letter from the apostle Paul to the Ephesians. Ephesians 3:16-19. What it says to me is that Paul prayed that God would fortify us with the strength and blessings of the Holy Spirit. God wants us all, together, to understand how vast His love is for ALL of us. And that His love exceeds all knowledge, all science, and lives in the heart of mankind, filling us completely with his grace ... grace being the undeserved love and forgiveness of God. That's what it means to me," he tells her, thinking of the many times he has felt the presence of the Holy Spirit in his own life, especially in regard to the gift of this woman's love.

"Paul prayed that God would make it possible for us to feel God's unconditional love," he says, uncrossing his arms and reaching over to run his left hand up and down the upper arm she has propped up against the back of the couch. He draws little circles on her skin as he continues to speak about his faith. "As a sinful man myself, a woefully flawed man," he says huskily, his voice getting quieter as he continues, "I find it comforting, even empowering, to know," he says, nodding at each word for emphasis, "… to believe that no matter what flaws I have and what mistakes I make … God forgives and loves me … no matter what," he shrugs with his shoulders and his expression. "And I am redeemed. I do not have to carry the burden of my sins by myself. Christ died to pay for what I have done, if I accept Him. I want my son to have that comfort, to know that grace."

"Wow," she says, "You make it sound so …" her voice trails off. She's not sure what she was going to say, and the words aren't coming to her now. She's been sitting quietly, listening intently, to everything he's been saying. This and one other topic were the most controversial during her discussions with Sweets. The other was marriage. Sweets contended that she would most likely find that these two points may not be negotiable for Booth. He advised her to have a ferocious _Come To Jesus Meeting_ with herself about how she plans to address these issues when they arise, which he guaranteed her they most definitely would, hence her desire to have this conversation with Booth, and to meet with Monsignor Mike.

"I hope that your interest in this is genuine, Bones," he says, sending up a prayer to the Holt Spirit that it is.

"When have I ever not been genuine with you … intentionally, I mean?" she questions him.

His eye brows shoot up to his hairline … trying to think of a time. "I don't … think … ever … that I can recall … that you were aware of …" he says, leaning his head side to side, finding no instance there to point to.

"Then believe me when I say that _if this is important to you, it is important to me_ … " she quietly insists, moving forward so she can drape her whole arm around his neck.

"Okay … enough said," he concedes.

"Besides, it is … anthropologically significant, Booth. Of the nineteen major world religions, Christianity is adhered to by thirty-three percent of the world population. That is significant, anthropologically. Ninety percent of the known populations have adhered to some form of spiritual belief system," she says, shrugging.

"What percentage of the world population is Atheist?"

"Under three percent."

"Hm. Interesting. I wonder how many of those are scientists …" he mumbles, not really asking her.

"I don't know that it's interesting … it's certainly not as interesting as the data about Christianity or, the second largest religion, Islam at 19.6 percent of the world population. The percentage of atheists who are scientists …? Difficult to say as there are degrees of atheism, and the term scientist has a broad meaning."

"Okay. Hm," he says. "Well, shall I go on with the sacraments?"

"By all means," she says, nodding agreement.

Having already covered Baptism, Eucharist and Reconciliation, he recounts for her the remaining four sacraments - Confirmation, Holy Matrimony, Holy Orders, and Anointing of the Sick, which is also called the Last Rites. She listens intently, asking questions as they arise. Surprisingly for both of them, the exchange is more companionable than combative, and they both feel peaceful about it in the end.

"Booth, there's still something I think we need to discuss … and it's what I've been trying to lead up to this whole time …"

"Yeah?"

"It has to do with the intersection of religious beliefs, morality, and how Parker is taught to live in a world where he needs guidance to navigate the spaces in between the black and white … between the 'though shalt not' and the 'everybody's doing it' so that he really can make those good choices you want for him to be prepared to make."

Booth is nodding. At his point, he thinks he can handle this discussion with Bones. "So, what are you thinking, wondering?"

"Well, you are who he looks to to see how an adult man conducts himself in the world, right?"

"One hopes," he says.

"What did you say to him about Hannah living here with you … without you two being married?"

* * *

><p><em>Can you imagine Booth and Brennan actually having this conversation? <em>  
><em>Have you wondered how they would handle this controversial topic, one that is <em>  
><em>very important, to Booth at least? Please share your thoughts with me and all <em>  
><em>who look to reviews to determine if a chapter is worth reading. Thanks in advance. <em>


	177. What Did You Tell Parker?

_A/N So we're starting to walk through the deep stuff in regard to these huge issues we all deal with in life. Thank you for all of your wonderful comments and encouragement. I have been pleasantly surprised by the interest in these issues as they pertain to our main characters. I look forward to hearing your responses to this chapter as well! ~ MoxieGirl_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 177 What Did You Tell Parker?<strong>

_**"How do you provide guidance to young people so they can navigate the spaces **_  
><em><strong>between black and white … between 'though shalt not' and 'everybody's doing it'?<strong>_

Booth sits for a moment, replaying in his mind a paraphrased version of the first of Bones' questions. It's a question he has struggled with for as long as he can remember. First, as a young person himself, then as a parent of one.

"That is a tough question, one I think about all the time," he says, looking at her with soulful eyes. "I think it's the question parents struggle with more than any other. And on top of that, how do you explain your own shortcomings to them so they don't interpret everything you do as exemplary? We all do things we don't approve of, right. I mean, parents are humans, right?"

"Right," she says, nodding, gently massaging the tissues and musculature covering his scapula, clavicle and the primal aspect of his humerus. "That is a biological certainty," she chuckles.

"The 'thou shalt not side of the equation is the ideal, right? In a perfect world there would be no killing, stealing, feeling jealous, losing lives to addictions. All babies would be born to happily married couples who have no addictions, insecurities, or financial concerns. That is the ideal, but things do not always turn out how we plan … or how we think they should be.

"When I was a kid, you got yelled at because you were wrong. The louder the yelling, or the fiercer the punishment, the more wrong you must be. As a parent yourself, you find out that sometimes the severity of the ass kicking sometimes has just as much to do with the mood and fatigue of the parent," he says, looking out into the room in front of them. He's given a lot of thought to this topic.

Her bare left leg is across his lap, resting on his thighs. He holds onto her leg with both hands like a rider on an amusement park roller coaster. As he talks, he raises a hand to gesture, making a point, or painting a picture. Done with his point, he rests his hand once again, once again warming a Booth-palm-sized patch of skin on her leg or thigh. Sometimes he squeezes one or both of his hands, kneading her muscles and bones for emphasis ... or simply for comfort ... or maybe because it feels nice to be doing it.

"For myself, knowing that some day we'd have to explain to Parker how he came to be born to two unmarried people, which is what we both considered to be a less than desirable situation … I figured it would be good to get in the habit of admitting that I make mistakes, that I am not a perfect person, and that sometimes I have to apologize for doing something that I shouldn't have."

"Then, you start out by giving them the black and the white. Because at three years old, at five years old, sometimes at ten years old, they understand black and white … they understand fear … and danger. They don't yet understand the gravity of poor life choices. I think we use those absolutes in an attempt to get them to the age of maturity when they can begin to comprehend the long-term consequences of their actions. You teach them in a way their brains can handle. It wasn't until I was a parent that I realized how much of the growing up process is really a function of brain growth and development. I swear, there are these switches that go off in a kid's brain that regulate so much stuff … you have no idea until you see it for yourself!"

"Like which things?"

"Like being able to stay dry through the night, to pronounce words, to make a joke, to self-pacify, to rationalize … lots of things. Math … understanding math … did you know that it's more a function of brain development than intelligence? I never got that until I watched my own kid struggle endlessly in the Spring only to whiz through it three months later in the fall … after a growth spurt. How strange is that?"

"The human body is an awesome machine."

"It is."

"So then, what did you say to him about Hannah living here with you … without you two being married?"

"We didn't tell him anything at first. Then it wasn't really an issue. Then it was over."

"What? I don't understand," she says, leaning back slightly from her position next to him on the couch, her arm draped around his neck, his arm around her, they sit rib cage to rib cage. "What do you mean, you didn't tell him anything?"

"We didn't tell him about Hannah living here," he says shrugging.

"How could you not … tell him, Booth? She was here for like … what … months? How did you do that? He's not blind."

"Of course he's not blind, Bones. He didn't have to be. There was nothing for him to see," he says as if he's apologizing, but to whom is anyone's guess. "She never had much here. You saw what she had when she moved in … a couple of duffel bags."

"And that's all she ever had? She didn't accumulate things while she was here?"

Booth thinks, then shakes his head.

"Surely she got her mail delivered here … "

"Her mail was delivered to her office …"

"Did she buy things to put around the house?" she asks, looking around as if some of those things might still be here. He shakes his head, grimacing, raising his eye brows.

"Did you buy anything together? Furniture … framed art … a garlic press … anything?"

Booth thinks, biting on the inside of his lower lip. "No. She was … is, a Nomadic woman. She liked to travel light." Booth realizes, first by hearing himself say it out loud, then by watching the expression on her face, that this aspect of his relationship with Hannah was unconventional. There really wasn't an investment in each other in that relationship. On either of their parts. Why didn't he notice that?

"So …" she says this quietly and as non-accusatory as she possibly can, "It was … was it like she was just traveling through?" She says, phrasing it as a question rather than a statement so it doesn't land harshly between them. She watches his expression go from open and direct, to introspective. She can tell he's considering what she's said, possibly for the first time. She waits to hear what he has to say.

Booth has gone off somewhere. He's thinking about the things Hannah said to him last Monday morning, and beginning to see that relationship, for the first time, from an objective view point. He had been so busy trying to make something happen … to prove he could move on … that he wasn't really paying attention. _What the hell? he thinks. Thank God Hannah saw us for what we were. No wonder she was shocked when I asked her to marry me._

"What about an apron? Did she have an apron to hang on a hook in the kitchen beside yours?"

"What?" he says, coming back to Brennan on the couch beside him. "I don't hang my aprons, they are in a drawer, you saw …" he says, absently, wanting time to think more about what had really gone on between himself and Hannah. But now is not the time for that. Right now, he is here … with Bones. And this is an entirely different kind of relationship.

"And he never asked?" says Brennan, interrupting his thoughts once more.

"Who?"

"Parker."

Booth pauses, then answers. "He never asked."

"But … he saw her going into your bedroom, sleeping in your bedroom … her things all over your bathroom counter top, surely?"

"No. He didn't."

"Huh? He's over here every other weekend … how could he ….?"

"She never slept here when he was over. And she kept her bathroom stuff in a little zipped bag," he says, matter-of-factly. "I washed the sheets regularly so her perfume wasn't all over them. He would have noticed that. You've seen how perceptive he is."

Bones' eyebrows shoot up, and she starts involuntarily. It's a physical reaction … not like being slapped, but like someone putting something too close to your face without warning.

As his explanation hangs in the air between them, Booth gets an uncomfortable feeling in his gut. He closes his eyes, embarrassed to admit what he is now realizing, even to himself. _Was I being an ass? No … She suggested it! She said she didn't want to be in the way … didn't want to create any complications between me and Rebecca … didn't want to insinuate herself into … my relationship with Parker. Why didn't she? Was she really that cold, or was it a kindness? Was I that cold to her? The whole time, I thought it was awesome that she was making it so easy for me. If I had truly loved her … would I have agreed to that? And if I had insisted she get more involved, would she have been willing? Or is this another example of me putting myself in a relationship where I didn't truly invest, wasn't required to? Why was it acceptable that she remained at arms' length? She never confronted me … challenged me … insisted I be honest with myself … about anything, or asked about other parts of my life, my experiences. She lived here, if you can call it that. She slept here. We shared meals. We enjoyed each other's company. Was that all it was?_ He feels a dark sensation, like grains of cold pulverized charcoal, sliding down his spine. Oh, how close he'd come. How close to making probably the biggest mistake of his life. He makes a mental nod toward the Holy Spirit. Throws himself at Him, actually, thanking Him for the intervention that He most certainly had a part in. _What if … Wow._ Booth shakes his head and exhales.

"Where have you gone, Booth?" Bones asks, reaching out to him, resting her hand on his arm, and leaning down to catch his eye.

Booth shakes his head, concentrating. He pulls in a full breath of air and expels it right back out, his shoulders rising and falling as he does it. He's making eye contact with her, still shaking his head and grimacing, incredulous that he never saw this before.

"I'm … realizing how absurd this all sounds," he says, shrugging. "Our relationship wasn't messy, or confronting, or complicated. It was easy. Too easy," he says. He starts to say something more, but stops, his shoulders falling again.

"What do you mean?" She has her own thoughts, but she wants to hear his.

"Well …" he begins, making a decision. "Our relationship, mine and Hannah's, was … not at all like the one we have always had, you and me," he says, gesturing toward Bones, then back to himself. "And … I'm realizing that we didn't have that much of a relationship at all ... me and Hannah," he says, regretfully, squeezing his eyes shut at this admission, surprising himself that he actually said it out loud. He can't hide that he proposed to Hannah. They both already know it. In view of this new information, though, he feels overwhelmingly foolish … and exposed. But this is Bones he's talking to. The woman who misses nothing when it comes to Booth. The woman who can see right through him. If he can't be honest with her, he's not being honest with himself. He has to admit this to her. Hasn't he made a choice to go all in? Opening his eyes, he watches her face closely, wondering what she must be thinking. She, who stood by, loving him, watching as he … what? What would you call what he was doing?

"I can be such an idiot," he says, closing his eyes again. 'I wasted her time. She was right there in front of me, and I ... didn't give her what she deserved."

"You're not an idiot, Booth. We all do the best we can with what we have and what we know at the time, right? Someone told me that once," she says. They both know it was he who told her that. And not that long ago, either. "Hannah is an adult. She doesn't spend time with someone unless she wants to. If she thought you were a waste of time, she would not have remained in your company. It sounds to me like she got exactly what she wanted," she says, shrugging, pursing her lips, then kissing him on the temple.

"I was never fair to her," he says, putting his hand on hers which has been resting on his arm this whole time. "I … never brought her in … really … into my life."

"She lived here, Booth," she contends, looking around the room. "An intelligent and successful woman like Hannah, she would have been very clear about what she wanted. If she'd wanted more, she would have made sure that she got it. It sounds like Hannah didn't do that."

"Hm. That hadn't occurred to me," he says, scratching the stubble on his jaw. "I don't think I ever … risked anything … with her. Except maybe at the reflecting pool that night I proposed." He cringes at the word 'proposed' as it slips out of his mouth. "Remember earlier today, on the plane?"

"Yeah," she says, then wiggles her eye brows.

"Bones, I'm talking about when I said something about you seeing right through me … that I won't have any privacy with you more involved in my life …"

"Yes. I do recall that. I found it fascinating that you said that. And quite revealing. I was impressed." she says, nodding at him.

"Well, I think … I realize now … that I had too much privacy in my relationship with Hannah. Probably, gave her too much privacy … you know?"

"But … you could afford to do that, Booth," she replies.

"How?"

"Your needs for transparency, for being known, were getting met somewhere else," she says, as if it should be obvious. Once the words are out of her mouth, they both realize where those needs were being met and the iniquity of it all. For everyone involved. They sit in silence for a moment, each in their own thoughts.

"Well, that wasn't fair to her -"

"Or to you," she counters.

"Or to you," he says, nodding at her.

She shrugs her shoulders in an _'it didn't bother me that much'_ gesture. He responds with a raised eye brow that says, _'Liar.'_ She looks away with an expression that says, _'Whatever.'_ He grins a grin that says, _'I won.'_ She chuckles and looks back at him sheepishly.

"Anyway, I never gave Hannah a chance. I was an ass - "

"Stop it, Booth. It takes two," she says, turning her hand over and sliding her fingers between his, giving him a small squeeze. "Did she risk anything? Did she ask you to take risks with her?"

"No," he says, baffled. "She didn't. I always figured … after you've run through a mine field together, dodged bullets together … ah, that's gotta prove something, right? That you're willing to risk, right? I always figured that meant we'd done enough risking. I was content to lean on that. I thought it was enough. Clearly, I was wrong."

"Sweets would say that not all relationships are meant to be the risking, messy, confrontational, kind."

"He'd be right," says Booth. "

"Booth, you and I, we dodge bullets together, but that's only one aspect of our relationship. We risk a hell of a lot more than bullet wounds. I find that when it comes to taking risks, the bullet wound variety is by far the easiest. It's easy to be brave in a literal battle zone. I find it much more difficult to trust that someone won't hurt you or use what they know about you to manipulate you."

"Are you thinking about your old thesis supervisor, what's-his-face, Stires, the ass who testified against you in the Maggie Schilling case?"

"How'd you know?" she asks, suspiciously.

"Because I know you," he says, nodding once slowly.

"Hm," she says, still looking at him, askance. "Perhaps the interesting question for you is what kind of relationship do you want to be in, Booth? Only you can answer that question. Do you want easy, fun, risk-free, unobtrusive, non-confrontational? Or do you want messy, risky, confronting … " she asks.

"… frustrating, invigorating …" he adds.

"… complicated, demanding …" she continues the list.

"… emotional, passionate … irrational …" he says, turning to look straight in her eyes.

"… honest, interdependent, frightening …" she says, shuddering.

"… involved … permanent … living wide … " he whispers.

"Yeah," she whispers back, nodding slightly, almost imperceptibly.

"I'm here, aren't I?" he smiles sweetly, his eyes glossy and emotional.

She reaches across, saying nothing, and takes his face in her hands, kissing him slowly and gently, sweetly, innocently, appreciatively. His heart is in his throat. He has nothing to say. They both can only be in the moment and accept what they have before them … a very different kind of relationship than either of them has ever had in the past.

* * *

><p>"So what are you going to do now?" she ask him finally.<p>

"What do you mean?"

"You aren't going to hide me, Booth. I won't be hidden."

"Uh ..."

"Yeah," she says, expectantly.

"Don't jump on me. Give me a minute … I haven't had any time to really think about this. So, let's just simmer down for a moment, huh?"

"I am not like Hannah. If you want me to be part of your life in this way, you have to be all in. Isn't that what you call it? All in? All the chips on the table? Double or nothing or whatever...?"

He's nodding, looking down at anything other than Bones. A week ago, being in this place wasn't even on his radar. Now, life is happening and he's going to have to make some decisions and have some conversations he hadn't planned on having with Parker. The fact that Parker is comfortable with Bones and himself being 'romantic,' and the fact that it was not at all a surprise to him, will make it easier. It does mean, however, that he'll have to step into that gray area between _'thou shalt not'_ and _'everyone's doing it'_ with Parker. He knows eventually he will do what he always does, he'll make a decision, then let the Holy Spirit take over. As long as his heart is in the right place, he's doing his best to be a good father, and he loves his child more than anything, God will take care of him during the conversation with Parker. He sends up a small prayer, recalling one of his favorite verses from Philippians 4:13:

_**"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."**_

Right now, however, he's still stressed and in the middle of this conversation with Bones who never shies away from asking the tough questions. It's one of the things he loves about her.

"Besides, how can you justify telling Parker one thing in the context of faith or morality, but then live an entirely different way behind his back. How does that help him learn how to be an adult male making good life choices?"

_This is such a frickin' mine field,_ thinks Booth. He looks at her in silence. He doesn't have the answer.

"Look, I'm not perfect, okay? I'm never going to be perfect! I've felt confronted by this exact same issue, believe me. How do you tell a kid not to have sex until they are old enough to be responsible … or better yet, until they are married, when you yourself were neither of those?"

"I'm glad you said it, because I -"

"Okay, I am doing my best here to remain calm, even though I'm feeling a little attacked," he says, cutting her off.

"Booth," she says, "please, please understand that it is not my intention to attack you. I'm in this with you … and I … and I respect your principles … I really do … but I wouldn't be me if I didn't point out the disparity between theory and practice."

"It has kept me up at night, plenty of nights, believe me. I never wanted to be one of those _'Do as I say, not as I do'_ parents. And look what I've done. Exactly that! How do you tell a kid that the perfect scenario is A, but he doesn't have it, he's got B … but he's still loved and precious … even though his parents -"

"This is what I find hypocritical about -" interrupts Bones.

"Listen … let's not go there, okay?" Booth interrupts, holding up both hands to quash whatever she was planning to say. "Save that for Monsignor Mike. Have that argument with him. We're having a nice conversation here, okay, we don't need to go challenging a whole relig -"

"You're right. Let's just deal with what's in front of us."

"Very big of you, Bones. Yes. Let's stay on point. We don't need to bring the whole -"

"Okay … okay! So what do you have to say for yourself? That came out a lot more aggressive-sounding than I intended. Sorry, really," she says, regretfully. "Could you rub my feet?"

"You follow that up with _'Can you rub my feet?'_ You got cojones, lady."

"The timing sucked, I grant you. And it's _ovarios. Tengo los ovarios._ I have ovaries, Booth. And I'd been thinking of asking you to rub my feet for a little while, if it's any consolation."

"How would that be a consolation?"

"I mean, because … never mind. Where were we?"

"Me being a flawed man … with an unplanned pregnancy, and a hidden live-in girlfriend … but trying to teach my son to be a moral, God-fearing Christian man."

"... In a world that espouses the philosophy taught by the school of _'If it feels good do it'_ and _'If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with.'_

"You did _not_ just say that."

"Oh. Nope, nope, nope," she says, noticing the threatening look in his eyes. "I did not. That was someone else. It certainly wasn't me."

"So where'd you learn to ride bike so well?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You're doing pretty good at the back-peddling there."

"Is that a joke … about my poorly chosen yet poignant comment about loving the one …"

"Don't make it any worse, okay? Let's just move on. Here's a question for you ... did you ever have sex with Andrew?"

"What?"

"No, never mind, I don't … I don't even want to know … " he says, turing his face away from her, putting a palm up between them in a 'talk to the hand' gesture.

"Really? Because I'll tell you."

"No please. Don't tell me." he says, shaking his head. "Yes. Yes, I want to know," he says, closing his eyes, bracing for the answer.

"Are you sure? Because once you know it, you can't un-know it. And you'll think about it every time you see him -"

"What? Crap! You **DID** sleep with Andrew!"

"I totally did … not have sexual intercourse with Andrew."

"You suck! You had me going! That was cruel. Inhumane. Cruel and inhumane."

"Lightened the mood though, didn't it?"

"Uh, almost ruined it completely. Remember how I said everything from here on is foreplay?"

"Yep," she says, grinning. "Well, that was anti-foreplay."

Bones smirks. "You still haven't answered my question."

"Which question was that?"

"What are you going to do now? About explaining to Parker why it's okay to have me sleeping in your bed? Or NOT sleeping in your bed, to be more precise. Or to be exactly precise, only sleeping in your bed after -"

"Woah, woah, woah ... I understand what you mean, but do you have to say it like that?"

"What other way is there to say it?" Booth smirks, looking around as if the answer might be written on the living room walls.

"Okay, so you didn't tell him Hannah was semi-living here ... let's go at this another way ... has he ever asked why you and Rebecca aren't married? How did you handle that?"

"Boy, you just go straight for the jugular, don't you?" he says, putting his hands out in front of himself, shaped as if they are curling around her throat. "Right in there where it hurts the most. Just ... there you go! UGH!"

"I've never been good a beating the bushes, Booth. You know that better than anyone."

* * *

><p><em>Are you ready for the next chapter ... hopefully it will answer these two <em>  
><em>questions Brennan brings up. Or maybe we'll ahve a visit from The Madman ... <em>  
><em>yeah, it's about time to hear from him again, don't you think?<em>


	178. We Aren't the Dunphy's

_A/N __A continuation of the conversation about what Parker has been told about his parent's decisions. We also hear specfically about what kind of love Booth feels is important to have in order to build a family. Parker, he's got all the good questions ... but Booth has some enlightening answers. A lot of that comes from maturity, I think. Asked the same questions 10 years ago, he - or anyone in their late 30s - would probably not have such clarity. Though his view of the order of things is in keeping with his particular demographics, he learns that not everyone shares his view. Let me know what you think when it's all over. Hope it doesn't get too dry for you! Enjoy! ~MoxieGirl_

_~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 178 We're Not the Dunphys<strong>

"Parker has never known anything different than the life he has, so for the first several years there was nothing to explain about our living arrangement. It wasn't until he started going to school that he became aware that some kids live with both of their parents," says Booth to Bones as they sit next to each other on the couch, her left leg still across his lap, her right arm draped across his shoulders.

"That makes sense. So what happened after that? What was the impetus for the eventual conversation?"

"He went to a birthday party at a kid's house. It was your regular Dunphy family household from 'Modern Family.'"

"I don't know what that means," she says, furrowing her brow and grimacing.

"Both parents lived at home with their three kids; everyone had bedrooms on the second floor, a big table in the middle of the kitchen, a back yard full of toys."

"Oh, '_Father Knows Best,' Leave it to Beaver, The Dick Van Dyke Show," _she says, nodding in comprehension.

"Eggs-actly," he says, grimacing, remembering that most of her television references are from old black and white reruns form the early 1960s.

"Apparently Parker had quite the conversation with this kid's father. The guy told me later that Parker did all but say, _'Where can I get me one of these family arrangements?"_

"No!" she says, her hand over her mouth.

"He told Parker the parents had to fall in love first, then get married, and then, when they are ready, the babies come."

"Fascinating."

"He, the father, didn't know what Parker's home situation was. He'd met Parker a number of times at school … and had assumed our family was a lot like theirs."

"That is interesting. What lead him to that assumption? Did you ask?"

"I wasn't sure what to say when he told me that." he says, shrugging, an astounded expression on his face at the memory of how surprised and uncomfortable he had felt in that conversation. "He said Parker seemed well cared for and happy. When I asked how he could tell that … he said something about the way Parker looks and behaves. Healthy, clean, innocent … like someone takes good care of him, protects him, you know? He said it was clear Parker hadn't been exposed to much conflict in his young life."

"That all sounds good. It's good, right?" she asks, introspectively, weighing the father's comment against what her own assessment would have told her.

"Yeah. It was … at least that's how I took it. It was just strange hearing it from a guy I hardly knew. I hoped that he didn't think any less of us because we aren't your … your dream family situation," he says, concentrating his gaze on the leg across his thighs as he feels once again the twinge of inferiority that whittles at him when he thinks about the kind of family life he's always wanted for Parker, but failed to provide. "So, after we left the party, Parker asked me to move in with him and Rebecca," he finished, looking up at her, one eye brow raised.

"Hm," Brennan grunts, non judgmentally. "I imagine that Parker thought that was a legitimate request, so why not? Interesting." She's learning not to be surprised by the comments and questions that float around in Parker's mind and occasionally pop out of his mouth.

"Yep," he says, nodding and shrugging with one shoulder.

"What'd you say?"

"I explained that not all parents live together. He then wanted to know which parents DO live together. I told him that the parents that are in love with each other and want to build a family together live together." Of course, then he asked if Rebecca and I were in love with each other … if we were ever in love with each other."

"Hm," she grunts again, listening carefully, chuckling quietly. "That would be the next logical question in the progression," she says, nodding.

"I told him that Rebecca and I realized that as much as we loved each other at one time, it wasn't the kind of love you build a family with," he says, running his palm up and down her leg, distractedly squeezing her toes when he reaches the end of her foot.

Brennan tries to remember when she shaved her legs last. Last night, she remembers, concluding that there's probably not too much stubble.

"And if we lived together without that special family kind of love," he continues slowly, dragging the tip of his thumb up the center of the bottom of her foot, causing her leg to jump involuntarily, "we would end up hurting all three of us in the end."

"But you had wanted to marry her at one point, Booth. You must have felt you had that kind of love?"

"I proposed to her over a pregnancy test … just like that. _I'm pregnant,_ she says. Then I say, _Will you marry me?_" he says, leaning his head to one side, then the other. "Would I have asked her to marry me if we hadn't gotten pregnant? I don't know. I did love her. Very much," he says, grimacing. "Very much," he repeats, nodding. "But it was hard to take the situation we found ourselves in out of the equation, you know?"

"To put the love in one box; the pregnancy in another? I can see that."

Booth sighs. "What was confusing was that I've always dreamed of having a family. The mom and dad and the 2.5 kids," he says, sighing.

"I think we've established that," she says, smiling._ Ad nauseam,_ she thinks, her own defensiveness kicking in. She knows the marriage issue is going to come up soon, and she is still struggling with how she feels about it. Her knee-jerk reaction to any discussion of the institution of marriage is to respond with snark. She's been working diligently to keep these thoughts to herself, for Booth's sake. For their relationship's sake. Sweets warned her that the snarkiness is her defense mechanism against dealing with her own issues of abandonment, and has nothing to do with Booth._"Don't punish him for your inability to move past an old hurt,"_Sweets had advised.

"All of a sudden I had this image in my mind of a family, my family. With Rebecca and a baby," says Booth, pulling Bones out of her contemplative thoughts about Sweets' advice. "And I thought, yeah, I love her. But was I _in love_ with her, or was I in love with the dream? I don't know. I think we both spent a lot of time asking ourselves where our relationship would have gone if there had been no pregnancy. For my part, I really can't say."

"And that bothered you," she says. A statement, an observation, not a question.

"It really did ... you ever have that feeling you're on the precipice of a big decision, a really big decision, and you really can't see which way to go? It can be terrifying," he admits. "That was how I felt. What if I make the wrong decision and miss out on something amazing, and I screw things up for people I love?" he sighs, seeming somewhat tormented all over again.

"Did you ever live together?" she asks, grimacing. "Would that have helped you formulate a clearer direction for which ext step to take?"

"Yes and no. I always had my own place, but when Parker was born I spent the first three months back and forth between her place and mine," abandoning her foot, he wraps his long fingers around her shin, pressing the tips of his fingers and thumb into her calf muscles. "It was much easier to keep him at Rebecca's where all of his baby things were. It also made it much easier to share the responsibilities when he woke in the middle of the night."

"Were you still together at that time?" she asks, leaning her head to the side, it's an attentive gesture, non-threatening.

"Eh … it was like playing house. But once she said she didn't want to get married, it got a awkward … the whole where-do-we-go-from-here thing."

"Hm. Wow."

"Yeah. We dated for a short while at the beginning of her pregnancy, but it didn't feel right. It was confusing … surreal … to be expecting a baby with someone you aren't involved with anymore. It was like reading a book that you are well aware has no ending," he explains.

"Like running toward a cliff without slowing down, knowing the ground beneath your feet will soon disappear and you will be in free fall."

"You did it again," he says in amazement.

"What?"

"Described perfectly what it felt like. You never cease to amaze me. How do you do that?"

"I lived in free fall from the time I was fifteen until my eighteenth birthday when I went off to college. I know what it feels like, Booth. The metaphor is very physical. Finite, despite the implied ambiguity of it's subject. Easy to imagine."

"You are really good at that. You should write books."

"Booth, you know full well that I **DO **write -"

"Joke," he says, winking.

"Right," she says, nodding. "Continue. Please," she says, gesturing palm up toward him.

"Okay," he says, pausing to gather his thoughts. "Neither of us knew how to manage the rest of our lives as parents without being partners. But we were both clear we didn't want Parker growing up with only one parent."

Booth recalls a myriad of emotions he had at that time, and does his best to describe them to Brennan. He had been disappointed that Rebecca didn't want to get married. He was angry for a while about it, to be honest. He continually felt nervous and hyper-aware that Rebecca had most, if not all, the power over custody as she was the mother. He knew she could refuse him access to Parker. She could leave and take Parker with her. He felt helpless. He also felt a great deal of remorse and guilt over not being able to give Parker the cohesive family unit that he wanted for him. When he himself was young, he overheard an adult say to another that Booth came from_ "a broken home."_ He wanted more than that for his own son. Parker deserved better than that. Booth had felt completely helpless to provide it.

"So how involved were you in the pregnancy?"

"I took her to a couple of her doctor's appointments, but after a while she didn't want me there anymore … I felt pushed out and I wasn't very pleasant toward her about it," he says regretfully, running his hand over his face, energetically rubbing his right eye. When he attempts to scratch the back of his neck, he runs into her hand which is still lying there. He squeezes her fingers briefly, scratches the back of his head, then shrugs dismissively. "I think she wanted some privacy, you know?"

"Well," comments Brennan, eye brows raised in comprehension, "It was her body going through the metamorphosis. I can understand that. I certainly wouldn't want someone I was no longer intimate with in the room when the obstetrician checks my cervix every two weeks."

"Oh, I see your point," he says, cringing. "Anyway, I went to the Lamaze classes with her from then on, but that was it, and after a while, our only connection was the pregnancy."

"How did you go from that dynamic to living together after Parker was born?"

"We didn't actually live together, it just felt like it because I was over there so much and I did stay over night. I wanted to be a good dad, involved."

"So how did it go during those three months?"

Booth thinks for a moment. The mind can be kind when it comes to memories. Or it can be cruel. In this case, it was both.

"It went okay for a while. However, sleep deprivation combined with a lot of other things wore us down. We ended up arguing a lot. We'd start talking about things that weren't even relevant at the time. College education. Discipline philosophies. It was strange. Co-parenting is different from married parenting, at least I hope it is," he says, snorting. "We weren't so much a team as two single parents who sometimes wanted different things for the same kid. The longest I ever went without seeing Parker was during that time. I think it was two weeks," he says, recalling the anguish he felt every day they were apart.

"It just about killed me," he continues. "I was stubborn and self-righteous. She was proud and condescending. In the end, I couldn't stay away, and she was so exhausted we both caved and I went back to her house. Did you know that when you have a child in your life, you go through withdrawal when you're apart?" he asks her, looking over. She grimaces and shakes her head slowly. This is new information for her.

"I did miss Andy after we had to give him up," she admits. Andy was a baby they cared for during a case until he was able to poop out an evidential key he'd swallowed. In the few days they had Andy, Bones had enjoyed caring for him. booth had enjoyed watching Bones caring for Andy. It was interesting to see this anti-maternal woman cuddling and cooing at a giggling baby, he recalls, smiling.

"Yeah, it's strange," he says, chuckling, her forehead wrinkling."

"What are you smiling about," she asks, suspiciously.

"About you with Andy," he says, smiling still, a twinkle in his eyes. "You'd make a really good mom, Bones," he says affectionately, looking into her eyes and sighing.

She brushes him off with a sideways half grin and an eye roll, and continues. "So you explained to Parker that you and Rebecca didn't have the right kind of love for being married and having a family together?" she asks, moving the story along.

"Yep. So what do you think he wanted to know then? I'll tell you," he answers without giving her a chance to respond. "What kind of love do you build a family with?"

"Of course. The zinger. The million dollar question."

"Exactly. So I went into this long, probably _way_ over detailed, description about how difficult it is for two people to live together. That many times people try living together and they both end up unhappy and heartbroken, which isn't healthy for the children either," he says, matter-of-factly. "But," he begins again, nodding for emphasis and speaking more slowly this time, "sometimes two people have the kind of love which makes them want to spend all of their time together. The love makes them want to help the other person be the best version of themselves, and nothing makes them happier than seeing the other person happy. When there's that kind of love, it will get them through the difficulties of living together and sharing all of their decisions with another person."

"Hm. That makes sense," she says, a bit spellbound by the intensity in his eyes and they way he's looking at her with them. Flip flop goes something inside her chest. She sighs, maintaining eye contact, then casts her eyes downward, shyly.

"Yeah, well, next he wanted to know how to know if you have that kind of love," he says, almost whispering.

"What did you say to that?" she asks quietly, eventually looking back up at him through her lashes, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

"I told him," he says, nodding slowly once, "That first you have to spend a lot of time together. You gotta learn a lot about each other, find out how you both handle problems, and if you are good at working them out together," he says, pausing to look in her eyes, thinking about how many differences they have faced together and managed to overcome. He waits for her to say something. There's a palpable tingly tension in the air between them. When she doesn't do anything but swallow, he continues. "You see if you can spend a lot of time together and still enjoy each other's company, even if you aren't doing anything at all. You have to figure out if you enjoy the same kind of jokes, and if you can tolerate each other's friends. Then, you have to figure out if you both want the same things in life, feel that the same things are important," he says, again with the penetrating gaze that's almost painful to be on the receiving end of, it's so ... raw. "Stuff like that."

For a moment, Bones is caught up in the tension, and the screaming going on inside her body which right now wants to ... die or melt or pull him on top of her and crush her forehead to his to drown out everything that's kept them apart for so long. "And how do you know if you have that kind of love?" she says, he voice course as it comes out.

"You feel it," he whispers, poking his chest with his fingers. _"In here. _If you've done all those other things and you both feel like there's no one else you could ever see yourself spending the rest of your life with … and that you'd do anything to make sure that happens … then you probably have the right kind of love to make living together work."

"I see," she says, finally able to smile back at him without passing out.

"I believe that a person should take a decision like living together very seriously."

"Oh," she says, clearing her throat, unable to look away. "Do you want to kiss me right now?" she asks, weakly.

"Do you want me to ...?" That was cruel, she thinks, whimpering to herself.

"Is the pope Catholic?" she asks, right before he pulls his left arm more tightly around her, slowly crushing her to his chest and delivering one of those toe-curling, knee-weaking, Boothy kisses, followed by some nose rubbing and a kiss on neck.

In her imagination, Brennan has just slid into a straddling position on his lap and ripped off her shirt, then reached for his and pulled it off. In reality though, when he loosens his hold on her, she pretends to melt backwards in a swooning fashion, and whimpers, "I think you just got me pregnant." She giggles sweetly.

In response, Booth laughs a surprised laugh, reaches over and pulls her back upright, wearing a delighted smile that just won't quit. "You're adorable," he says.

"You're delicious," she says, winking and giving him a taste of his own medicine in the currency of kisses.

"WOW. I think you just got ME pregnant," he says when she pulls away.

Have you ever heard of spontaneous combustion?" she asks. His expression indicates that he hasn't.

"We might want to look that up, just as a precaution," she says, kissing him once more, in a playful, "Mwwwah!" kind of way. _This kind of fun should be illegal,_ she thinks.

_I really, really, really ... I mean really, can't wait to get you naked,_ he thinks, but decides not to say out loud, though he can't stop the silly expression on his face.

* * *

><p>"How long did you think about living with Hannah?"<p>

"About five minutes. Look, we've already established that that situation was," he puts his lips together and blows a raspberry into the air, "… screwed up," he says, then he actually chuckles quietly. "You know what, Bones?"

"What, my beautiful working-very-hard-at-growing-up alpha male playmate?" she asks, smiling beatifically at him as she says it, running her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck.

Booth laughs, slashing her an enormous grin, then leaning over to kiss her quickly on the lips. "For the longest time I really thought my relationship with Hannah was a colossal failure."

Bones nods, puckering her lips in understanding and agreement.

"Gordon Gordon told me it wasn't a failure. That is was necessary. And I think I'm starting to understand why."

"Tell me about it."

He looks at her for a moment as if he's trying to make a decision. What he's really doing is noticing that he doesn't have any uncomfortable feelings at all sitting here discussing this with her. So he proceeds.

"Over the last coupe of days … and here talking it out with you tonight … it has become abundantly clear to me that I had absolutely no fucking idea what I was doing in that relationship."

He looks serious, but with a twinge of amusement on his lips. And he said the mother of all swear words to add emphasis. At this combination of ... affects ... Bones laughs out loud.

Booth looks at her, cracks a grin, and laughs along with her.

"Boy, that feels good," he says, laughing in a way he never thought he would be able to about Hannah. It took sharing it with this woman, his best friend, to be able to acknowledge his mistakes and forgive himself for them, and then to laugh at himself. As the laughter dies down, they both sigh the humming after-laugh sigh, and Booth grows introspective.

"You know what you bring into my life, Bones?" he whispers, leaning his face toward hers, looking into her beautiful crystal-clear eyes, the eyes that make his heart skip a beat every time he looks into them.

"What?" she asks, giving it right back, coming within an inch of his face. They look into each other's eyes for a moment. Her eyes twinkle impishly, a broad smile crossing her face, revealing her Bonsey teeth, the ones he falls in love with every time she smiles at him this way. She's sure he's going to say something about her bringing conflict and uncertainty into his life, but that's okay. She doesn't mind. That's what makes their relationship so unique, enjoyable, passionate.

Booth's gaze, as it lingers, has become serious and introspective, appreciative actually. He knows exactly what he's going to say. He nods almost imperceptibly as he acknowledges to himself that what he is about to say is perfectly true.

"You bring joy into my life," he says quietly, leaning his head to the side and admiring the beautiful curve of her jaw, the perfect roundness of her cheeks, her brow bones whose shape can lighten the color of her eyes, or convey a pouty brood.

"Aw," she says, reaching up to place her hand on his cheek, her lips forming a silent "Oh" before closing in an innocent smile. They sit there for a moment until Booth moves the inch necessary to take her mouth into a warm embrace with his own, beginning what turns into an extended and passionate kiss. As he kisses her she smiles gratefully, conveying an almost 'I'm not worthy' message,' bringing her other hand up to his cheek. She slowly closes her eyes and gives in to the love he's pouring into her through that kiss.

"It never occurred to me that I could be the source of anyone's joy," she sighs.

"Well, you are," he says, delivering a sucking kiss to her bottom lip before making his way across the silkiness of her daisy-colored skin. As he reaches the velvety skin behind her ear she's chuckling contentedly.

"Oh, I DO like you," she murmurs, running her fingers through his hair and leaning into him. "Ummmmmm," she coos, following it with a long, satisfied sigh.

"You were kind of a schmuck to her," she says, giggling.

"What?" he says, amused, but not stopping the exploration of the hollow between her neck and her shoulder. "It takes two," he says, "You said it yourself … it wasn't ALL my fault."

"I did, didn't I?"

"I have it right here on the transcript," he says, leaning back, pretending to search for a breast pocket that's not there, then patting down both of his shorts pockets.

Bones laughs even harder. She hooks two fingers in the neckline of his tee shirt and peeks inside. "It's not there either," she says, giggling.

Booth reaches out and starts to pull at the neckline of her pajama top.

"It's not down there!" she says, chuckling, as he turns sideways and pulls her to him by her pajama top. He pulls her so far forward, she ends up almost kneeling beside him, leaning down onto him. She can feel the thunder of her heartbeat in her ears as he kisses the base of her neck just above the clavicular notch. When he slides his hands up the skin of her back under the pajama top, she just about passes out from the exquisite skin-on-skin contact. Pressing, almost pulling on her shin, he pulls her further on top of himself and slowly falls backward, horizontally, on the couch, the whole length of his body covered by Bones-y softness.

"I can't wait to make love to you," he says once he lands. He brushes her hair out of her eyes, some of it falling onto his own shoulder when she lays her head on his chest. She wraps her arms around him, digging her hands under his back, and rests there, on his chest, listening to his heart beat.

"Can we sleep here?" she asks, dreamily, letting his comment slide. She knows he can't wait. Neither can she. But they're going to.

"It is probably the safest thing we could do here. But, it will be extremely uncomfortable," he says, closing his own eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair pressed up against his chin. Comfortable or not, he thinks he could lay here like this for a very long time and be grateful for every exquisite minute of it. Before long, however, as if it weren't already a problem, his body begins to object. Well, parts of it do, the parts he needs for walking and standing up straight. Other parts of him are remembering that everything is foreplay at this point, and ready at the helm just in case that's not all this is.

"I don't think I can do it," says Bones, wrapped in a haze of eau de Booth, her chest and midsection snuggled up to the pleasing curves of his pectorales major and minor, external obliques, rectus abdomens, transverse abdomens. Her body is also aware of the foreplay phenomenon, but she can breathe through it and could probably lay here peacefully without any difficulty, as long as nobody moves.

What?" he says. "You can't do what?"

"Wait. I'm not used to having to wait." she says. "If I had any energy right now I'd rip your clothes off and have my way with you before you could recite all the elements of the periodic table," she mumbles, sighing, her head rising and falling hypnotically with each of his breaths.

"You could digest an elephant before I could name all the elements of the periodic table," he says, chuckling. The rumbling of his voice inside his chest is soothing. And wonderful, she thinks, transformed by the path it takes to her ear now pressed against his pectoralis major.

"No wonder babies find it so soothing sleeping on their parents' chests. If you don't hear anything from me at least once every five minutes, you may need to carry me to Parker's bedroom."

"Deal," he says, sighing.

* * *

><p>"You know, <em>Special Agent Sexy Booth?"<em> she says, gingerly pulling her hands out from underneath him and placing them on his chest, finger tips to finger tips. She plans to lean her chin on the back of her hands so she can look in his eyes.

"Do I know what?" he says, registering her movements, but not opening his eyes.

"You were right," she begins.

"I love it when you start a sentence with that. Mark it on the calendar," he says, chuckling. Her head bounces as his laughter makes his breaths come out in small bursts.

"If your eyes were open, you would see me rolling my eyes at you," she says with just a hint of snark.

"Precisely why my eyes are not open, Bones.," he says. "Continue! Please! I'm looking forward to hearing whatever you have to say."  
>She pauses for a moment just to torture him, then continues.<p>

_"Anyway,_ I underestimated what …_ this_… would be like," she says, firmly but gently pressing a small curved path on his right right pectoralis major with her fingers, then tapping a couple of times on his right clavicle with her index finger. He's not sure what she means yet, so he says nothing, but cracks one eye open for a moment so he can see what expression she's wearing.

"You were right," she continues, "It's not about the sex. It is about all the other stuff. I mean, look at us here … look at all the topcs we've covered over the last two days ... and now here we are talking deep into night, telling each other our secrets."

"Crying on each others' shoulders, making out like teenagers -" he joins in.

"Not wanting to be apart -" she says.

"The excitement of wanting to scream about it at the top of your lungs so everybody knows how happy we are," he adds, grinning, eyes still closed to the world.

"I don't want to scream about it, Booth," she says, a concerned expression on her face.

"Oh, I don't either," he says, opening his eyes, grinning sheepishly. "Well … maybe a little yelp," he back tracks "… you know, like _"Yay … I kissed Bones. She kissed me back, Yay!"_ He says, waving his hand around in the air like he's holding a sparkler.

"You are such a goof ball. You do want to scream, don't you?"

"A little bit, yeah," he admits. **"Go Booth! AHHHHHH!"** he chuckles. **"And the crowd roars its approval,**" he says, making sounds like a crowd screaming.

"You're a child."

"But you like me."

"I do, can't deny it. I do," she admits with a silly, helpless grin.

"I can't wait to get you naked."

"I know … what?"

"That is going to be so much fun," he says, lifting his head, winking and smiling.

She rolls her eyes, but smiles from ear to ear.

"I'm just a big toy to you aren't I? A life-sized blow-up doll."

"Bet your sweet ass," he says pulling her further up his body, burying his lips in her neck, nibbling and pulling at her skin.

She laughs. "Oh, goodness. Are you ever serious?"

"I'm always serious … too much. I'm Special Agent Serious Booth," he chortles.

"That is true. This is a different side of you … the playful side. I like this side," she says, decisively.

"I'm playful," he insists, mocking offense. "I can be playful, come on … air guitar, I can be fun."

"Oh, you're a barrel of fun on the job," she says, snorting.

"Remember Buck and Wanda Moosejaw? That was playful."

"You were throwing knives at my face!"

"Hm. Okay, bad example."

* * *

><p>"Would you say we are lovers?" asks Bones after a pensive pause.<p>

"That was a non-sequitur," he says. "but ... sure. We're people who love each other -"

"Even though we haven't … you know?"

"Well as far as my brain is concerned … we have done it, TONS of times," he says, grinning, watching her reaction. He notices a red flush creeping into her cheeks. "Are you blushing?," he says, squinting and looking more closely at her skin. "You can say 'masturbatory aide,' and you can even offer to, you know, put your hair up and wear something a little … you know … provocative … and send it to my phone … but you get all squeamish when it comes to making love?"

"It's not the sex, it's your overactive imagination …" she says shrugging. "People don't usually admit that they've imagined having sex with a person," she says shyly.

"I don't have an overactive imagination … I have a very normal imagination," he says, running his palms up and down her back. "Creative, adventurous … you know … healthy."

"I'm afraid to ask … although, the brain is the largest sex organ, and in that case I would be considered a sexual dynamo," she says confidently, with a smirk and a wiggle of the eye brows.

"Hey! The brain?"

"It's not my fault! The average male brain weighs about three pounds. The average male genitalia, about 6 ounces. So -"

He stares at her with an admonishing look, shaking his head.

"You know how to hurt a guy," he says, grimacing.

"What? It's a biological fact," she says, defending herself.

"A stupid one."

"Okay fine. A stupid one." She can't help snorting at his reaction.

"So, are you trying to tell me that on top of me -"

"Yes, I am on top of you," she chuckles. "That was a joke, see? I literally AM on top of you," she says, disappointed that he doesn't find this as humorous as she does.

"Let me finish what I was saying before I completely lose my train of thought! Where was I?" he says, pausing. "Oh right ...on top of me being 'right ... meaning 'correct,' you are also having fun?"

"I am. I can't express enough how thrilled I am about how much I am enjoying myself, and enjoying you," she says leaning down to kiss him playfully, engaging him in a battle of the tongues, making a lot of smacking and giggling noises along the way.

* * *

><p>After fifteen minutes of each of them lost in their own thoughts, he drowsing, she thinking about the topic of the hour ... the Parker - unplanned pregnancy - cohabitation trifecta. Before they are finished, and since she's tenacious when it comes to completing conversations so she can organize the information in her brain, she wants to complete what they've started. She taps on his chest, pulls on his ear, then strums on his lips until he opens one of his eyes.<p>

"I'M AWAKE! I'm awake. I'm awake," he insists, his breathing speeding up from the soft slow cadence of sleep. "Oh, why did you wake me, woman? I thought you said we were going to sleep here -" he whines, rubbing his eyes with the hand that had been hanging toward the floor where it slipped once he passed out.

"So … to recap … to get back on point, as you like to say," she says, getting right into it. "Parker felt he received a satisfactory answer about why you and Rebecca don't live together, correct?" says Bones, summing up that last ten minutes of conversation.

"He seemed satisfied …" he says, shrugging.

"Okay. And he also learned that it takes a special kind of love for two people to succeed at living together, and that you and Rebecca don't ... didn't ... have that kind of love, or at least, not any more."

"Correct. When do we get to dissect your life, by the way?"

"So then … " she says, chuckling at him, but continuing along the same trajectory toward her final questions. "When did the question come up about how he came into your lives?"

"That didn't come until later. And the actual question was," he says, yawning, "why did we want to have a baby together if we didn't want to live together and didn't have that special love for each other."

"Ouch. There's the smack, as they say," she says, making like she's going to slap him, but pinching his cheek instead.

"Yeah," he says, "but it's a 'rub.' There's the rub."

"Oh," she says, rubbing his cheek, chuckling. "When did this question come up?"

"Oh … about two years ago. Kids don't always understand the order things happen in. If you only give them half the information, without the gory details, they get confused when they try to figure out how things work."

"I don't have children, so please enlighten me," she says.

"Well ... it's easy to forget that kids come into the world with a clean slate. Everything you already know is new to them. You have to remember that when you teach them things. They don't have the context, the background, the experience, and they will make leaps that can only be made with the information they already have. So he thought we looked at each other one day, even though we weren't in love, and we said, _Hey, you know what we should do? We should have a baby!"_

"That does make sense, given the information you'd already given him and his lack of knowledge about human reproduction," she concedes.

"Right. Okay, so regarding the building of a family, I told him that this is how it goes: You fall in love, you get married, you buy a house or you have a baby, right. That's the preferred order of things, by mainstream American standards, at least. The assumption being that the best environment to bring children into is a stable, two parent one, preferably married."

"By mainstream middle class American standards. Other cultures have different standards, expectations -"

He looks at her, mouth still hanging open as he was in the middle of a sentence.

"Arranged marriages are prevalent in many countries and cultures. In those instances, love does NOT come first. Even here in the United States, in your beloved Philadelphia even, a study of 162 white, African American and Puerto Rican American single mothers who live in the poorest neighborhoods reveals that it is quite common to choose motherhood before marriage. Some might go so far as to consider it an expectation, removing the stigma of unwed pregnancy. These women are willing to wait for the optimal spouse, but not for the bearing of offspring."

"Okay, I admit I speak from my narrow, middle class, predominantly white, christian perspective on the proper order of life events."

"Thank you," she says, nodding. "You forgot sex."

"What about sex?"

"You forgot sex in the order of things. Love. Marriage. then sex and cohabitation. Then home ownership and reproduction.

"Of course, how could I forget that?" he says, rolling his eyes this time.

"And as far as your religious beliefs are concerned, isn't there a caveat about sex in the Catholic faith?"

"A caveat?"

"Yes. A proviso, a restriction, a rider … about sex … if you want to go to heaven?"

"I know what a caveat is, Bones. I wasn't sure how you intended … what you were trying to say. Catholics do not think sex is a sin. Far from it, lady."

"But … Catholics are famous for their restrictions on premarital sexual activity," she says, looking at him askance. "For example, as I understand it, Catholics are taught that having sex, and/or cohabiting prior to the nuptials is sinful behavior. And also, don't they prohibit the use of birth control? Some would say that particular proviso is highly sexist, Booth," she asks giving him a curious look.

"I think I need a drink of water," says Booth, lifting her off of his chest. He grabs the empty water pitcher, knocking his half-empty canister of regular Pringles® onto to the carpet with a metallic clatter and a smack.

"Oh shit," she says, under her breath.

* * *

><p>Okay - so. Does his view of the order of things match with yours? Did you get this same message from<br>your parents when you were growing up, or what were you being taught? In my family it would have been  
>a horrendous disgrace if I'd come home to announce I was pregnant when I was a teen. In my best friend's home,<br>this was not at all the case. It was a huge eye-opener for me. And very confusing ... because I respected my own  
>parents, but also had a great deal of respect for my neighbor's parents. So is there a right and wrong? Are some<br>people better than others because of the culture they espouse? As adults, we all (hopefully) learn that different is  
>not better or correct. Different is just that ... different. Your thoughts? ~MoxieGirl<p> 


	179. By Our Love, Not Our Screaming

_A/N Okay, okay, enough with this conversation about God between Bones and Booth, right? Let's move on, right? Well, guess what? There's still a big question hanging out there which has to be resolved soon. However, I promise you that chapter 180 is the last chapter of Saturday evening. This chapter here gives us a humerus vision which explains to us how Booth is able to remain calm for the final portion of his faith conversation with Bones. You should know before reading this that the writer is a fairly devout, religious education teacher. I firmly believe God has a fabulous sense of humor that adds to the richness of the God/Man relaitonship. So out of that, I bring you Chapter 179. ~ MoxieGirl_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 179 By Our Love, Not Our Screaming<strong>

Booth walks to the fridge and stops without opening it. _I don't need a drink of water,_ he says to himself. _I need something stronger._ More than anything, he needs a moment to think, a moment to calm himself. He hadn't wanted to have a meaningful conversation about faith until Tuesday after they'd had a couple more days to get used to being out in the world, rolling around inside this new and strange dynamic. Bones has already expressed concern that this new emotional depth will diminish her scientific acuity somehow, dull her instincts._ Wow, she's afraid? _He asks himself, his arms folded across his chest. He leans against the counter top next to the fridge. He's talking to himself. Talking to God. Hell, talking to his dead grandmother or anyone who might be out there in the ethos.

Booth sends up a prayer to the Holy Spirit asking Him to take over this conversation with Bones because he's not sure he can get through it without getting seriously agitated.

"I'm right here, Seeley," He says. "You get started, I'll step in if you need me. If you get lost, stop talking and wait until something comes to you … that will be me. Then say whatever comes to your mind."

Booth shakes his head back and forth, moving less than two inches to either side each time. He's going into the last eleven seconds of the 3rd period with an injured center. He's in a face-off against the biggest and fastest d-man the league has ever seen. The scoreboard is flashing a warning dirge of impending doom for Booth's team if he can't make a miracle happen in the next eleven seconds. Booth knows he is not capable of miracles. If he were … if he were, he would … he would what? Would he change anything? He asks himself. Probably not. "Piss it all to hell," he whispers, throwing up his arms and turning toward the cabinet behind him.

He takes two glasses from the cabinet, sets them on the island counter top, and reaches for the Chivas Regal18 sitting under the cabinet next to the coffee maker. Swirling the amber whiskey in the bottle, he feels his throat warming at the prospect of dulling his senses … even just a little bit. There's more than half a bottle left. He considers skipping the glasses and drinking straight from the bottle. Women don't usually like it when you drink community liquids straight from the bottle, chagrins Booth. However, alcohol kills germs, doesn't it? She's been kissing me all night - it's not like she's gonna get anything from the bottle that she hasn't already gotten, he thinks with a smirk. Oh, what the hell? He takes the bottle and a single glass over to the couch and sits beside Bones. Neither of them has spoken a word since he abruptly got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen.

"Booth, you -" Bones starts.

"Just give me a couple of minutes, okay?" he asks, looking at her for a moment, waiting for the non-verbal go-ahead. His sentence started out somewhat harsh, but softens to just above a whisper by the end. "Sorry," he says, "I just need … a couple of moments of silence … to do some thinking."

"Okay," she says, worry in her eyes. Leaning her head to the side, she searches his face for a clue to his thoughts. He's percolating, she concludes. She knows it's best to wait. He'll say something when he's ready.  
>Booth pours three fingers of Chivas into the single glass, hands it to her, and they both sit back. She holds out her glass to him. He clinks his bottle against her glass, but she doesn't lower it to drink.<p>

"You might as well top me off if you're going to drink straight from the bottle," she says.

Booth looks at her, only a little surprised, then does an '_if you say so_' shrug-nod, and tops off the 5.5 finger tumbler. Now she clinks her glass against the bottle and they both take a thirsty gulp.

As the whiskey unfurls a wave of warmth down his chest, he lifts his left arm and puts it around her, pulling her close, and heaving a sigh of submission to the task before him. Taking another swig from the bottle, he tilts his head sideways toward her and rests his head on hers. They sit like this for several minutes until Bones can't resist saying something.

"Booth, you know I'm not good at this -" she's tense, and concerned.

"Shhh. Shh," he cuts her off.

She sighs, resigned, and relaxes against him. Another ten minutes pass, she begins to wonder if he may have fallen asleep. Swiveling her head toward him, hearing the sandy sound of hair ground into hair inside her ears, she sees that his eyes are open. He's just thinking, as if he's having a conversation inside his head. Turning forward again, she sighs, and decides to concentrate on clearing her mind of all the moving boxes that have shuffled around over the last several months, especially those that, over the last 48 hours, have been thrown and cracked open, their contents strewn all over her consciousness.

Booth is listening intently to a conversation unfolding in his head. This conversation brings with it a sense of physical calm, even though some of the words are difficult to listen to. Is the calm an effect of the eighteen year old Chivas coursing through his veins, or is it a benefit of his faith in a benevolent creator, a creator who speaks to him in whispers when he's quiet enough to pay attention? Maybe it's simply his pure and absolute inner voice, captured and formed throughout his life by all that he's learned as right and true and honest? Booth knows it to be the voice of his creator, because that is what he has been brought up to believe. This voice has always brought him comfort, these little chats with the Big Guy In The Sky. At least, he's 98.7% sure that he's talking to the Lord. Regardless, he has never been steered in the wrong direction by these discussions. He has never ended up hurting himself or someone else. He has never felt alone when he abides by the whispers sponsored by his faith.

As a matter of fact, good has always come as a result of these chats. His options become simple and clear. His conversations with people in his life go more smoothly, and his relationships benefit from it. His purpose reveals itself to him. He doesn't listen to the voice's wisdom as much as he probably should because he's human and he thinks he can do everything on his own. That's part of being human. He only knows that when he remembers to bring his concerns here, his anxiety decreases significantly.

* * *

><p><strong>"Seeley,"<strong> says the voice now. **"You say she is afraid."**

"That's what it looks like to me," he answers, shrugging mentally.

**"And what do you need when you are afraid? Do you need someone to yell at you, rant at you?"  
><strong>  
>"No. I don't need someone condescending to me either, treating me like my belief in God is a character flaw. I think that she thinks she's too smart for God. And that I'm stupid for having faith."<p>

**"Does she do that, Seeley, or does she speak the same way about your faith as she does about any other topic?"  
><strong>  
>Silence.<p>

**"What do we know about her, son?"  
><strong>  
>"She's … smart. Sometimes detached. Grounded in the rational. Straightforward to the point of being inappropriate. Sometimes, she comes across as heartless or cold. It's how she expresses herself when she's in pursuit of the truth. Fiercely committed to catching the bad guys. Fearless …"<p>

**"None of these sound like bad things, Seeley."  
><strong>  
>"They aren't."<p>

**"So … she's straightforward and detached, sometimes inappropriate, heartless, cold … fiercely committed ..."  
><strong>  
>"When you say it like that it sounds bad. Look, she knows my faith is a big deal to me. She knows her dismissal of my faith irritates me, pisses me off."<p>

**"Yet she asks anyway, right?"  
><strong>  
>"Yes! she just doesn't get it. Or she doesn't care!"<p>

**"Or she cares a great deal."  
><strong>  
>Silence.<p>

**"I'd say that's fairly brave, Seeley. I'd say it takes balls to bring up a topic that is guaranteed to piss off a big guy like you, a guy who carries a gun …"  
><strong>  
>"She has ovaries -"<p>

**"Beg you're pardon?"  
><strong>  
>"She has ovaries, Lord."<p>

Silence.

"Was that a joke?" asks Booth.

Silence.

**"Who do you think created humor? For that matter, who do you think created balls and ovaries? You're welcome, by the way."  
><strong>  
>Booth smirks mentally.<p>

"So, you think it's a good thing that she challenges my faith?"

**"Maybe I didn't put you in this relationship to develop her faith, Seeley. Maybe I put her in this relationship so you could further develop yours. Ever think of that?"  
><strong>  
>"What the hell …?" thinks Booth, astounded. "Are you high?"Maybe God's been hitting the bottle, too. A little too much of the communion wine? No . . . wait . . . that would be totally weird. Scratch that thought, thinks Booth.<p>

**"I love it when you say really, really stupid stuff, Seeley Booth." **God grins behind himself through the mist toward the Holy Spirit who is always waiting in the wings. They exchange a highly amused grin, their robes shaking from their silent chuckles.

Silence.

"What could she **possibly** teach **me**about faith?"

**"She has faith in you."  
><strong>  
>"She has faith in me … and what does she do? She upsets me! She challenges me! She pushes me!"<p>

**"Hm. That sounds a lot like something I heard earlier this evening while the two of you were playing kissy face …"  
><strong>  
>"What do you mean? When?"<p>

** "Someone was giving a speech on how a human can tell if they have the kind of love that it takes to cohabitant and to build a family together."  
><strong>  
>"What? Don't I ever get <strong>any <strong>privacy?"

**"Look, I've seen it all before. Who do you think created kissy face? I did. You're welcome again, by the way. Oh, and she doesn't really like that thing you did to the bottom of her foot. Puts her on edge."  
><strong>  
>"Thanks," he says, rolling his eyes. "Oh, Lord … before I forget …"<p>

**"Is this on point, Seeley?"  
><strong>  
>"Yes, well, kinda … since you brought up the kissy face thing …"<p>

**"Go ahead,"** he says, tossing a grin back through the mist at the Holy Spirit. **"This should be good."  
><strong>  
>"I know I've said it before, but I … I just don't think it can be said enough -"<p>

**"Wait a minute,"** he interrupts. **"Is this about breasts, again, Seeley?"  
><strong>  
>Silence.<p>

**"You're welcome."  
><strong>  
>"Uh, thanks," he says, mentally kicking the dirt and looking up sheepishly. "I really mean it."<p>

**"I know you do."  
><strong>  
>Silence.<p>

**"So, Seel … cute nickname, by the way … Larrinaga's one of mine, you should know. So's Carmen."  
><strong>  
>"Thanks for the tip … can we get back -"<p>

**"Yes. Ms. Brennan. Bones. She's really fighting for you."  
><strong>  
>"What?"<p>

**"She's taken on a frightening task here. Getting in the face of a guy like you. Know what I think?"  
><strong>  
>"Now, how the hell am I supposed to answer that? Oops, should I not have said <em>'hell?"<em>

**"Relax, Seeley. It was rhetorical. Now, think about what's going on here. Is it at all within the realm of possibility that her challenging your faith might turn you away from me?"  
><strong>  
>"Not a chance."<p>

**"Okay, how likely is it that the two of you could work your way through this obstacle and your faith would not be affected?"  
><strong>  
>"Well, It's already changed since I met her, you know that. I've seen the signs. I've had my Tarot read. I know this was part of your plan now more than ever."<p>

**"Interesting. So … wait a minute … Tarot? Really?"  
><strong>  
>Silence.<p>

**"How many years were you an alter boy, Seeley Booth?"  
><strong>  
>"Sorry. I was being sarcastic."<p>

**"I know you were. Who do you think created sarcasm?"  
><strong>  
>"The Easter Bunny?"<p>

Silence. Not even movement on the other side of the mist.

"Sorry, God. I'm just a little confused here … you've got me confused … about … can we just continue?"

**"So, we've established you are not going to abandon your faith. Your faith has already increased since you met her. Right? That's what you're telling me?"  
><strong>  
>"Yep."<p>

**"Then the only other possibility is that your faith will surely increase again through examination, introspection, and eventual revelation, all brought about through involvement with an atheist. In other words, you might find that in the end you become more convinced than you are right now."  
><strong>  
>Silence.<p>

"But. Well. But how -" Booth mentally shuffles his feet and plays with the dice in his mental pocket.

**"What? What is so complicated about that? You don't want to grow stronger in your faith? Is that it?"  
><strong>  
>Silence.<p>

**"Seeley, I already know every single thought in your head. You might as well say it."  
><strong>  
>"I don't want to say it."<p>

**"You think you'll hurt my feelings? Come on, I can handle it."  
><strong>  
>"I don't want a stronger faith if it will push me and Bones further apart," he mumbles, kicking at rocks again.<p>

**"Will you stop with the rocks? Do you have any idea how many millions of years it took to get those rocks where they are?"  
><strong>  
>"Sorry. But if we are struggling now … a stronger faith will increase the struggle. I don't want to lose her, Lord. I can't lose her."<p>

Silence.

**"Why would you lose her? You underestimate your own influence, Seeley. You underestimate her love for you."  
><strong>  
>Booth sighs mentally, his cheeks puffing out as he does so.<p>

**"What do you do when you learn something new? Who do you tell first? Parker?"  
><strong>  
>"Bones," he admits, mentally shrugging.<p>

**"When you're excited, who do you share it with?"  
><strong>  
>"Bones," he nods, mentally nodding.<p>

**"During your quest for greater clarity about your faith, don't you think you will want to share it all with Bones?"  
><strong>  
>Silence.<p>

**"For someone who professes to have a lot of faith, you're showing room for improvement."  
><strong>  
>Booth hangs his head for a moment.<p>

**"Share with Bones. Take her on the journey with you. See what happens."  
><strong>  
>Booth chews on his lip, thinking, head hanging low.<p>

"What if she doesn't want to? What if she won't?"

**"She will."  
><strong>  
>"How do you know?"<p>

Silence.

**"She's a scientist. She loves learning. She's curious as all get out. And she loves studying you."  
><strong>  
>"She does?" asks Booth, his eyes lighting up, a goofy grin coming over him.<p>

**"Don't act so surprised. Why do you think I sent her to you?"  
><strong>  
>"You enjoy watching me struggle?"<p>

God grimaces at Booth.

** "Sarcasm again? You know, there's a time and a place for that."  
><strong>  
>"Sorry," says Booth regretfully, "not the right time?"<p>

**"Not if you want to get through this conversation before your girlfriend passes out."  
><strong>  
>"Sorry. Please continue," says Booth mentally nodding toward God.<p>

**"Okay. Look, consider that this is not your battle, son. Stop trying to force it."  
><strong>  
>Silence.<p>

**"I am the vine, you are the branches,"** he says, then pauses.**'I'm just going to ask of you what I always do: do as I ask and I will handle the rest."  
><strong>  
>"Did you just quote the bible? That vine and branches thing? Isn't that from the gospel of John 15:5?"<p>

**"Who do you think gave John those words to record?"  
><strong>  
>"So … Bones will become Catholic … or Christian … if I do as you ask?"<p>

**"That is not what I said. You know it doesn't work that way. I said that this is not your battle and that you are but a branch. You are but one of the tools in my belt. Or box. Or whichever you prefer."  
><strong>  
>"Okay. Are you sure? I mean, that I don't have to … do it all myself?"<p>

**"Is the pope Catholic? Which reminds me, I gotta call him …"  
><strong>  
>"That was a good one, Lord."<p>

**"See? I pay attention. I hear everything you say, son. And Seeley?"  
><strong>  
>"Yes, Lord?"<p>

**"You and I do not live by the same schedule. Whatever happens, it's not going to happen when you want it to. It will happen when I want it to."  
><strong>  
>"Okay," says Booth, grimacing mentally.<p>

**"Seeley, she loves you. She is fighting for you. That is all you need to know. This woman has made great sacrifices for you."  
><strong>  
>"I know," he admits, with great humility.<p>

**"Help her. Don't yell at her. Remember your favorite hymn when you were a boy?"  
><strong>  
>"Yeah … I do?" he says, smiling mentally.<p>

**"Well, it's not called "They Will Know We Are Christians By Our Screaming." It's, "They Will Know We Are Christians By Our …?"  
><strong>  
>"Love."<p>

**"That's right. And Seel?"  
><strong>  
>"Yes, Lord?" Booth had begun to turn away, but turns back to face God through the mist.<p>

**"****Go easy on her. She is what we call "a little one" when it comes to faith. Would you blame Parker for not knowing how to drive a car?"**_  
><em>  
>"Of course not, he's only nine!"<p>

Silence, except for the thud of Booth's heart hitting the floor.

"Okay. Lord?"

**"Yes?"  
><strong>  
>"Sometimes I forget you're there … for days."<p>

**"Days?"  
><strong>  
>"Alright … for weeks."<p>

**"I know."  
><strong>  
>"But I appreciate that you're always there when I need you -"<p>

**"I know. You need me more than you are willing to admit, but we'll leave it at that for now, son."  
><strong>  
>"Sometimes the Holy Spirit isn't as helpful as he could be."<p>

**"He is exactly as helpful as he should be, Seeley. Just because you can't see it, or you don't like it, doesn't make it not so."  
><strong>  
>"Okay. Yeah, yeah."<p>

**"Have faith, my son."  
><strong>  
>"I do."<p>

**"I know you do. Have more."  
><strong>  
>"I'll try."<p>

**"I know you will."  
><strong>  
>An appreciative, affectionate silence ensues.<p>

**"For I know the plans I have for you, Seeley, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."  
><strong>  
>"That's Jeremiah 29:11," says Booth, proudly.<p>

**"Correct. You Catholics would do well to get a little more friendly with The Word."  
><strong>  
>"I'll pass that along," he says, holding his fist out for a bump before turning to go.<p>

God smiles, then winks, at Seeley Booth.

* * *

><p><em>How do you think this internal dialog with God will make a difference for Booth as he talks<em>  
><em>with Bones about sin and faith and the choices he's made in his life? I'm ready to move on <em>  
><em>to Sunday (then Monday and Tuesday!), and I'm sure you are too ... but there's just that one <em>  
><em>little chat left ... and tomorrow my muse and I are spending the day alone together. Just bear <em>  
><em>with me. If you're bored, come back over the weekend and we'll be past this part ... and on to <em>  
><em>meet with Sweets! You know what to do, please review if the spirit moves you! ~MoxieGirl<em>


	180. A Little Self Control

_A/N Folks, this chapter ran away with itself. It ended up being thirty pages long. Therefore, I have split it into two chapters. For those of you not familiar with practices of the Catholic faith, let these two chapters serve as somewhat of a primer for watching Season 7, which promises to address the topic of Booth and Brennan's discordant belief systems._ Thank you for keeping up with MoxieGirl44 and encouraging me along the way as I've struggled with this bad boy (the chapter, not Booth, though I guess he does fit the moniker for these two chapters! Okay, sit back and relax, here come the first of several. The second half is still being edited and will come to you Tuesday morning. Safe Halloweening, everyone! ~ MoxieGirl

* * *

><p><strong>180 A Little Self-Control<strong>

"Lets do this thing," says Booth, sitting next to Bones on the couch, his left arm wrapped around her.

Bones looks at him expectantly.

"I am not good at … being subtle, Booth. It is not my intention to attack you. I know you to be a good man, a principled man. Some might contend that your past choices are none of my business. They are in fact none of my business, unless you want them to be. I am curious how you think, however. So you can understand why I am interested in these things.'

Booth sighs. "Okay. Here's the deal. Rules are created to protect those who follow them, right?"

"That is the intention in most cases. However, in the Maluku Islands -"

"Let's leave everybody else out of this, okay? This is just you and me here. The rest, they don't matter," he says, gesturing toward the empty room with the bottle. He brings the Chivas to his lips, thinks better of it, and sets it on the coffee table without taking a drink. He takes the empty glass out of her hand and sets it beside the bottle. "What do you want to know?"

"Despite the fact that the precepts of the faith you practice labels some activities as immoral, members can participate in those activities while continuing to consider themselves faithful and obedient followers," she says, leaning her head to the left, a genuine attempt at humility in her eyes. "How can that not be considered disingenuous? I don't understand the basis for how one chooses which regulations to honor and which to disregard and how that selection is justified."

Booth is nodding as he listens to her, looking down, taking it in.

"Okay. I can only speak for myself. Others form their own interpretations of the rules, and they have their own justifications. I only know for sure what goes on in my own head, okay?" he asks, looking at her.

"Okay," she says, nodding, sighing, relaxing against him a little.

Booth pauses to gather his thoughts before continuing. When he begins, he's speaking to the room, digging through what he knows and what he has chosen to believe about what his religion preaches. That is a good place to start, he decides.

"Rules are created to protect those they serve. The Ten Commandments, as I understand them, are first about loving God. Honor God and only God, do not curse using His name -"

"That's another one that people seem to forget, the pedestrian use of the name of their deity -" she interrupts. She'd almost said, _'their imaginary deity,' but Sweets had warned her to stay away from words like imaginary, invisible, mythological, cannibalistic, delusional, schizophrenic, _and even_ mysticism._

"There are over 2,000 pages in the bible I have up on that shelf," he says, pointing to the wall unit to the left where a bible bound in black leather sits between back issues of Rolling Stone magazine on the right and "The Game" by Ken Dryden on the left. "We are not going to cover everything tonight. We're covering sex and living together without being married, okay?" He says, more calmly than he thought he would be able to. Brennan nods. He remembers a joke he once heard that would make a good visual right now. "Do you know to how to eat an elephant?"

"Is this the same elephant I'll be digesting before you can list all the elements of the Periodic Table?"

"Yes," he says, chuckling.

"Then, no. I do not. I don't think it's actually legal to eat an elephant. And where would you get one?" Brennan doesn't notice Booth rolling his eyes, so she continues without interruption. "Did you know the largest elephants of South Asia and Borneo can weigh up to twelve thousand pounds and reach ten feet high at the shoulder? The skeleton constitutes about 15% of their body weight. That's 1,800 pounds of bones, Booth. The adult human skeletal system weighs about twenty pounds, or 14% of body weight. Do I have to eat the bones as well?"

"This is metaphorical," he says, raising one incredulous eyebrow in her direction.

Bones' eyebrows lift and her mouth forms a capital letter 'O.' "Right," she says, nodding once.

"Wait. You haven't eaten a human skeleton, have you?" He asks, pretending to be serious and suspicious all at once.

"Uh, no …" she says, chuckling. "But did you know that another word for cannibalism is _anthropophagy_? It sounds a lot like 'anthropology,' doesn't it? I can imagine a number of humorous scenarios in which those two words could be mistakenly interchanged," she says, laughing. Booth just looks at her. "Get it?" she continues. Booth is still not laughing. He's actually looking like he might regurgitate his Pringles® any moment now. "However, cannibalism in Africa will expose you to an illness called kuru which is similar to mad cow disease. Though I believe kuru is contracted through the ingestion of brain tissues …" she says, an expression of fascination on her face.

"Okay, I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth," says Booth. making a thoroughly disgusted face.

Before Brennan has a chance to continue her digression, he steps in with a comment of his own.

"Woah, and I thought _'foreign apologist'_ was bad," he says. "Anyway, you eat an elephant one bite at a time. That's how we're tackling … this discussion on adherence to moral guidelines tonight. So, are you finished?"

Bones, nods, pulling up her right knee, resting it on his left thigh, snuggling a little closer.

"So we've got … in the Ten Commandments … love one God and love Him above all things, do not take His name in vain, and dedicate one day of the week to honor him, okay?" he asks, holding out four fingers.

"So far, so good," she nods, not calling attention to the fact that some professed Christians no longer attend Sunday services.

"Then the rest are all about respecting others, right? Respect your mom and dad. Don't kill, steal, lie about people, envy them their things or their spouse. Then there's adultery, which is literally about cheating on your spouse, or participating in another person cheating on their spouse, got it?"

"I am familiar with these," she agrees, nodding slightly, listening intently.

"Okay. Now, we are not going to split hairs and try to figure out if this means it's okay to have sex if both participants are single. My religion considers any sex outside of marriage as wrong, as you implied."

"I didn't just imply it, Booth. I said it outright. It is very well documented in both the oral and the written traditions of Catholicism and most other Christian faiths."

Booth nods patiently, staring at the bottle and the empty glass on the coffee table. _This is going to take a while,_ he thinks to himself.

"I want you to do something for me. Can you do something for me?"

"Anything. What is it?" she says, grateful that he's willing to have this conversation with her at all.

"I'd like you to, just this once, not interrupt me, okay? Neither one of us has had much sleep lately. You can stay up all night if you want, but I am hitting the sack, and I mean HARD, in about 45 minutes, no matter where this conversation is at. Okay?" He says it with a smile, but she gets the message.

"I'll do my best. It will be hard," she says, teasingly. He chuckles in agreement. "You know how I like to ask questions," she says, raising one impish eyebrow.

"Yes, I do," he says, smiling back at her. "But, right now, you are going to exercise a little self-control … which is appropriate, because self-control is the topic of the hour."

Brennan inhales and starts to comment, but then stops when she sees his eyes dart over to meet hers. She smiles at his admonishing expression, and says nothing, pressing her lips between her teeth in a straight line.

"So - rules against premarital sex and cohabitation. These are set up to protect us, okay, just like any other rules."

He looks to her, her lips are still squeezed in a straight line. She's not going to take the bait and open her mouth. She nods. Her competitiveness is in his favor. This might actually work, he thinks.

"How do these particular rules protect us? The benefits of reserving sex for marriage are many, with close to no negative consequences. On the other hand, premarital sex can have many negative consequences and few tangible benefits."

"Well …" she begins to object, but abandons her comment when he shoots her an exaggerated look of surprise. She could cite a rather convincing argument for indulging in sexual urges despite marital status … the perpetuation of the human race, for example. Those races who do not espouse formal, exclusive coupling would die out if not for extra-marital sexual activities. But this conversation is not about any other cultures other than the one both she and Booth participate in. So she lets this slide.

"Okay. Benefits to waiting until marriage include the usual:

* Limited exposure to sexually-transmitted disease

* No unplanned pregnancies

* No unintended or confused emotional ties or pain

* No casual attitude toward an act which should be a celebration rather than a carnival ride …" he says then stops, knowing what she'd usually interject at this point.

"I know what you're thinking right now," he says. "And I, too, enjoy the occasional carnival ride. But there is a time and a place … my faith supports carnival rides within the context of the celebration of …"

"Pie is okay at a party, but just not at any old party, and not simply for the sake of having any old pie," she says, then slaps her hand across her mouth. "Sorry."

Booth laughs out loud. "You just … you just can't do it, can you?" He continues laughing as she smirks and glares at him. "We've just started and I've already won. I knew you couldn't keep quiet, so I won! This is so easy!" She smiles placatingly even though she's disgusted that he sees it as a competition, as usual, especially since he thinks he already won. She rolls her eyes, growls and gives his nose an energetic squeeze while shooting him the stink eye.

"Okay … I have to acknowledge that your analogy was a good one, though," he says, amused. "No pie if there's no party, or in this case, a marriage, as far as the church is concerned."

Bones, whose sexual experiences up until this point have mostly been for the purpose of companionable entertainment, was never given strict guidelines about when and in what context to engage in sexual intercourse. It was recommended that she consider protection and birth control … but sex was never presented as much more than an activity shared between two people who respect each other, find each other attractive, have a mutual understanding and share clear expectations. Focusing back on Booth, she hears him continue explaining the benefits.

"The Church professes that having sex with several partners significantly cheapens the act itself - as well as the celebration of marriage. It cheapens what God's intention for sex to be. God created marriage to be a covenant, a contract, between two people for the sharing of bodies toward the end of deepening the bond between lifelong partners, and wherever possible, bringing children into the world. A benefit of this is the knowledge that there's something in life that you reverence to the extent that you've chosen to share it with only one person, your consecrated mate for life."

Bones nods, chewing on the inside of her lip and grimacing. She's with him so far. Some of this is new information. She's studied world religions from an anthropological point of view, which means she understands what a culture does and the mythology it is based upon, but not necessarily the underlying spiritual ramifications.

"Potential consequences of premarital sex:

* Exposure to life-threatening and/or life-altering disease

* Unplanned pregnancy

* Marriage under duress between people who aren't yet ready to make that kind of commitment

* Emotional pain if the relationship expectations of the partners are discordant. That was the word of the day, by the way, **discordant**," he says. "It means, in disagreement. See how nicely that word fits here?"

Bones nods, with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. _Show-off_, she's thinking.

Booth continues his list.

"* Lack of clarity about the future of the relationship without the formal commitment of marriage

* Lack of commitment itself

* Potential fallout later on down the line between spouses from the knowledge that others have already shared an intimacy with your partner. An intimacy that was only meant to be shared with your spouse and no one else."

"From what I've seen, some people are more than willing to forgo exclusivity in exchange for instant gratification. Others give it up exclusivity and live to regret it. Some choose a sexually active life despite their regret, and eventually the regret goes away. To some, exclusivity is simply unimportant. Perhaps a lot of people were never introduced to the concept of sex being more than … well … just sex."

"I don't know that there's an absolute right or wrong, Bones," he continues. "Different people are brought up differently and believe different things. This is what I have been brought up to believe," he says, pausing. After a moment he continues, speaking slowly, as if he's figuring it out as he speaks.

"Hearing it said out loud, I'm realizing that part of the faith is about context, you know?" he says, looking in her eyes pensively. "Does that make sense?" he asks.

She narrows her eyes questioningly for a moment, her hand still covering her mouth. She drops her hand, puckers her lips, and smiles warmly at him. Mostly because he's beautiful, she loves him, and she enjoys watching him think. And of course she understands the concept of context.

"It's a context of … what would you call it? Specialness? Reverence? Maybe devotion? Maybe what it's about is that sex can be sex anywhere and with anyone, but sex inside a committed and exclusive relationship can transcend that, you know? It becomes more about breaking the laws of physics rather than releasing biological urges," he says, furrowing his brow and staring off into his memories of twelfth grade religion class.

"The miracle," she mouths, tapping on his leg to get his attention. "The miracle," she mouths again, grinning.

"That's correct," he agrees, raising an impressed eyebrow. "Good job, Bones. And actually, this is making sense to me right now for the first time. I remember the nuns telling us that sex should be … a _holy experience_," he says, chuckling incredulously. "I remember thinking, what the hell do you know about it, Sister Mary Holy Water? Have you ever even had it? No wonder we Catholic kids get all screwed up about sex! At a time when our hormones are zinging all over the place, we're told not to do anything sexual under the penalty of eternal damnation, by a person we aren't convinced has even the tiniest clue waht she's talking about!" he says, gesticulating with his free hand, then dropping his palm to his lap. "I'll tell you what, there's stuff I've done that does NOT belong in a room that contains a bible … so tell me, how is that supposed to be holy?"

Both of them impulsively turn toward the book shelf and look at the thick black binding of the New American Catholic Bible with the cracked gold filigree title printed sideways down the spine. They both then look at each other, and then the couch where they were getting very familiar with each others dental work only moments ago. At the exact same moment, they both crack up.

"Oh, I forgot to mention that part of the strategy of these rules is to promote a healthy culture where children are well cared for by two parents, as well as the community of congregants. Unplanned pregnancies many times lead to single parenthood, and, in the case of unplanned marriage, sometimes an unhealthy home environment for both the spouses and the kids."

_What about planned pregnancies by single women?_ Bones wonders, having considered this option at one time for herself._ I would have provided a complete and diverse schedule of care and nurturing. And you almost allowed me to use your sperm toward that end. Not a good time to bring it up though,_ she knows. In the end, Booth couldn't go through with it. Maybe his faith was partly to blame for that. Regardless, he'd said that he couldn't have a child without being able to be his or her real father. Though he is flawed as we all are, when it comes down to the wire, Booth's conscience usually keeps him from doing things that contradict his principled character. In most things, that is, but not all things, which is why they are having this discussion tonight.

Bones nods, grimacing agreement. She'd like to add her opinion that some have accused the church of encouraging abstinence as a strategy to get people to marry. If sex is withheld, couples are potentially more likely to marry at a younger age … increasing the number of fertile years for married couples. One could argue that this is also the hidden agenda when it comes to birth control. These arguments occur as quite calculated to Brennan, however she will reserve these arguments for Monsignor Mike. Instead, she posits an acceptably supportive statement.

"I can see the benefits of eschewing sexual intercourse until a formal commitment has been garnered and intentions regarding family are discussed," she concedes quietly.

Surprisingly, Booth doesn't stop her; he's focusing on the meaning of her words, watching them as they side out between her lips. "I can also see the increased … what's the word?" She pauses to think, looking toward the coffee table but clearly stuck inside her own head, before continuing. Her volume gradually decreases until it's almost a whisper when she continues. "I can see the increased intensity, or meaningfulness, of the act when it has been reserved for only one person or until such time as a commitment has been established," she says, grimacing and nodding. Her innocent expression, make-up free and fresh, gives the impression that she's ten years younger than her chronological age.

"Really?" Booth looks at her, surprised and yet, not surprised. After all, this is the woman who finds kissing him to be almost as intimate as … well, as all the rest of the stuff they haven't even done yet. "Woah," he says, not realizing he's saying it out loud. All of a sudden, he becomes aware that he's hardly breathed since she said the word, _"commitment."_

"Sure," she says, "If you place a greater value on something, the acquisition of it becomes that much more … satisfying, valuable, precious … pleasurable," she says with a little shrug of the shoulder and a Bones-y half smile.

Booth stares into her eyes for a moment. She stares back. He shakes his head, thinking, _Thank you God, and how did I get so lucky to have the love of a woman like this?_ Then, an uncomfortable thought occurs to him. _What if the nuns were right? What if having previous lovers cheapens the experience with your chosen mate for life? Should I tell Bones what I'm thinking for perhaps the first time in my life?_ he wonders. _Do I want to ask her what she thinks about it? Do I want to hear her answer?_ He's conflicted.

Booth clears his throat, then asks, "Does it bother you that I've been with other people?"

Bones doesn't say anything, but continues looking at him. She's thinking.

"So, just so I'm clear about the question," she says, sounding focused, intense, "This isn't about how I would feel if you were in a relationship with someone else right now, right?"

"Right," he says, nodding, then waiting, watching her face intently. "It's about how do you feel now, being in a relationship with me now," he says, wondering if maybe he shouldn't have started down this path because he's becoming increasingly unsure of how her answer will affect him. He blows out a mouthful of air and continues in a much quieter voice. "knowing that other people have … uh … you know … been here before you," he says, gesturing toward himself with his hand, feeling the hot fingers of failure crawling up his neck like a gravity-defying trickle of sweat.

Bones thinks for a moment, taking an emotional inventory. _What do I think - how do I **feel** about him having intimately loved others before me?_ she wonders. _And what purpose does it serve to tell him? How will he react? What does he feel about me having shared intimately with others before him?_ She feels stuck, and uncomfortable.

"You're going to hyperventilate in a minute if you don't just go ahead and answer the question," he says, bringing attention to the fact that she's been breathing rather deeply and rapidly since he asked the question.

"I don't know," she says, a question in her expression. "It matters more how _you_ feel about it, I think," she says, then pauses, searching his eyes. "I'm not sure. Being that the option of being the first to have been to Planet Booth no longer exists …"

"Oh, I'm the only one who goes to Planet Booth," he says, tapping on his temple.

"I thought you said I'm pretty much up there all the time … naked apparently," she says, semi-sarcastically.

The edges of his mouth turn up slightly, but the almost-smile doesn't make it to his eyes. He sighs heavily, feeling a bit defeated by his own lack of self-control in the past. He slumps.

"Shit," he says looking away. What he was warned against his entire life, what he's worked so hard to deny, what if he finds out now that this is the most devastating of the consequences of his promiscuity, and that it really _does_ matter? That it _can_ make a difference to the intimacy between two people if they have been with other people in the past.

"We can't un-rob that bank," he mumbles, shrugging.

"What?" she asks, her brows furrowing.

He clears his throat, and says it again. "We can't … un-rob … that bank, Bones. We can't return the money and say we're sorry, we didn't mean it, and can we please just forget it all happened. It won't bring back a reality in which we were never did it."

"What are you talking about?" she asks, confused. "Why would _you_ have robbed a bank?" She's slightly alarmed, but assuming he will clarify. Hoping he does it quickly, because this does not sound good.

"When I was growing up the message was, don't do it, don't have sex or all kinds of bad things will happen and eventually you'll wind up in hell. At least, that's how I interpreted it. But as I got older, the message wasn't about going to hell as much, it was about the difference it makes to be able to share exclusively with one person … to not worry about the ghosts of other lovers being in the room whenever you make love to your spouse … the precious confidence that what is between you is yours, and no one else's. Never has been, never will be."

"Oh," is all she can say, which she does, and in the key of D.

"I wish I had something to give you … Bones … that I hadn't given to anyone else," he says, shrugging, looking away, then slowly back. He's getting a little glossy-eyed. It probably wouldn't affect him so much if it hadn't been pounded into his head over and over as a teen: "Save yourself for that one special person that you will spend the rest of your life with!"

"Booth," she whispers, resting her hand on his face, his stubble prickling her palm in a now familiar and very pleasurable way, reminding her of the sensation of his kisses along her jawline. She shakes her head, looking him straight in the eyes. "Booth, you already _have_ given me something you've never given to anyone else …" she says, leaning her head to the left, a soulful, compassionate warmth coming from her cool eyes.

Booth looks back at her, unsure what to say. She moves her hand from his face and onto the nape of his neck where she covers his skin with her palm and gives him a gentle massaging squeeze. It is a soothing gesture. Booth closes his eyes for a moment, hoping her warmth will melt away what's left of the ice sickle that's taken residence in his spinal column. She looks away from him for a moment, ascertaining the best way to say what she wants him to know. When she looks back into his eyes, her voice catches in her throat at the affection and appreciation she finds there.

He's waiting to hear whatever she says, and he knows it will change him, whatever it is._ Dammit, why have I been so careless?_ He laments. _Why have I always assumed I know what's best for me, that I can handle all the consequences … that I even KNOW all the consequences for my actions? Why have I never shared myself before like I can with Bones?_ He knows the answer even before he thinks it. It's because she is the first person who sees him for who he truly is. Not a hero, but a man. Not a tough guy, but a human being with a very tender and very vulnerable heart. Not just a partner, or a friend, but someone she's always believed in despite his flaws, despite his occasionally screwed-up priorities, and despite his continual and sometimes fruitless attempts at doing everything _RIGHT_.

Bones sighs before she says anything. Booth isn't rushing her.

"You have given me …" she begins, smiling as she speaks, "your whole metaphorical heart and a soft place to fall. You've given me," she starts again, resting her forehead on his, looking into the big beautiful brown eye in the middle, "your complete trust, your unending devotion, and your patience, which have given me the strength to overcome my past and learn how to take risks of the heart." She sits back a bit, sliding her hand into his, intertwining their fingers. He closes his fingers around the back of her hand, returning the squeeze. "You've introducing me to experiences and richness in life that I never believed existed before I met you. I find your argument that love comes first, followed by the release of endorphins, rather than the other way around, quite compelling," she says, smiling gently with wonder in her eyes.

"Booth, you make me believe that sex really can be more than sex. That it is something special between two people who care about each other. That these people have chosen to touch each others metaphorical souls in a way that no one else has." She pauses for a moment, looking in his eyes. "I find the prospect of sharing that kind of transcendental love-making with you to be overwhelmingly humbling - something worth waiting for - something to look forward to -"

Before she can get any more words out, she's caught up in an embrace that knocks the wind out of her. Booth is hugging her to his chest so fiercely that it is dangerously close to maligning her spinal column and possibly breaking her collar bone. His jaw brushes against her face so quickly and with such force that it feels like her skin in being sanded off.

"Booth?" she says, almost inaudibly because her vocal chords are bring pressed into his clavicle, making it difficult for her to speak comfortably.

In the rush of Booth on Bones, he's pinned one of her arms between them, and the other one falls limply across his back. She reaches up into his hair and gently pulls it, moving his head back so she can look in his eyes. "Hey," she says, as he loosens his grip enough so she can breathe and speak, "if it is any consolation to you, your epidermis sloughs off and regenerates on an average of once a week. Other cells in our bodies take much longer to regenerate, but we do not, as health lore would have us believe, completely regenerate every cell in our bodies every seven years."

Booth is beaming at her, but doesn't actually see the relevance of her little science lesson. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't really care if she furthers her explanation or not.

"In other words," she continues, "one could interpret the epidermal replacement as meaning that anyone who touched the skin of Past Booth has not touched Current Booth. Current Booth and Future Booth belong only to me," she says, relaxing now that she can breathe, and grinning sweetly, confidently, at him. She winks. This, of course, results in another crushing embrace. This time, however, she leans into him so she lands chest to soft chest instead of trachea to clavicle. "I've never seen you so excited about biology before, Booth," she says. "But I like it," she giggles.

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><p><em>As I struggled with the length of this chapter, a twitter buddy told me the average <em>  
><em>reader finds 1200-2500 words to be optimum reading length. This chapter has almost 6,000 words.<br>So, I ask you, gentle __reader, would you prefer shorter chapters more frequently, or longer chapters less _  
><em>frequently? Oh, and what did you think of the BonesBooth conversation so far?_


	181. I Gave You 180 Chapters

**Chapter 181 I Gave You 180 Chapters, You Can Give Me One**

_A/N Readers, The BoneYard, as it is affectionately known, is and hopefully always will be, my Bones home. It's where I first learned about the genre of fan fiction. When I post, I post my chapter there before anywhere else. **The When and the How: A Bone to Pick** has sixty self-identified readers who comment regularly and scads of lurkers who support each other in our Bones lust. It generates between 1,000 and 1,400 views per day. They are a much smaller site, so that's fairly decent traffic, I think. On October 28th, the BoneYard was scheduled to be down for site renovations ... so we all began to panic. How would we keep in touch? How would the readers get the new chapters? We started cryptic notes about where else on the web we could find each other ... hoping it would work, hoping we'd all find our way back to the BoneYard after the renovations ... that is, if Fox hasn't decided to eliminate it's community which we cannot imagine. "That would never happen," became out favorite Brennanism._

_With the date looming, and the next chapter no where NEAR completion, I decided to post, for my readers, a preliminary chaplet of the rough draft for Chapter 180. Sometimes what's in the first draft never even makes it to the web, but these are my peeps and I trust them. But then I freaked out, and yanked what I'd written. In it's place, I put the following, never intending it to go anywhere else, but my readers had a different opnion, which is why you are reading this here now._

_If you really aren't interested in this, feel free to skip it. I will never know. Chapter 182 will be posted later today.  
><em>

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><p><strong>PART I<strong>

Are you surprised to see me here? The rapture didn't take the BoneYard yet ... maybe it never will. But I'll hit "send" every paragraph or so just to get out as much as possible before it does. You can't keep a good woman down ... or a loud one, at least.

Okay - So you're wondering what the hell happened here, right? You came last night and saw that, in a strange twist of fate, a partially constructed "Chapter 180 A Little Self Control" had been posted, as my gift to you, as possibly the last post prior to The BoneYard's plunge into temporary oblivion. Then you returned an hour later ... or perhaps this morning, to find that the chapter-in-progress was gone! And you wondered ... was something moderated? What happened? Did you IMAGINE the excerpt had been posted here when it really wasn't? What happened to it? You wanted to see it again ... to show your friends how far off the mark this writer had gone as she grappled with Booth's response to Bones' questions about his dichotomous existence between what was pounded into his head when he was young, and how he chose to conduct his life as an adult ... making adult decisions.

Here's the deal folks ... for over four months, I've pumped out chapter after chapter, having a blast while doing it, enamored with the experience of connecting with y'all, gaining enormous confidence from your responses to my development of the internal lives of these characters and my (assumed) ability to write them ... and yet ... none of us (me in particular, because that is all I truly know - you remain a mystery to me and always will, human nature being what it is) really knows how those around us feel and think deep in our hearts about the choices we've made in our lives. Especially those choices that contradict what we were taught as children. Yet, we made those choices for whatever rationalization we came up with at the time. In my own life, when I make choices contradictory to my training ... there's a great deal of," I'm not going to think about the consequences now, I'll worry about that later ... if those consequences even DO come true." Yeah, it's denial. I'm an expert at denial. Life would be too devastating if we all weren't adept at denial to some degree. Without denial I wouldn't be able to clear the dinner dishes at night without scraping the plates into a zip lock bag and shipping it to the other side of the world. After all, my parents pounded into my head that I had to eat all my food because there are starving children over in China who have nothing to eat. What I never questioned as a child was, what good did my eating all my food do for those children in China who were starving? I digress …

To be continued ...

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><p><strong>Part II<strong>

Continuing until they cut me off ...

So what good does it do us to wonder what was going on in Booth's head when he chose to toss out things he'd learned as a child in exchange for some hanky panky? He had been warned it could give him venereal disease at best, and at worst, damn him to an eternity in the fiery pit of hell without a slab of beef, a pair of grilling tongs, and a flame modulator!

I'll tell you the good it does ... it confirms for us that we are all human and we all make choices and we all deny consequences, because that's just what we do. This is an explanation. Not an excuse. It doesn't really make what we've chosen to do "okay," though we like to think it does. Hey, at least we won't be all alone in hell, right?

What good does it do, then, to speculate, to write, to read about what goes on in someone else's head during the grapple? I'll tell you the good it does ... it allows us to look at another and to confirm that we can make mistakes, make poor choices, and still be good people. We like Booth, those of us who are healthy. Some of us think we are in love with him. (No, really. Admit it. There's no shame in that, come on.) Some of us may have even spent quality time on the couch across from a professional, worried about our obsession with a person who doesn't even exist!

You do know that Booth doesn't exist, right? That's not blasphemous ... it's the truth. Sure, Mr. David Boreanaz exists. And people like Booth exist, perhaps. But we don't get to see any other person's real life evolve and unfold in front of the camera in the way we've gotten to see Booth's. So we think Booth is real. We hope he is real. We want him to be real. (Though he's actually an amalgam of HH, DB and the other writers ... as well as some valuable input from ED, I'm sure). And if he is real, we want to see how he handles the same choices we've all had to make. Does he ever face his denial? How does he explain his life choices to the woman he loves? And how does he feel now that those choices have made an indelible mark on his soul, possibly having an adverse affect on his current relationship? We want to know that our ill-chosen choices will not one day destroy us, that we can rise above them somehow. And maybe Booth can show us that it is possible.

So, why does Booth believe in God? Maybe because if he had to face all the crap, the ugliness, the pain in the world without hope, he wouldn't last long. At all. He needs to believe there is a plan, and a benevolent creator watching over him, bringing purpose to the pain, inspiring the joy, reinforcing the goodness in the world, and in himself. He needs to know that something good will come of it all. He needs to believe in redemption and forgiveness. Other people, perhaps even you, have other ways of grappling with life's iniquities. This is my way, I mean, Booth's way. It is not the correct way, or the best way. We do not know if God even exists. How can anyone say they know for sure? With empirical knowledge there can be no faith. (Strong statement, I know. It's not the truth ... it's just something I wrote here ... so keep your shorts on, rational people and scientists!) I don't have knowledge. I have faith. Faith in God. You have your faith in whatever you have it in, and hopefully it gets you through. I know mine gets me through ... most of the time. That and about a case of diet Coke and a two pounds of chocolate a week.

Maybe what we love about Special Agent _Sexy_ Booth (which my Brennan called him on occasion when she's feeling particularly playful) 's that he rekindles our faith in humanity and in ourselves. In redemption. He's a sniper, for Christ's sake, right? Snipers kill people. That's his job. As necessary as it is, it's still killing. If _he_ can have a good life, with a wonderful child, and the most beautiful woman in the world by his side, surely you and I can make an honest to goodness not-too-dry lasagna and be able to hold our heads up high and talk to the people around our dinner table without the shame of our past mistakes holding us back. If he can do it, we can do it, right? That's why we love the idea of Seeley Booth. That is why I love Seeley Booth. And, of course, because I can make him say all the things I'd give my eye teeth to have my husband say to me. Spouses take note.

As an aside, I'll tell you who you should be in love with. Hart Hanson. And Mr. David Boreanaz, and not for the obvious reasons, but - keep your shorts on - I'll get to that in a moment. For a large part, he's our Cyrano de Bergerac. He and his team. If you don't know what that means, friends, look it up. And ... justifiably, David Boreanaz. He and others have testified to the fact that so much of Booth, his idiosyncrasies, his totems, his decor, and of course all of his mannerisms ... comes right from DB himself. Now, Booth is not David Boreanaz. Mr. Boreanaz has stated that there are things that Booth does that he, David, would never do. And since Booth is pretty near perfect as men go, we can all understand that the opposite is also true. But you have to know that the soul of Booth was created by and resides inside DB ... who took what HH wrote and created an icon.

Or, maybe now you think you've got a little crush on me because I've written content you can relate to, or I've had the cones to say things you've wished you could say or others would be willing to talk about with you. No, you really don't, gentle reader. You're just relieved that you're not out there alone. And there's the final reason I've loved being on this site, writing this story. I like knowing that I'm not alone in my humanity.

* * *

><p><strong>Part III<strong>

So when I write about Booth and how he's grappling on behalf of all of us, I can't help but do the only thing I know how to do I give him my words, thoughts, feelings. And I do the same thing with Brennan.

So, why did I remove the rough draft excerpt of "Chapter 180 A Little Self-Control" from the BoneYard? Perhaps because I felt it had a little too much Catherine in it and not enough Booth and Brennan in it. And I felt embarrassed. I'd like to be the person who can say, "here's what I think, and fuck the rest of y'all" and really mean it. And sometimes I do … to an extent, but then I cringe at the anticipated fallout right after pushing the save button. The only reason I DO press the send button is that I feel more strongly that something needs to be said, than that I need to sleep at night. Believe me, there have been a lot of erased posts … though those can cause sleepless nights as well.

My father told me this past spring that he felt ashamed when I used the 'f' word on Twitter (explaining my profanity angst, despite my love of it). He's a wonderful man, and his opinion means a great deal to me. It crushed me, but I have to be honest and tell you his comment was merely a reflection of my own opinion about my use of the word. Sometimes, I throw self-control to the wind and I let my freak flag fly. Sometimes people just don't hear you if you're unobtrusive, and sometimes I really want to be heard, dammit.

And I idolize my father, maybe too much. And while Mom and Dad wouldn't have been ashamed of me telling the world how I believe in the reverence of sex in a committed (and/or) married relationship, after all, who do you think taught me that? I really didn't want the world knowing about the tender underbelly of this MoxieGirl. Being a good person in this world has come back and smacked me in the ass, and I mean HARD, and not just once. Perhaps my "fuck y'all" is really about not feeling comfortable being a somewhat decent person living in a world that finds decadence and self-indulgence sexy. I want to be sexy. I want Booth to think I'm sexy, for Christ's sake! His devout Catholicism is part of what makes him sexy to me. So I gave him my beliefs at first, but then I got embarrassed and took them down.

So as Booth grapples with the fact that he chose how to conduct himself, and he justifies it by pointing out that he's willing and able to pay the consequences, I have him considering that he may have regrets. Do we know all the consequences? What if we find out we don't - which is highly likely. What if, when we are faced with the worst consequences of our actions, they are devastating? What if, when and if Booth says,

"**Does it bother you that I've had sex with other people?" she eventually says ...**

_"Yeah, if I am completely honest with myself, it does bother me that other women have touched you and loved you and held you and stared into your eyes and thrilled at the sensation of your stubble-sprinkled jaw across their breasts or thighs. I wonder if anything I do or any way I touch you remind you of someone else. Are there things that I don't do as well or as sweetly as someone else has done them? How do YOU feel when you look at my body and know you are not the first one to see me like this? Do you wonder what those other men were like and if I still think of them ... if they are somehow in the room with us when you touch me when we are making love?"_

If Booth and Brennan have those thoughts, would they express them to each other? Somehow I think they would be more practical. You can't un-ring that bell. You can't un-rob that bank. I think they'd forgive each other (if they feel they need to) and they'd appreciate what life has brought to their table and they'd move on. They are not a couple to wallow in their flaws, not in my book. They are more about working through them and supporting each other to move on. MY chapter wasn't heading in that direction quickly enough. It needs more Bones-y Boothiness. A Little less MoxieGirlishness.

That is why I took it down. Not because I really believed that last paragraph, but because I thought you would find it more believable than what I really thought, and but because I felt exposed.

**So when you, dear reader, wrote this to me, I got bold …**

From Hailey:  
>I thought that the chapter was GREAT! Definitely very BOOTH and BRENNAN like! I could definitely see them having this conversation in the show. Or something similar, because they would need to. Being the people that they are they would need to discuss things like that before being in a committed relationship between the two. I really thought that this chapter was great! Fantastic Job with it<p>

_From Jeannette:_  
><em>In my opinion, the chapter you deleted was perfect. There's nothing I would have changed. Booth could have been a little more skittish about the topic of sex, but...It was very B+B-like. And everyone has regrets...no matter their age...you just have to accept them, like you said. Whether it is something you did wrong in the past...or something you wish you would have not skipped out on. I think I speak for all the readers when I say that the little bits of your personality added into the FF make it ever more interesting to read. It's never dull, never uninteresting; it's realistic.<em>

_From Mackenzie:_  
><em>I liked the last chapter. I think things like this if we like them or not have to happen.<em>

_From Sharon:_  
><em>Catherine, all the updates are awesome. Booth's faith and religion are an integral part of the character. It is one of the central BrennanBooth dynamics, IMHO. You handled it beautifully and true to life. We all, regardless of our religious affiliation, struggle with these very questions, especially when our children start to question us. Can't wait until "Tuesday" and best of all, next Thursday!,_

_From McKenna:_  
><em>I temped fate and went back to the (BoneYard) and found out about your questions. It all made sense to me. Hoping you will put it on (the Fan Fiction site) for a second read though. I liked reading all the parts of the thoughts you had.<em>

I got bold and I put it back up with additions, and barely any subtractions.

**Upload. Edit. Save. Publish. Crawl back into bed and hide under the covers.**

MoxieGirl44 on twitter.

* * *

><p>Whether you give a donkey turd or not, is your own business.<br>Sometimes we all just gotta say, "WTF. I'm doing it. Then we click  
>UploadEditSavePublish and we let the chips fall where they may.<br>New chapter on its way this afternoon. Hope this wasn't a waste of your time.


	182. That Is Wildly Inappropriate

_A/N The votes are in almost every one of you prefers longer chapters. Who would ever want less Booth and Bones, right? I appreciate your feedback on that. I will continue with the longer chapters. Most especially, thank you, loyal readers, for sticking with me through that rather personal departure from the norm. Just had to get those thoughts out to the world. And more than anything, thank you for the comments! And those of you who hated it, thanks for not giving up on **The When and the How: A Bone to Pick!** In case you were confused by it, no chapters have been yanked ... you ARE getting all of them. Here's the next one now! Enjoy! ~ MoxieGirl_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 182 That's Wildly Inappropriate<strong>

"So … I'm still not clear on how you were able to bypass those rules against sexual activity prior to marriage … and you haven't said anything about cohabitation …"

"The kibosh on living together should be obvious, Bones. What happens when you have two hormonally charged people who are crazy about each other living in the same little space day in and day out? It's what we call 'an occasion of sin,' by the way."

"An occasional what?"

"An occasion of sin. It means intentionally putting yourself in a situation where you know you will be tempted to sin. For example, don't get into the back seat of the Chevy at lover's lane or you will be tempted to … do stuff you're not supposed to. Don't go on a business trip with your super sexy married coworker and get hotel rooms on the same floor, right next to each other, if you know you won't be able to keep your hands off of her. Don't go to your friends' house when you know there will be alcohol there, and your parents have recently forbidden you to drink. Don't live with your girlfriend because things WILL get hot and heavy, and you will be tempted to sleep with her. In all of these situations, you put yourself in a spot where doing the right thing will be incredibly hard to do."

She nods. "Got it."

"As for rejecting the prohibition on sex based on it being a sin, I guess there was a part of me that wasn't really convinced sex **_is_** a sin. I'm still not convinced -"

"Liar," she says, looking him straight in the eyes, not flinching.

"Now give me a minute," he says, "I do believe it's a good idea to forgo sexual activity until your old enough to be clear about the potential consequences. Why did I do it when I was too young to truly, truly grasp the impact it could have on my life? Teenage hormones and lack of self-control. I have no other excuse," he says, shrugging. "As I got older, I think my justification was that I was mature enough to do whatever the hell I wanted, as long as I was responsible. I have no excuse other than that, Bones. Until tonight, I've never even considered regretting what I've shared with the women I've been with. Not once. As for living with Hannah, I'm closing in on 40 years old, Bones. I'm old enough to make my own decisions about that too, screwed-up as those decisions may prove to be in retrospect. Responsible adults should be able to make their own decisions."

"Hm. Interesting," says Brennan, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Uh oh. I know that look and that tone of voice. I'm being led down a path to being handed my ass on a platter, aren't I?"

"No," replies Brennan grimacing innocently, shaking her head. "It's just that I don't understand why you can't model _that_ kind of decision-making for Parker."

"What do you mean?" he says, narrowing his own eyes and looking at her sideways through his lashes.

"Model for him how a mature man conducts himself in a relationship," she says, watching his expression as she says it. "Show him that a mature man in a mature relationship with a mature woman to whom he's committed, can choose to cohabit with her, show affection to her …"

Booth leans way back and exhales, raising his arms above his head as if she's holding him by gunpoint. He really wants no part of even thinking about having these conversations with Parker. He shudders involuntarily at the prospect. "That's a lot to think about. It goes against everything I've -"

"It goes against what you've been taught immature people shouldn't do. Young, irresponsible people, of which you are not, Booth, and haven't been for a long time." Her shoulders drop as she explains this. She can see he's in turmoil. He's chewing on his lip, his fingers are covering his mouth, and he's absently shaking his leg.

"Booth, you can't keep him locked up forever. He's a smart kid. Better that he hear these things from you, your way, than somewhere else, isn't that what you said?" she looks at him compassionately. He's screwing up his lips, staring at the ground thinking jumbled thoughts.

"I know you want to protect him," she continues, "And that is wonderful. Kids are not protected enough from the depravity of the outside world. If you keep these things from him, whatever you are holding back, he'll go get his information somewhere else, and who knows what misinformation he'll be fed." She stops there, wondering if she should continue. "Have you explained sexual intercourse to him yet?" she asks.

"God no! He's nine, Bones." He says, dropping his hand from his lips with his palm up, shaking his head.

"Booth, he's nine. I was over at the school with him last Tuesday. Have you seen his classmates? He's in a combined class. Nine and ten year olds. Some eleven year olds as well, over half of them female. Booth, some of those girls are already exhibiting secondary sex characteristics. They say it's because of the growth hormones in the milk they drink … or due to the fact that kids are heavier these days …. which is another characteristic that brings on early menses. Menstruation, Booth. You know what comes with menstruation?"

"Maxi pads? Tampons?" he says, panic in his tone and his expression.

"Pheromones, progesterones, estradiol," she says, noting his panic and wondering how he's going to react when he hears more of what she has to say on this topic. She mentally reviews the date of her last mouth-to-mouth resuscitation training, recalling it is within the acceptable time frame to qualify her to administer it. She can't help snickering to herself, confident that she would have no problem arousing, I mean, reviving him with her own version of mouth-to-mouth. _Get a hold of yourself, Temperance,_ she tells herself, regaining her composure and preparing to put a kink in this poor man's image of the culture surrounding his young son.

"Whether or not he knows what pheromones are, from now on Parker will always be surrounded by young post-menarche classmates who are being cyclicly flooded with progesterone following the luteal phase of their menstrual cycles. As a result, these girls' bodies are packing proliferative endometriums and experiencing invagination of the cervix which … you should know … produces fertile cervical mucous. Are you okay?" She asks, noting his increasingly gray pallor. Brennan lays her hand on Booth's shoulder as he leans over like a felled oak and drops his forehead on her knee, his arms falling limply over and past her left thigh. Concerned, but accustomed to his discomfort regarding sexual biology, she gently and firmly rubs his back in long strokes, then in wide circles, until she can feel the timing of his breathing reverting back to a rhythmic cadence from the gasping staccato it had been when he first fell over. This takes about four minutes, during which Brennan remains silent.

Sitting upright, Booth straightens his tee shirt, runs a hand through his prickly messed-up hair, and clears his throat. When he's composed himself, he turns to Brennan, traces of a pained realization still evident in his demeanor, and sputters, "Are you saying these girls are … in heat … at eleven and twelve years of age?"

Brennan exhales and screws her lips up into a pucker, her heart going out to him. "I'm not saying they are going to proposition your son, Sweetheart -" she stops mid-sentence when she registers his reaction to the beginning of her comment. Tread lightly, Temperance, she tells herself.

"Ohhhhaaaa," he gasps. He's a deer, a four point buck, caught in the sites of a Missourian huntsman toting a Winchester M70 rifle and an itchy trigger finger._ Oh no, she called me sweetheart,_ he thinks to himself, _it must be even worse than I thought._ He looks at her lap, wondering if he should plant himself there again. "You think you're making this sound better, but it's only getting worse. For God's sake … is there any more? Spit it out. Get it over with before I pass out!"

Brennan watches him closely, noting his color, the shininess of his eyes, the pace of his breathing, and decides the band aid-ripping strategy is the best. In one long, run-on sentence, she spits out the rest of what she was planning to say. "Research shows that sexual activity and context, in whatever form they take in eleven year olds, is already becoming part of their culture or it already is if they watch any television at all and Parker may not physically participate, but he won't be able to avoid hearing talk or seeing suggestive media, so you should … just think about it, Booth, because isn't it better if he learns about sex correctly from you rather than crudely elsewhere, because that's all I'm saying."

Booth inhales for all he's worth through lips pulled together in a tight circle, then exhales thoroughly. "Isn't his mother … shouldn't Rebecca do that?" he says, blanching once again, scrambling for a way out of what promises to be a reality he's not ready to face. "I suppose it's my responsibility, too, as a parent," he says, uncomfortably. "I just hadn't thought it would be so soon," he complains, whimpering.

"I'm not a parent, but I would certainly want to be there when my child learns about human reproduction. If your concerned that you aren't an expert at the mechanics of -"

"Hey! I have a son, remember? Isn't that proof that I know something about the mechanics of sex?" Blurts Booth, still on the hairy edge of a melt down. "I thought I had another four or five years before I had to start thinking about this! I thought I could wait until he's got hair under his armpits. I just didn't -"

"Booth, listen, you could always go about it the scientific way. Start with reproduction at the cellular level. I could gather a dossier written at a level he will comprehend, then you just read it to him and then see if he has any questions."

"Well, like, what? What kind of explanation would you give?"

"Oh … well … just to give you an idea, uh," she says, her face pinching up in thought, "I might say that In the viviparous animals, which means all placental mammals, the ovum is fertilized inside the female body. Then he might ask, how does it get there, to which I would respond, through internal fertilization by sexual intercourse in which the semen, containing a motile uniflagellar sperm cell, referred to as a spermatozoon, or sperm, is ejaculated into the female reproductive tract when the male's erect -"

"Fucking WOAH, Bones! Okay? Now just hold on a minute!" yelps Booth, verbally pouncing on her. "That's not how you introduce a kid to the wonders of procreation! What's wrong with you? This is not a science project! Parker is not one of your sqinterns, okay? This is my son. My son, Bones. Have a little compassion, a little human decency here, okay? What have we been talking about all night? This is more than just biology. Why are you grinning at me like that?"

"Because you will do a phenomenal job when you talk to Parker, Booth. You are a caring, loving father, and this is a momentous father-son experience for both of you."

"Okay," he says, suspiciously, looking at her sideways. "And?"

"And it holds great import for you, so you will think about what you want to say, and you'll worry about it, changing your mind several times, and eventually what you come up with will be perfect."

"I will? I mean, it will? And how will I do that?"

"I predict that you will do what you always do: toss and turn for several nights, bringing the topic up between you and me several times while you weigh the options. As part of the process, you will most likely corner Sweets asking for his counsel, which you will reject upon first receiving, then reconsider when you get frustrated," she explains as if it should be obvious. "And finally, in recalling your own youth and innocence, you will think about how you would have appreciated learning about human reproduction, and who you would have preferred told you about it. You will think about what's important to you, and you will ensure that Parker understands about reverencing sex as a bonding and transcendental celebration between committed, mature adults."

Booth is taken aback. "Wow, for a non-parent, that's pretty good advice."

"It wasn't advice, it was a prediction. And where do you think I got it from?"

He stares at her. Did I miss something?

"I'm just feeding back to you what you've been telling me, Romeo," she says, crossing her arms and sitting back to relax.

"You really do listen, don't you?"

"Of course I do," she says with an affectionate, toothy smile. I love you, she thinks.

"Well … anyway, it's a really good idea, Bones. I'm impressed."

"You usually are, Booth," she says confidently. "Talking with Parker about this is going to be a wonderfully bonding experience for you -"

"Wonderfully awkward, you mean," he retorts.

"Do you feel awkward talking to me about it?"

Booth thinks about the chat with God preceding this discussion. She doesn't know it, but he hasn't been alone here on the couch with her. "Actually, I haven't felt awkward at all … it's been actually … kinda nice," He says shrugging, smiling sheepishly.

"Then there you go," she says, gesturing in the air for emphasis, then letting her hand fall onto his thigh.

Booth stares at the ground. He won't be alone, after all. God won't abandon him then either, like He didn't tonight. He never does.

Bones continues. "Besides, this will also be a good opportunity to talk about self-respect -"

"And self-control," he says.

"Feelings, expectations," she adds, nodding.

"Consequences," He says, getting the hang of it.

"Birth control - " she suggests.

"Disease -"

"Alternative life styles -"

"What? Whoa, one thing at a time, lady! Let's start with morals and values, alright?" He says, continuing with the list. "We can get into the other stuff later on."

"Right," she agrees, encouragingly. "You'll want to talk about how he wants his life to be when he grows up."

"I see. Yeah. Does he see himself with children?"

"Right. Does he want to live with those children? If so, he should make sure he's committed for life to his sexual partner," she suggests.

"Woah! Parker? With a sexual partner?" he asks, incredulously. "You mean a WIFE," He insists.

"Of course. And you can also teach him of the importance of always letting the lady go first," she suggests, matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, like holding doors for them so they can walk through first, and opening car doors for them, or dropping them off at the front of church when it's raining so they don't have to jump through the puddles. Like that, right?"

Now she looks at him with one of those _'you've GOT to be kidding'_ stares. "Uh, _no,_" she says, suggestively, while enlightenment dawns on him.

"Oh Christ! You're not talking about opening doors and cars, are you?" he says, leaning his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, gripping at his hair.

"I'm talking about mutual sexual satisfaction, Booth," she looks at him like he didn't know that two plus two equals four.

"Agh!" he says, looking like he's going to cover his ears now. "Lets get back to the more … basic … details," he intones, trying not to panic again. "Like religion.

"Morality -"

"Suspicious fathers -"

"Sure, and pregnancy, disease -"

"We already said disease. He'll need to know about cheer leaders -"

"What?" she blurts, surprised at this seemingly irrelevant suggestion.

"Oh, nothing. Never mind," he says, falling silent, biting his lip in taciturn contemplation.

She watches his expression as he continues to consider his options. She can still sense a whiff of anxiety floating in the air.

"I will certainly have to think about it …" he croaks, absently, looking around for the Holy Spirit. Since he's not exactly where HS is right now, he reaches toward the coffee table and grabs the whiskey, taking a really big gulp, then shivers involuntarily as it burns down his throat. "WHEW!" he blurts, looking at the label. "You want some?" he asks Brennan, pointing at her with the bottle.

"Sure, what the hell," she says, grabbing it from him, taking a swig, then wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Thanks," she squeaks, then giggles.

* * *

><p>"I still don't believe you don't consider it a sin. I mean, at your core," she says, half shrugging. "What about guilt?" She asks, her eyebrows reaching across the bridge of her nose toward each other.<p>

"What _ABOUT_ guilt?" he asks, noncommittally, maybe a little defensively.

"If you didn't accept that sex outside of marriage was a sin, then you must not have ever felt remorse."

"No," he says quickly, too quickly.

"Not even when you were a teenager?" She asks, still unconvinced.

Booth locks eyes with her, thinking for a moment, scratching his chin, rubbing his nose, sucking on his upper lip. His leg is moving up and down like a sewing machine needle doing a running straight stitch. "You're right," he admits, with a chagrined shrug. "I did. Why do you have to do that?" he whines, his upper body vibrating from the rapid movement of his shaking knee and foot.

"What?" she asks, curious.

"Make me want to tell the truth?"

She shrugs, flashing him some big innocent eyes, leaning her head to the left.

"Okay. I DID feel guilty. The first couple of times," he admits. She reaches across and gently slaps her palm on his pumping patella. When it stops abruptly, the other one starts up. She does the same thing to the second patella, leaving her hand where it is until his legs are completely still.

"You felt guilty," she repeats.

"Yeah. And nothing happened. We never contracted a disease. We never got caught by her parents or Pops. She didn't end up pregnant. That made it really easy to convince myself that we weren't doing anything wrong."

"But, I would contend that your faith prescribes sin as wrong, even in the absence of immediate consequences," she asserts.

"I know, and that bothered me. Every once in a while those thoughts would pop up. That I was doing something wrong," he says, shrugging, anguished at the memory in view of new revelations. "But I shoved them out of the way. I ignored them, Bones. That's what we do when we're faced with a reality we don't like," he shakes his head as he looks over at her, finally resigned to the truth. "I let myself get lazy. I forgot all about self-control," he says, one side of his mouth curled up in a half-smirk, and I refused to see it as wrong."

She nods, bending forward a bit with each forward movement. "I get it," she says, reflecting his half-smirk back to him.

"Until today," he continues on, staring out in front of him as if looking at a digital merry-go-round of images of girlfriends past. "Until today when I'm questioning the wisdom of those choices, considering the possible impact they could have for me and you. Is that crazy?" He looks disturbed, confused.

"No, Booth. I don't think it's crazy at all. I question my past actions all the time. Not the professional ones, mind you. I'm nearly perfect in that realm. But in the personal arena? Whew!" she says, scratching her forehead then dropping her hand to her leg with a smack. "So, if someone told you back then that you might regret your actions twenty years in the future, do you think that would have made a difference?"

"Probably not," he says, chuffing, being honest. "Maybe I would have had a little more self-restraint, but it wouldn't have stopped me altogether, I promise you that," he says, chuckling.

"Knowing what you know now, do you you regret having made the choices you did?" she asks, just feeling him out.

He thinks for a moment, furrowing his brow and chewing on the corner of his mouth. "I regret," he pauses. "I regret not reverencing sex as much as I should have, but I don't regret having had it. Without it, there would be no Parker," he says, his voice trailing off as he gets lost in thought for a while.

They sit in silence. He reaches out and takes her hand, holding it. He brings it to his lips and kisses the back of her hand, then touches her skin where he'd just kissed it, as if rubbing it in, making it permanent. She smiles at him, her demeanor mild and contemplative. She squeezes his hand in a return gesture, and broadens her smile. Finally, he rests their intertwined hands on her knee, and smiles back at her, then leans in and kisses her behind her ear.

"This is a completely different kind of night than last night was," he comments, off the cuff.

"Accurate description, Booth," she says nodding. "And don't change the subject. Was that the first time? Was the guilt following the first time you had sexual intercourse?"

Booth thinks, then nods slowly. "Yeah, it was," he says, leaning back on the couch, relaxing for the first time in a while. "You want me to tell you about it?"

"Only if you want to."

"Well, it all started out as just -"

"Wait," she says raising her hand, her palm facing him. "That Chivas really hit me. I need to lay down." She surprises him by kissing him, then lying down and reaching up for him. He scoots sideways and cuddles up next to her horizontally on the couch, so they're laying facing each other, his back to the couch, her back to the New American Catholic translation of the Holy Bible on the shelf. By the time they reach their horizontal destination, his arms are encircling her rib cage and her arms are at his neck, but his head is pretty much at breast level. He drops his head forward, sinking his face into her pajama top, and chuckles, breathing in her familiar, warm, sleepy Bones-y scent. Laying his head to the side against her right breast, he closes his eyes.

"I think I've just found my happy place." He grins, eyes closed, sighing and burrowing in like he doesn't plan to come out until Spring.

"I much prefer seeing you like this," she sighs, reaching up to drag her finger nails through his hair and across his scalp.

"And how's that?" he says, dreamily, still lost in his little cloud of comfort. He slides his hand underneath her at the small of her back, tucking it between her and the couch seat cushion. _Warm,_ he thinks. _Calgon®, take me away!_

"Happy, of course. Relaxed," she says, touching his face, his cheek, as he cranes his neck a bit to look up her, "rather than almost passing out from shock and fear." She leans down, running her fingers through his hair again before kissing him on the tip of his nose, then his lips. He sighs, gripping her hips and pulling her lower so they are face to face without him having to crane his neck. Now he can kiss her back, so he does, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her as close as he can, until they are both dizzy from the rush of hormones caused by the pleasing sensation of being belly to belly, chest to chest, hip to hip, and cheek to cheek again.

"Now, _this_ is definitely an occasion of sin," he groans, chuckling and dragging his stubbly chin across her jaw where he plants a smacking kiss on her cheek. For a moment, they lie there, locked in a cozy embrace. She's in awe of how amazing he smells. _Must be the pheromones,_ she thinks. He's transfixed by how amazing it feels to have so much contact with her soft curvy body._ I'm head-over-heals whipped,_ he thinks, chuckling.

"So where were we?" she purrs, nuzzling his neck right under his jawbone, not wanting to move much or disturb where he's resting his skin on hers, right over her left cheek. She's tucked into a little cave between the warmth of the crook of his neck, and the couch cushions below. _I could stay here for a very long time,_ she thinks. _Just send in the food and bring me a couple of books and I'll be fine. Let the world go on without us,_ she muses, a smile alighting on her lips like a butterfly on a daisy.

"I don't quite remember, but talking about all of this reminds me of high school," he finally continues, grinning and squeezing her hips until he can feel the bone underneath the tissue, the innominate bone, he recalls Bones telling him last night. This is his new favorite bone, he decides.

"What do you mean?"

"The high school experience is rife with moral choices and awkward make out sessions, right?"

She shakes her head. "High school was all about studying, dissecting roadkill, and finding places to sit and read where foster brothers wouldn't pelt me with clods of dirt."

"What high school did you go to?" he asks, although he already knows, having visited there to solve a case over a year ago. "Never mind, I've seen it. Even I would have been tempted to play with the roadkill there," he commiserates, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"So what was it like, Romeo? Indulge me," she coos.

"There are a couple of other ways I'd rather indulge you," he says, winking.

"Any of them involve pie, by any chance?" she asks coquettishly.

"Heh, with whipped cream and cherry on top," he says, rubbing noses with her.

"You are pretty effective at the winking, Booth," she comments, blushing impressively, her innards doing a little flip-flop in response, a tingle working it's way a little further down and beyond to places as yet unexplored by present company.

"Of course," he says. "I'm learning from the master," he grins.

She gives him that lopsided grin of hers, then prompts him to continue. "Okay, Romeo, don't change the subject. Regale me with tales of awkward sexual teenage angst. Let me live vicariously through you," she says, snuggling back into her cave with a sigh of contentment.

"Well, there's all these thoughts going on in your head in the middle of making-out. Wanting to get as far as you can, wondering how far she'll let you go, not wanting her to stop you, afraid she won't stop you, then afraid she will stop you. No way to hide the hard-on stuck between you like the gear shift of an old VW Bug. Not knowing if you should be cocky or embarrassed about it. Praying to God it doesn't freak her out or make her think you're a depraved sex maniac. Not knowing how she'll react if you rub up against her."

"Wow. We're getting some detail, here," she says, chuckling, her eyes wide. She laughs a little nervously.

"Why are you laughing? I'm baring my soul here," he says, feigning offense, and chuckling nonetheless.

"I was reminded of the several times that first year we worked together when I'd make a comment about your sex life, and you'd respond with, **"That's wildly inappropriate, Bones,"** she says, adopting a husky voice. "It still feels a bit odd. After six years of keeping that wall of appropriateness between us, all of a sudden we can say or do anything that would have been inappropriate a week ago."

"That was then. It's completely appropriate now in the context of an intimate relationship," he says. For a moment he's lost in thought, which is fine, because the word "intimacy" still gives her capillaries a run for her money and she'd rather not have him notice and tease her about it.

"You know, this has always baffled me … probably why it still makes me, I don't know, skittish," he says, obviously lost in thought. "It's the concept that everything sexual or suggestive is taboo at one point in time, then completely appropriate and healthy after an hour-long ceremony in front of a priest. You go from having absolutely no appropriate outlet for all those impulses, no guidance about what you're supposed to do about them, you're just told, DON'T. Then all of a sudden, it's all bets are off and life is a smorgasbord of married sexual openness with your partner. It is frigging confusing," he says, exasperated.

Still sporting that same puzzled expression, he continues. "And, if you're not supposed to **do** anything, and you're not supposed to **touch** anything-"

"Hey, don't Catholics believe that masturbation causes blindness and can make hair grow on the palms of your hands?"

"Oh, yes. The nuns used to threaten us with both of those promises. I'm living proof it's not true," he snickers, holding up his hand to show her his hairless palm.

She howls at his admission, thoroughly amused that he made it. "You do know there are no hair follicles on the palms and your hands and feet. Therefore, it is physiologically impossible for hair to grow there," she says, once she stops laughing. As open as she can be on topics of a sexual nature, she's never known a man to unabashedly provide such details, especially Booth, Mr. Uptight and Private.

"Right. Well," he says contemplatively. "It would have been nice to know that twenty-five years ago," he chagrins. After a moment with his comment hanging in the air, they crack up again, their bodies shaking with controlled laughter, lest they awaken Parker.

"You are hilarious, Booth," she squeaks out once she can talk without losing control again.

"I know I am. Why are you surprised?" he says, pretending to be dismayed at her apparent surprise.

"I'm not," she snorts, laughing all over again.

He shoots her the stink eye, then continues.

"So, anyway. My point is … my QUESTION is how the hell are young Christian boys supposed to figure anything out? You're not supposed to look at porn, you can't read anything suggestive, heaven forbid you should touch yourself. W the hell?" he asks, his voice getting louder as he continues. "All of these things are labeled as naughty, sinful, lusty behavior that no good Catholic boy should be caught dead doing. THEN! Then they tell you that God can see inside your head and knows if you have any impure thoughts, and that even those are sinful." He's almost screaming at his point.

"Wow," she says. "That's absurd," she says without hesitation. "Do you believe that?"

"Hell no! I mean, I absolutely do believe He knows what's in our hearts and in our minds, of course I do. However, there's no way I believe He'll send us to the fiery pit of hell for our thoughts as long as we don't do anything about them. I mean, to a degree. There are some really sick people out there thinking all kinds of junk, but God knows everything, so he knows who is sinning in their heads and who is not. But, as I was saying, you aren't supposed to do any of the looking, touching, watching, etc. and to top it all off, female anatomy is a complete mystery, so how the hell are you supposed to learn anything?"

"This is a touchy subject for you, Booth. I've never seen you this agitated about any aspect of your faith."

"We were kids, Bones. And we didn't know squat. And then we're supposed to be men and have all this knowledge so you won't be a complete failure in bed. Do you know what that does to an erection?"

"I can imagine," says Bones, attempting to keep a straight face while suppressing the urge to burst into tearful amused laughter. Again, it's the absurdity, the hilarity, of his reveal, the intensity of his retroactive frustration. She hopes to high heaven she doesn't offend him by enjoying this conversation as much as she is.

As her eyes are clamped shut and she's trying desperately not to shake with laughter, she senses Booth looking down at her. She opens one eyelid slightly to see the expression on his face. With relief, she sees that his face is wearing a delighted, impish expression. Apparently, he appreciates the humor of their situation, their conversation.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through that, Booth," she says, finally able to laugh out loud.

"Yeah, well, it's funny now, but it sure as hell wasn't then. Have you ever heard the term "blue balls?" he says, as she screams and bursts out laughing once again. "Okay, this is going down hill really fast."

"Speaking of which-" she says, barely able to contain herself thinking about how uncomfortable it has gotten for both of them over the last couple of days when their bodies have been writing checks that their brains refuse to cash until Tuesday.

"Shut up. I don't want to talk about it. Very funny. Ha ha. Just wait till you have … wait, you will never have testicles. Now that's not fair."

Bones loses it, and can't stop laughing.

"Hey! I'm going to dump you on the floor if you don't simmer down, lady!"

"You do, and I'll pull you right down there with me -"

"Pull me down there on top of you like that and we're going to break something, and I'm not talking about the coffee table!"  
>He threatens, chuckling himself.<p>

Bones can't help it. She's laughing so hard there are tears being squeezed out of the corners of her eyes. "Stop! Stop! I can't take it anymore. You are too damn funny, Booth! Oh, my obliques! Oh, I am going to be so sore tomorrow!"

"So your first, was she your girlfriend?" She asks, desperately trying to regain her composure and bring the conversation back to were it was headed before they flew off on that last tangent. Trying to get more comfortable, she wiggles around to lay on her other side so now they are in the spooning position. He wraps his arm around her, and sinks his nose into her hair, burrowing once again.

"Oh yeah, we'd been dating for like, a couple months," says Booth, wiping tears from the corners of his own eyes. "She was from another school … I was seventeen, she'd just turned eighteen."

"Oh. Older woman," she says, finally under control.

"Not by much. It was senior year. We'd talked about it. You know, having sex. But when it finally happened, it was kind of an accident."

"An accident?" she says, looking back over her shoulder at him. "Hm," she grunts, non judgmentally, relaxed from the calisthenics of laughter

"Well, yeah. One night we just kept going further, and further and we simply didn't stop where we usually would. Neither of us said anything, we just didn't stop."

Neither of them says anything for a moment.

"Where were you?"

"That's what was crazy … we were at her parents' house. They were asleep upstairs. We were in the family room , trying to say good night. I think we both figured nothing would happen because we were in her parents house and they were right upstairs! But we got to a point and we … didn't stop. And before we both knew it, it was over."

"Then what happened?"

"We lay there on the floor for a moment, trying to deny the gravity of what had just happened, and the fact that we didn't use any protection … then I kissed her quickly, we got up, she walked me to the door … and I left."

"Did you see her again?"

"Yeah, we dated the rest of that spring and all summer until she went off to college … and I went … where I went."

"Did you ever see her again after that?" she asks, lifting her right foot and hooking it behind his knee, partially intertwining their legs.

"We ran into each other two summers later over Thanksgiving when we were both home visiting our families."

"Did you talk about it?"

"We'd already talked about it enough we were together, so we were past that, but we did have a nice talk … comfortable in the familiarity of having once been 'lovers,' I guess is the word I'd use."

"Sounds like it was an okay experience."

"It was, ah … we were … young."

"And you felt guilty afterwards?"

"I did. I even went to confession that weekend and made an act of contrition, praying I wouldn't do it again."

"Then what happened?"

"We did it again. And I went to confession. Again. But this time I wasn't so convinced I'd be able to keep my promise."

"And you didn't," she says.

"Nope. Once we'd gone that far, had sex, it was like a freight train. Difficult to stop the momentum, not to go there again. Bad excuse, I know. But I liked her. I didn't want to stop seeing her. And she was willing, eager."

"Damn."

"Tell me about it!"

"You know, concupiscence, the ferocity of the sex drive, was created for the perpetuation of the race. And it doesn't care about your morals or your belief in a benevolent creator, or the fact that this isn't your _'soul mate,'_ she says, making air quotes with her fingers. "It's such a compelling force so that it achieves its single-minded goal despite your scruples. There's always going to be someone who will give in and save the race," she chuckles.

"So, I was doing my duty for the human race?"

"I suppose you could look at it that way …"

"I don't think I will. I like how my faith approaches sexuality with reverence."

"Yet …"

"Yeah, I was a horn dog," he admits, smugly.

She snuggles backward into him, her bottom right up against where they would be a Cocky belt buckle, if he had one on, pulling his arm even tighter around her.

"Good to know," she says, chuckling, and winking at him.

"So, a bathing suit?" he comments as the conversation winds down.

She chuckles. "It's protection against accidental pie."

"I like it," he says, sighing, closing his eyes, leaning his lips against her hair, his ... belt buckle ... against her soft backside.

"You've seen it many times before tonight, Booth," she says, raising an eyebrow, even though he can't see it.

"Really?" It's that _'are you sure?'_ intoned kind of question.

"Yep," she says, nodding against the couch cushion.

"You've just never let me _braille_ it before," he says cockily.

"You're not _brailing_ it now," she says, correcting him.

"Oh yeah?" he says, sliding his palm from her waist, across her belly, then slowly up to her bathing suit-covered breast, giving it a gentle squeeze, then caressing the exposed swell above the neckline with the pad of his thumb which just so happens to have landed right there. She can't see the smarmy grin he's hiding behind her, sunk into the hair behind her ear. He can't feel the goosebumps that have just erupted up and down every inch of her body. She shudders involuntarily.

"Oh my," she whispers, inhaling slowly, her chest rising as if reaching out toward him. Her exhale comes out as a sigh, the kind you make when you sink into a hot tub. You know the kind. She reaches behind her with her right arm as one does when stretching, and sinks her fingers into his hair.

Booth gives her a prolonged, quiet raspberry behind her ear, then a couple slurpy kisses on her jawbone just under the ear, breathing moist heat onto her neck. He nuzzles his stubble up and down a small patch of her jawline, knowing full well that this makes her crazy. She squirms indulgently, not stopping him until she can't take it any more. She's got a white-knuckle grip with her left hand on the tricep of the arm he's got wrapped around her and she's about to do something they may both regret if she doesn't put a stop to it.

"If I turn around and face you on this couch, there won't be any turning back," she whines.

"Tell me about it," he says, landing another raspberry on her neck just above the clavicular notch, squeezing her as firmly as he can without hurting her. She can barely breathe. In a moment, it won't be foreplay anymore, and she stops laughing because … it's starting to not be funny anymore … in a dangerous, non-regulation way.

"Okay. I am going to stand up, give you an innocent little kiss with no tongue contact, then quickly walk out of the room. Don't move or you might have another 'accidental first time pie' on your hands. I mean it," she says, threateningly, when she tries to get up, but he tightens his grip for a moment and won't let her.

She gets up as she said she would. She bends over him and kisses him exactly as she said she would, but as she turns away, he catches her by her hair and pulls her gently back down to him and takes her face in his hands. He kisses her lips, her cheek bones, the tip of her nose, her eyelids, between her eyebrows, her forehead, then looks in her eyes and covers her mouth with his own in a manner that gives the bird to any regulation they may have ever had. Whew!

Bones is losing ground and whimpering, about to pass out if she doesn't leave RIGHT NOW. She swallows with difficulty, and breaks away for a moment, trying to shake the mist from her brain. "Booth," she whispers plaintively, resting her forehead on his, unwilling to look in his eyes for fear she will drown there. "You have got to let me go," she breathes shakily, almost inaudibly.

"I don't want to," he whispers, shaking his head slowly, hers shaking in tandem as it's pressed against his right now, his breath warm across her lips.

"I know you don't," she whispers back, with a long, resigned sigh, "Neither do I." She wraps her fingers around the hands still holding her face close to his, and pulls them gently away, but doesn't let go. As she rounds the couch, he pulls her back toward him so she's leaning over the back of the couch. He takes each of her hands and kisses her palms.

"I love you," he says, dreamily, but sincerely, plaintively. He isn't playing. He really means it, and as more than a statement, rather as an explanation for why he can't let her go. Seeing this, hearing this, she has the overwhelming sensation in her upper chest that she might cry, or throw up, from the excess of love hormones flooding her as a result of that three word phrase, the sound of his voice as he said it, and the raw emotion in his eyes as he gazes into hers.

For a moment, she stands there, unable to move. This is the point where a weaker person might climb over the couch onto their lover and say to hell with everything, there's no way this is wrong, and who gives a fuck about Tuesday. But these are people committed to something more. So she takes a deep breath, or four, and does nothing but sigh the sigh of painfully extended anticipation.

Booth's fingers are still wrapped around her hands, his warm kisses cooling in the center of her palms. They each wonder if the other is thinking what they themselves are thinking. The last words spoken had been:

"Booth, you have got to let me go."

"I don't want to."

"I know you don't. Neither do I"

"I love you."

She can see in his eyes that he is replaying those last words just as she is. Releasing one hand from his, she traces a path on his skin from in front of his ear, down his jaw line to his lips, then leans over the back of the couch, and breathes onto his lips before landing a tender kiss, "And that has made all the difference in the world for me."

As she stands back up, she admires his face, his eyes closed almost as if he's sleeping, but she knows he isn't. He's savoring. He's basking. He's thinking it has been a long journey. Before releasing his hand, she squeezes it, drops a kiss on his forehead, and heads down the hallway toward Parker's bathroom.

Booth doesn't open is eyes for a while. Laying on that couch, he's thinking about the long conversation they had this evening. Never in a million years would he have believed that he, a sniper/alpha male/sports fanatic/he-man/tough FBI agent, would have had that kind of conversation with anyone. But, because she sees him as so much more than he thinks of himself as, he _did_ just have that conversation … and he didn't die in the process.

Blowing out two lungs-full of air, Booth sends up a prayer of thanksgiving to God for … everything. He raises his right arm straight up into the air, his hand clenched for a fist bump with the Holy Spirit. After he hears the toilet flush and Parker's bedroom door pulled quietly closed, he slowly gets up off the couch and heads toward his own room, flipping off the lights as he goes.

* * *

><p>It was shortly after 12:30 when Booth and Bones had their final goodnight kiss and went in opposite directions toward their individual beds. At 4:47 in the morning, Booth awakens to go to the bathroom, noticing that Parker hadn't crawled into bed with him as he usually does. Crossing the kitchen, Booth peeks into Parker's bedroom and grows concerned. The Superman sleeping bag lies empty like a sloughed snake skin. Booth backtracks to his room to confirm that Parker isn't there. No Parker. Booth flips his bathroom light on. Once he found Parker curled up on the bath mat in the middle of the night. No Parker on the bath mat tonight. Flipping off that light, he crosses the kitchen back to Parker's side again. No Parker in his own bathroom either. Booth flips on the hall light and slowly opens Parker's bedroom door with a slow high-pitched whine of the door hinge. What he sees now warms his heart.<p>

Bones lies under the covers in Parker's bed. She's lying on her right side, facing the wall. Parker is curled around Bones under the comforter, which is why he hadn't seen Parker there before. Parker's chest is against Bones' back, his little boy arm thrown over her midsection. Both are sleeping soundly. Booth pulls the door closed, quietly turns the hall light off, and tip toes back to his own bed.

* * *

><p>I so enjoyed writing this chapter. I hope it shows in the writing of the conversations. Thursday is just around the corner, and I for one am ready to explode with excitement! Drop me a note ... tell me your thoughts. You know I love hearing from you! XXO MoxieGirl<p>

I'd myself would probably go for the pie. But I'm married, so pie is free at my house! LOL!


	183. Spoiler Alert

_A/N With a nod to Fox Broadcasting, and in full knowledge that I cannot spew the lengthy prose you've come to expect from me before taking the kids for Flu vaccinations after school, I offer you this: **The When And The How:A Bone 2 Pick (Possible) Spoilers.** See how much I love you? Besides, my quality writer buddies tell me real genius takes time. Wow, and the whole time I thought it was just procrastination. *wink* ~ MoxieGirl ~ MoxieGirl44 on Twitter_

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><p><strong>Chapter 183 Spoiler Alert<strong>

Some of these are true. Some are not. Which, is for me to know, and you to be tortured about, and then wait to find out.

O.o ... Booth and Parker demonstrate for Brennan their Tom Cruise impressions from the movie Risky Business by skating around the kitchen in their tighty whities.

O.o ... Brennan spends the day at the Jeffersonian trying to get work done and can't think of anything except the things Booth said to her last night right before she slinked off to bed.

O.o ... Parker asks Booth if Bones might be willing to give him a baby sister, since he doesn't think Rebecca can handle another child.

O.o ... Booth visits Bren at her apartment after dropping off Parker and an argument ensues, after which she kicks him out.

O.o ... Booth and Brennan visit Sweets and he suspects there's something up … but isn't exactly sure what. The fact that they won't even look at each other disturbs him.

O.o ... Booth shows up later at Brennan's apartment to finish the argument, and she kicks him out again, even though he's drunk.

O.o ... Banty Solicious' remains aren't the only oddity they find once they get to Washington state.

O.o ... On Tuesday, Brennan tries to give Booth instructions … after which he assures her, "I've done this before, Bones."

O.o ... I dreamed last night that I took the kids to Paris with SouthernLady. She brought us to a croissant shop after hours where they opened for us and gave us the richest most enormous chocolate croissants which we washed down with REAL Coke served in REAL tiny green glass bottles. Then I woke up.

* * *

><p><em>As I said, some of these are true, some partially true, some not one iota true. <em>_They are **ALL** related to this story. I will do my best **NOT** to reveal any real BONES tv show spoilers in my story, in deference __to those of you who don't get to see the show because the television magnates in __your country don't have their priorities straight. It's not your fault. Blame it on the __rain, or the UN. I'm off to  
>write. <em>_Oh, one more thing ... tee shirts are being made that say _

**_"I almost didn't survive the Bones Hiatus 0f 2011!" _**

_or something to that affect. I'll give info on twitter as to where you can order them as soon as I have it arranged.  
>True story!<em>_ One hour and twelve minutes till BONES SEASON Premier! _ Will you be watching Bones tonight?__

XOXOXOX ~ MoxieGirl


	184. Old Time Rock and Roll

_A/N Howdy Folks! Finally ready to put this bad boy up here for you. Another one is soon to follow, though you've probably figured out by now that writers are not to be trusted when they give a deadline for their work! I hope you enjoy this breakfast scene! ~MoxieGirl_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 184 Old Time Rock and Roll<strong>

Booth is awakened at 6:49 in the morning by two ice cold feet wiggling their way between his legs to nestle between his calf muscles. He can't help thinking about a 'discussion' he'd had with Bones about using laymen's terms when speaking to laypeople, as opposed to scientific mumbo jumbo which normal people, meaning non-squints, don't understand.

"Okay, you're smarter than the rest of us. I get it," he'd said. They were in the SUV on their way to meet the parents of a victim. They were both on edge. The victim had been a twelve year old girl who was found in the basement of a condemned building. She'd been there for weeks before a wrecking crew did a walk through in preparation for demolishing the building.

"You have to consider your audience, Bones! Didn't they teach you anything about audience analysis in one of those expensive hoity-toity schools you got one of your pedigrees from?"

"Pedigrees are for canines, Booth. I have a PhD, several in fact, and you don't have to be brilliant to understand the difference between the two muscles that form the triceps surae, referred to in the vernacular as the calf muscle. However, referring to these as simply the calf muscle can be misleading. The triceps surae is made up of two primary and distinct muscles, the gastrocnemius and soleus muscles. While the two give you plantarflexion capabilities and perform functions critical to standing and walking, the gastrocnemius muscle runs from above the knee down to the heel and is instrumental for jumping and running. On the other hand, the soleus muscle runs from below the knee back to the heel and focuses mainly on standing and walking. The constant pull of the soleus is what allows us to stand without falling over."

"Which muscle keeps me from falling over and taking a nap during this conversation?"

She rolls her eyes at him. "You know, it wouldn't hurt for you to pay close attention, Booth. Someday, this information could save your life."

"What, like if I have a life threatening charley horse?"

"Say what you want, specificity is highly underrated by the lesser minds," she'd responded.

"You see, there you go – you do think of the rest of us as lesser minds -" he said, exasperated.

"If the crew sock fits," she'd mumbled while looking out the passenger side window.

"It's the shoe, Bones. _If the shoe fits, you wear it_, not the crew sock! You know, a greater understanding of pop culture euphemisms might save your life some day."

"I doubt it," she said, quietly snorting.

Lying in his bed, Booth marvels at how these snippets of conversations with Bones come back to him at the most unexpected moments. In the midst of the gruesome and sometimes somber responsibilities of their work together, sometimes it is their banter that keeps them going. Snarky or argumentative as it may be, these little discussions have become the cement, or is it the _concrete_, that keeps the bricks of their relationship together. As long as they can spar with each other, they both know they aren't out in the muck and the mire all alone. They have each other, no matter what.

Peering over at the other side of his bed, Booth notices there's no head on the pillow. Parker thinks Booth won't notice he's there if he hides under the covers, forgetting that his toes have already announced his presence like a bullhorn in a public library. Booth pulls the sheets up over his own head and says toward the boy-shaped lump attached to him only at the calves, "I wonder where Parker is. He never came in here last night. Better get up and change the sheets on this bed."

"I'm right here, Dad," says Parker, pulling the sheets away from his face and scooting up toward the head of the bed.

"Of course you are. I knew that," he says, scrubbing the already sleep-funkified hair with his knuckles. "What should we make Bones for breakfast?"

"Waffles," growls Parker, drawing out the word and squinting mysteriously like he's relaying a secret password for entrance into some exclusive club for boys only. "And strawberries!"

"Man after my own heart. What else should we have?"

Parker scrunches up his face and taps his chin. They exchange a conspiratorial glance. "Bacon!" they hiss in unison.

"Just one problem. Bones is a vegetarian."

"Oh yeah," says Parker, dejected. "Well then, she can just SMELL the bacon. That'll mean there'll be more for us!"

"That's what I'm talkin' about," says Booth, nodding and grinning at his son. "Let's get the sheets off this bed, I can't remember when they were changed last," he says, twisting his lips to the side as he stands up and grabs the pillows to de-case them. Parker slithers out the opposite side of the bed, hands and head first, like an alligator crawling out of the swamp. He starts yanking at the dark chocolate-colored chenille coverlet that lays on top of a blanket, underneath which are the flat and fitted sheets.

"Hey, put the blankets over there," Booth says, pointing behind Parker. "We don't have to wash them just yet. These are what I'm more worried about," he tells Parker, tossing the pillow cases on the floor at the foot of the bed. Stripping the bed of the flat and fitted sheets, he adds them to the pillow case pile and tosses the pillows back onto the bed. He notices that his sheets are the same color as the ones that had been on Bones' hotel room floor to be taken away after her nightmare very early Saturday morning. He makes a mental note to ask Sweets about her trauma that night. He'll have to be careful not to give anything away. There was nothing suggestive in their early morning comfort session, it shouldn't be a problem. However, Sweets reads into everything Booth says … and pays particular attention to the words Booth uses, twisting and turning them to identify meaning that is simply not there … okay, usually it is, but Booth doesn't like to admit it. Hm.

Parker, meanwhile, dives into the mess of sheets on the floor. "Hey!" he exclaims, "You know who these sheets smell like?"

"I hope they smell like Booth squared," he says, not paying that much attention as he pulls up the sheets, rolling Parker onto the carpeting.

"With a bonus," says Parker. "It's more like Booth squared plus Bones!"

"What?"

"Yeah. Check it out, Dad," says Parker, grabbing a handful and shoving it under his own nose for confirmation. He holds the cloud of sheets up to Booth's nose. Sure enough, it's Bones. Bones all over his sheets. How had he not noticed that last night? He must have been really tired. This does explain the racy dream he'd had in the middle of the night, the dream where the counter top kisses turned into much more behind a locked bedroom door. Thinking only about the alst 24 hours, Booth is befuddled for a moment about how her scent got on his sheets for a moment. _Of course,_ he then remembers, _she slept here a week ago Friday, the night Vincent was killed. How am I going to explain that to Parker? Dammit! _He curses Bones for helping Parker sharpen his sense of smell to identify people and other organic substances.

"Well, how did that happen?" says Booth, trying to sound noncommittal and ready to change the subject to something else, anything else. Before he can say anything more, Parker answers the question.

"Dad, don't you remember?

"Remember what? Let's get these into the hamper then get your robe on or you'll freeze," says Booth, moving about the room rearranging the blankets, picking up the discarded tee shirt he'd tossed on the floor in the middle of the night.

"She spent the night here with me while you were in Philadelphia, Dad. Don't you remember?"

"Oh yeah," says Booth, exhaling. "I forgot about that. Man, that seems like months ago."

"You always say that after you've been out of town, Dad," says Parker, bored with the conversation and ready to move on.

Booth grabs fresh sheets form the linen closet in his bathroom and tosses them on the bed.

"Get back here," he shouts to the disappearing backside of the boy about to exit through the bedroom door. "I could use some help with that side of the bed," says Booth, grabbing hold of one side of the flat sheet and shaking it open. Hanging his head, Parker does an about face and takes his position opposite Booth and starts to wrangle the fitted sheet over the edges and corners of the mattress. Next goes the flat sheet, the blanket, and the chenille. They do this without speaking like a team performing an early morning drill they've practiced hundreds of times before.

"Can I go see if Bones is up?" asks Parker after the chenille coverlet is draped over the bed.

"Sure, but don't wake her!" he says, jabbing a finger in Parker's direction.

Once Parker is gone, Booth heads to the bathroom for his morning constitutional and has a moment to finish his earlier thoughts about his sheets awash in Eau de Bones. That was a close call with Parker, he thinks. How could I have forgotten the night Parker thought Bones was dead? That was the night Parker sent the photo of Bones sleeping in Booth's tee shirt and bed to his dad's cell's phone. _I'm going __to miss that photo, _thinks Booth. That was the night they'd talked on the phone until two in the morning. That was their first long conversation after Booth had had the catalytic conversation with Hannah, who opened his eyes to the fact that he'd been kicking himself for failures that were keeping him from opening his heart to Bones once again.

Unplugging his phone from the charger by his night stand, Booth scrolls for messages. Then he looks at his photo gallery, feeling a little defeated, knowing she won't be there. But guess what, there she is. Asleep in his tee shirt. Glowing out from his cell phone screen. He melts, grins, nods, kisses the screen, puts a clean tee shirt on, and heads out into the world to face the rest of his life. His very satisfying life.

* * *

><p>Brennan awakes to the aroma of something caffeinated brewing in the kitchen. The miniature Booth who had been snuggled up against her backside most of the night had vanished, leaving behind a cooling tunnel of covers beside her. The other Booth, the one who spent a significant portion of the <em>evening<em> wrapped around her, had filled her with a different sensation, one of warmth, belonging, and titillation, she recalls with a sigh.

_Pringles. He bought me a cabinet __full__ of Pringles, _she thinks, smiling to herself and tucking her hands beneath her head. She stares at the glow-in-the-dark mobile of dangling planets and stars hanging from the ceiling light fixture. _I may be the top forensic anthropologist in the world and a New York Best Selling author, but sometimes underneath it all, I still feel like that teen in the foster care system carrying around my few possessions in a garbage bag, waiting for my 18__th__ birthday and the chance to shake the dust of the past from my sandals. So, how did I get here, she muses. How did I end up with the love of a man who sees past my short comings, and loves me despite my obsessive need for control, and my relentless search for the rational and empirical to the detriment of myself and others on occasion? The difference between that teen and this adult woman is that I'm fairly certain I deserve this. I am worth it. Not because of how brilliant I am, or how many books I've sold, but because Booth thinks I'm worth it and I trust him. Ergo, I must be worth it. Irrefutably rational. _

She stretches luxuriously, rolling onto her back, and surveys her surroundings. Flat Parker hangs on the wall to her left. To the side of the bed, abandoned, lies the Superman sleeping bag. In the corner sits her duffel bag with clean clothes for the day.

_He has to understand that I cannot live out of a bag, she says to herself. I will never live out of a bag again like I did when I was in the system. My environment should reflect my ownership of my choices. If that means having a number of personal possessions here, then that is what I should do. Surely he will understand that. He's very good at understanding this kind of thing. But understanding is one thing, agreeing to implement is another. This may be contrary to his belief system, but how could living a ruse not be as well? He should take my advice and use this as an opportunity to model for Parker how a mature adult male conducts himself in a mature sexual relationship with a woman he is committed to. A mature man can choose to cohabitate. It's that simple. But I cannot pressure him. I will not pressure him. He has to make this decision on his own. This is not going to be easy, _she says to herself with a sigh, _"But I will __not__ live out of a bag. Ever again."_

She recalls yesterday's conversation about expectations. He had promised her they would talk out any real or perceived expectations that concerned her. The challenge with discussing expectations is that people are not always aware of their own expectations. Sometimes, it takes a bit of soul searching to figure out what your own expectations are, at least that has been her experience. If Brennan says she senses an expectation on Booth's part that he isn't aware of, his knee jerk reaction could very well be to flat out deny it. In the heat of the moment an argument could ensue. So, how do they ensure that both of them have all the information and are able to have a fruitful conversation about their expectations? How will they do that? Couples over centuries have been trying to figure out the whole expectations conundrum. _I have to think of an example to test and illustrate my theory about subconscious expectations and how people navigate through them once uncovered, _she decides.

Brennan takes a moment to search her mental database for examples of her own subconscious expectations. As she lies there lost in thought, she hears the shuffling of light weight body parts outside the slightly ajar bedroom door. Following the shuffling is a poor attempt at whispering.

"Dad, she's awake!"

"Parker, you didn't go in there, did you?"

"I promise," says Parker sincerely. "I did not wake her up, Dad. I didn't even touch the door. I just crawled over on my hands and knees and peeked through the slit. I saw her moving in there. I saw her eyes. They are open. She's certainly not dead, I do know that," he says.

"What's she doing?"

"She's laying on my bed staring at the ceiling."

"Are you sure she's awake, Parker. That doesn't sound like Bones. It's not like her to just lay around. Let me have a look," he says, wiping his hands on his burgundy and cream striped apron. He turns down the flame under the half pound of sizzling bacon and checks the color of one side of the waffle still in the iron.

Standing outside Parker's bedroom door, Booth attempts to peek through the opening, but can't see anything except an empty corner of the room and her gym bag.

"Bones! Are you awake?" he shouts. If she wasn't already, she would be now. Parker is shocked at his dad's brashness, his eyes just about popping out of his head. He runs for cover toward the living room to hide behind the couch. Parker's mom is _not _a morning person. Give her this treatment and you'd be in for a very difficult day for everyone involved. He naturally assumes Bones will not be amused.

"Where you goin', buddy? She doesn't bite!" Booth whisper-shouts toward his son's swiftly departing backside. Parker isn't convinced that waking Bones up this way is such a good idea. He's not taking any chances. However, Booth doesn't seem to care. Parker knows what's coming next when Booth is like this in the morning. Any moment now, his dad is going to start singing. Loudly, and off key. Some people don't find this kind of wake-up call amusing.

"Should I give her some morning love, Parker?" he says, turning to notice that Parker has completely disappeared.

"Here it comes," says Parker to himself, clamping his eyes shut and stuffing the tips of his index fingers into his ears.

Throwing back the bedroom door, Booth belts out the opening song of the musical, Oklahoma.

"Oh, what a beautiful morning," he begins, arms in the air as if he's singing to the birds in the air. "Oh, what a beautiful day." He saunters over to the side of the bed and reaches down for Brennan's hand. She's chuckling at him and shaking her head, an amused smirk on her face. She takes his hand and gets up. He's not letting go of her hand, so she squeezes his in response.

"I'm up now," she says loudly over the din of his humming, "You can let go of my hand now!"

Booth continues his dramatic rendition of Curly's ballad. "Oh, what a beautiful morning. Oh, what a beautiful day. I've got a beautiful feeling … everything's going my way!" At the end of the last line, he pulls her into his arms, still humming, and rubs her neck with his two day stubble-covered chin. He lifts her hair and continues the treatment back along her neck as far as he can reach. She's squirming and yelping, trying to break free of his arms, but resistance is futile. She might as well be locked in a steel straight jacket. Her attempts have no effect whatsoever.

_It's just as well, _she admits to herself. _I didn't really want out anyway._ Her smile broadens at this thought. Booth notices the twinkle in her eye, now that he's trail of wet kisses have brought him back to her lips. He continues to hum the beautiful morning song.

"You have a devilish look about you this morning. What are you thinking?" he says, suspiciously, pausing the serenade only long enough to ask the question.

Raising an eyebrow at him, she answers by hopping up onto him, wrapping her legs around his waist.

"Oh shit," he says, falling toward the bed, where he drops her, landing with his knees on the hard floor, his torso leaning over her. He certainly wasn't expecting that! Any other time, this could be the beginning of an even better morning than it is already, but not with a kid in the house, he thinks. They lock eyes, knowing what the other is thinking. She's still got her legs around him, but can't hold it anymore, so she drops her feet to the floor. Regardless, he's still in a position for some mighty fine hankey panky … or, 'hinkey pinkey,' as Bones calls it. She grabs the front of his tee shirt and scoots back further onto the messy bedsheets, pulling him closer.

"You didn't erase the photo from my cell phone," he mumbles, planting a loud kiss on her lips as she wraps her arms around his neck.

"No, I didn't," she says, kissing him back modestly. "I haven't brushed my teeth," she says, barely opening her mouth.

"I don't care," he says.

"But I do," she objects.

"Bones, if boys were made to enjoy playing in messy stuff like mud, pretty much nothing is going to stop us from following through with the biological imperative," he says, dragging his chin down to the V in the neckline of her pajama top.

"Agh!" she blurts, wiggling around when he gets to the sweet spot, the location on her body that he recently labeled as his_ happy place,_ that spot right between Mother Nature's bountiful generosity.

"Where is that bathing suit?" he says to no one in particular. "Ahhhh, there it is," he sighs on the exhale, kissing her in the valley between her breasts. She pulls her arms from around his neck and squeezes them to her sides, making her cleavage present itself right under his nose.

"Oh. My. God. Is it my birthday?" he says, burying his face in her soft chest.

"Happy birthday," she coos. "Your 'happy place' is open for business, she says, grinning at him, now running her fingers through his hair. "I find that I quite enjoy mornings with you, Agent _**Sexy**_ Booth," she says, chuckling.

He nibbles and kisses a trail all the way up her chest starting at his happy place and ending on her forehead. "Hold that thought," he says, his arms diving underneath her ribcage. He pulls her up off the bed, standing up himself. "Raincheck?" he says, wrapping his arms all the way around her and kissing her on the forehead.

"Deal," she says, just as they hear Parker calling for them from the living room.

"Dad! What about the waffles? I smell something burning!"

"Shit," exclaims Booth under his breath, running toward the kitchen. Sure enough, one very crispy, very dark waffle sits fried in the waffle iron. "One casualty," he announces, dumping the charred contents of the iron into the garbage can.

Brennan dashes into the bathroom with her bag, not wanting to miss any of the fun going on out in the kitchen. She gets dressed, brushes her teeth, puts her hair up in a ponytail, and splashes water on her face. She'll shower alter at home, she decides.

"Booth, I have to get over to the Jeffersonian pretty soon. Lots of material to review in preparation for the exhumation tomorrow." Booth shoots her a warning look, placing his index finger over his lips. In any language, this means, "shush!"

"What's an _exhumation_, Bones?" Asks Parker. Booth's shoulders and head fall in defeat.

"This one's all yours, Bones," he says, turning away from the two of them, continuing with meal preparations.

Brennan shrugs and grimaces. It's an 'I don't understand what the big deal is' gesture.

"Parker, sometimes there are clues hidden in the remains of someone who has been killed. Sometimes we don't realize it until the person's remains have already been buried in the ground. So … sometimes we have to bring the remains back up so we can collect the evidence and catch the killer."

"Oh, okay," says Parker shrugging. It was no big deal to him. Brennan shoots an 'I told you so' glance in Booth's direction. Booth gives her the stink eye and goes about assembling the table settings.

"Dad." says Parker. "We're going to show Bones our Tom Cruise impression before we eat." it's a statement. Not a question. Booth pauses what he's doing, biting on the inside of his lip.

"I have to get going pretty soon," says Bones, apologetically, looking back and forth between the two of them.

"Okay, Sport, but let's make this fast, then we'll eat. What time do you need to take off, Bones?"

"Before ten," she says.

"Okay Parker, go get your stuff," says Booth. "And hurry!"

* * *

><p>While the Booths are getting their Tom Cruise impression prepared, Bones collects her things, packs her bag, and puts the duffel by the front door.<p>

As she turns back toward the living room she stops short, hit in the face with a wall of sound. Sixteen notes, two at at time, in quick succession, punch at her through Booth's sound system before pausing, then repeating. The boys are nowhere to be seen at first. Bones recognizes the tune, but remains confused.

At the tail end of the first set of notes, and spilling into the pause, Brennan screams as Booth, and then Parker, fly out of Booth's bedroom and slide across the kitchen floor, skidding to a stop right in front of her. Somehow, they've managed to end up side by side with their backs to her.

They are each wearing a pair of stark white loose-fit Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs, white crew socks, buttoned down broadcloth dress shirts - held closed by two buttons at belly level, and a pair of sunglasses with lenses so dark, Brennan can't even see their eyes. They are each clutching a hockey stick, holding it across their bodies, the top of each stick poised in front of a Booth mouth. Parker's stick is small, kid size, Booth's stick is big enough to do serious damage to the furniture if he's not careful with it.

Brennan is floored, and shaking with laughter. In a moment of divine inspiration, she backs up to her bag and grabs her cell phone, preparing it for taking a blackmail-quality shot of Booth in his tighty whities and shades. I wonder if this thing takes videos, she thinks to herself.

When the second set of sixteen notes commences, Booth and Parker swing around in unison, and start shaking their booties for all they're worth. This is when, in a flash, Brennan takes their photo. Fortunately, the boys are too engrossed in their routine to notice. This time when Brennan chuckles, it's just as much because she's tickled with her coup as she is with their performance itself.

After the brief instrumental intro, Bob Seger's raspy smoke-sanded baritone fills the apartment while Booth and Parker sing, or try to at least, to The Silver Bullet Band's 'Old Time Rock and Roll' like seasoned superstars, their faces set with smarmy rock and roll expressions.

"_Just take those old records off the shelf, _

_I sit and listen to them by-y-y-y myself."_

The boys continue their display through the second two lines, complete with the booty shake while leaning against the countertop, the splits, and the backwards gallop over to the middle of the living room.

"_Today' music ain't got the same soul. _

_I like that old time Rock and Roll." _

As the first stanza finishes and the second begins, Parker throws his hockey stick to the floor. Booth lifts him up on top of the coffee table where Parker does an adorable twist and shout move that has Brennan doubled over clutching at her abdominal muscles. After that, Parker dives onto the couch where he jumps up and down then lands on his chest, writhing around like a person having a seizure while Booth stands to the side, jamming to the music and playing his invisible air piano.

As Seger warns his audience not to try to drag him to any establishment that might have a mirrored globe suspended over the dance floor, the two continue with their cocksure struts and their perfect lip synching, giving their voices a break from the raspy rock and roll vocals. When the song moves into the bridge, Booth advances toward Brennan who backs away from him at first, then gives in as he grabs her by the hand and gives her a twirl. She's laughing so hard she can barely keep her head up. After the twirl, Booth pulls her in close and bends her sideways to the left and then the right in an exaggerated, yet classic half dip. The only reason she doesn't fall over is that they are firmly connected at the hips and he's got a surprisingly powerful grip across her midsection.

For a moment, Brennan feels dizzy. Those capillaries are exploding up and down her neck, her chest and her cheeks all the way up to her hairline. The way he's holding her and dancing around with her, their bodies warm and bumping up against each other just about does her in. _Thank goodness for the loud music and the dancing, _she thinks, hoping she can attribute her flushed skin to that rather than what's really causing it.

When Seger lowers the bridge to an almost speaking level, Booth slows it down a bit and sings into her ear, sending hot crazy tingles all through her.

"_That kind of music just sooooths the soul.  
>I reminisce about the days of old<br>with that old time rock and roll."_

Brennan wiggles away from him, laughing. He grabs her and pulls her back, twirling her further into the living room where she joins in the fun, still giggling almost hysterically. Parker is now doing the splits, then both Booth's hit their knees and jam on their air guitars like Drew Abbott on the six string electric while The Silver Bullet Band slides into their mid-song instrumental.

After the guitar heroes fall backward from leaning further than their legs could hold them, it's Parker up on the couch again, lying on his back, gyrating like he's covered in fire ants. He kicks his legs up in the air flailing them about as if he's erratically riding a bicycle as fast as he can.

"_Call me a relic, call me what you will.  
>Say I'm old fashioned say I'm over the hill."<em>

All three jam out, singing at the top of their lungs. Booth can't help thinking that this kind of activity is becoming a staple in their relationship. Who would have thought? He chuckles at this thought, and grabs Bones, kissing her quickly on the lips before returning to his bootylicious romp around the coffee table.

When Seger and the Silver Bullet Band go into the a cappella repetition of the bridge, ceasing all instrumental accompaniment except percussion, the three in the living room stop hopping around. All three raise their arms into the air, Bones and Booth on either side of the coffee table, Parker stanging on the couch. All three passionately sing out the verses while keeping to the beat with wide-armed claps over their heads.

"_That kind of music just sooooths the soul.  
>I reminisce about the days of old<br>with that old time rock and roll."_

After the song ends, Booth turns down the volume as the three, laughing and smiling like fools, begin walking toward the kitchen. Parker's the first, followed by Brennan, then Booth. The CD has been set on scramble, so the next song that begins to play is one of the slow ballads, "We've Got Tonight."

Booth stops in his tracks, reaches forward for Brennan's hand, and gently pulls her backward into an embrace, wrapping his arms around her from behind, sinking his nose into the crook of her neck. _Ugmmm. She smells so good,_ he thinks. _She feels so good. _"Umm, umm, hmm," he hums, starting to sway a to either side, tightening his arms around her body. He's not that much taller than she is, but he's significantly broader, his arms are longer. She fits very nicely, like a nested matryoshka doll, right there in the space that he's convinced was made just for her. He wonders if Bob Seger ever felt this way.

"_Deep in my soul, I've been so lonely.  
>All of my hopes, fading away.<br>I've longed for love, like everyone else does.  
>I know I'll keep searching, even after today."<em>

He can't see it because he's behind her, but Brennan has closed her eyes as she lays her arms on top of his, sliding her fingertips into the spaces at the base of each of fingers, giving him a responding squeeze.

"I've always loved this song," she whispers, melting back into him. Booth feels the vibration of her voice more than hears it, and he nods.

"_So there it is girl. I've said it all now.  
>And here we are, babe, so what do you say?"<em>

Once again, Brennan finds herself being swept away into that hazy dizziness that she's only ever felt when she's with him. She swallows, and can barely breathe. She leans her head back until it meets some part of him, she's not sure what … a chin, cheek, a temple. What does it matter? It's Booth. That's all that matters.

"_Lets make it last, lets fi-i-i-nd a way.  
>Turn out the light, come take my hand, now.<br>We've got tonight, babe, why don't you stay?"_

His heart is beating steadily and forcefully. He fills his lungs with Bones-laced air, exhaling "My God, I just really love -" he sighs, "- I really just love being able to do this," into her ear, then pressing his lips into her hair behind where the heat of his breath still lingers on the outside curve of her ear. He's thinking Tuesday can't come quickly enough. He feels her shiver, and he turns her around so he can look at her. She lets him move her around, but when she looks into his eyes, her stomach falls into her feet and she doesn't think she's going to be able to hold it together much longer. This is too intense, she thinks. And they aren't alone. She'd really like to be alone … with him. For a little while. Even if just to be able to kiss him and hold him. This is getting very difficult, scary difficult. She leans toward him and kisses him quickly, then abruptly turns and disappears in the direction of Parker's bathroom.

He chases after her, but she's too fast. Once inside the bathroom, Bones closes the door, locking it. Sitting down to catch her breath, she feels her cheeks and confirms what she'd suspected. Poppies in full bloom. No question about it. Standing and looking in the mirror, she splashes water on her face. _Wonder if I can talk him into having that Tuesday night talk a sooner? If I don't get some of that Booth pie soon, I may spontaneously combust, setting this whole place ablaze, _she thinks, then grows serious. I can't even joke about it anymore, she sighs.

Through the bathroom door, she hears the music continuing to play.

"_We've got tonight, babe. Why don't stay?"_

_Maybe some time at the shooting range would help release some of this tension, _she thinks, looking sternly into her own eyes in the mirror. _The problem is, there's no time for that between now and Tuesday. Damn! _She realizes, frustrated.

Upon walking out of the bathroom, she literally runs right into Booth. It reminds her of their first kisses in the hallway of their hotel two days ago. Those were the kisses that broke the ice for them. Those were the kisses that started this whole landslide of emotional intimacy and intense longing. Whew. This time Booth grabs her by her upper arms, their chests bump against each other as she almost runs him over. He'd come to check on her. _Son of a bitch, _she thinks. _This is not helping! Once again, she feels her temperature rise and for a moment she's paralyzed. She looks in his eyes and can't believe he can hold it together so well, while she's about to fly apart from … needing to loved with more than words._

"Everything okay?" he asks, concerned. "How'd you like our performance?"

"It was phenomenal, Booth," she says, breathless, doing an about face. "I'll be right out," she says. "You guys can start without me, I'll just be a minute," she assures him over the sound of running tap water.

"We'll wait. We want to eat together," he says, heading back over to the island to start setting the table.

Locked in the bathroom once more, Brennan rips off her clothes and steps into the shower, cranking the cold water. For a moment she stands under the stream, letting it pour over her. Instinctively, she looks toward the ceiling and listens for a hissing sound, the sound that escapes when hot coals are doused with water. Quickly and methodically, she rinses off every inch of her body, some of the inches, she douses twice in the cold water.

Hopping out of the shower, she towels off just enough so she can pull her clothes back on without any trouble. Now, she's reminded of how she teased him yesterday morning in her hotel room when she walked out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel and a couple hundred droplets of water. That little escapade had brought on an onslaught of affection. _Oh, copulating donkey turds,_ she thinks, _could this all be because I'm ovulating? _Her eyes in the mirror grow large and round with the realization that this may be true. _Maybe this isn't all Booth's fault. Maybe I'm in the luteal phase of my menstrual cycle,"_ she thinks.

_Of course! I should have noticed these signs, _she chagrins, slapping herself in the forehead. _Oh … shit. I'm in heat. I'm blisteringly fertile. Ready to jump on just about anything that moves. At least now I have an explanation. Agh!_ she thinks, tapping a fist against her forehead now, then shaking her head. At least I'm not going crazy. At least this will end soon. The irony strikes her that by the time she has completed this phase of her menstrual cycle, it will be Tuesday and she'll be having sex with Booth. It figures. Either way, she's stuck until at least Tuesday.

Having cleaned off, cooled off, and identified a rational explanation for her prurient, lustful, brazen, wanton behavior of late, she emerges, composed and in control. In the dining area, she takes her seat opposite Booth at the breakfast table.

The Booths look at her in unison, expecting some kind of explanation. Booth is curious about her return to the locked bathroom after she first came out. He notices her confident demeanor and becomes doubly curious.

"I … decided," she says calmly, locking eyes with Booth, "I'd take my shower here after all," she says, the slightest upturn at the corners of her mouth, a suggestion of a smile, but not quite. Reaching for the juice without breaking eye contact, she raises one eyebrow, then winks at Booth. His stomach does a little flip-flop. "Now, I'd love to try these fresh strawberries, huh, Parker?" Finally she looks away from Booth and gives Parker her full attention and a full Bonesy smile.

Booth considers what he's just witnessed and can find no logical explanation for her change in demeanor between before her visit to the bathroom and her final emergence just now. She was obviously affected by his alluring and provocative dance moves, he had noticed the way her skin lit up like a cherry tree in full bloom. The dancing wasn't vigorous by any means, at least not when he pulled her into it. So, it had to be the Booth magic. _Yes, that is what it was,_ he decides with a grin as he forks two waffles onto his own plate. _She wants me,_ he says to himself, confidently. _She wants me bad. No wonder she went right back into that bathroom after bumping into me in the hallway. That's when she decided to take the shower. I'll bet it was a cold one, too, ice cold, _he tells himself. He's nodding, an amused, cocky expression on his face. It appears to the other two that Booth is enjoying a private joke, a joke he has no intention of sharing. When he emerges from his self-congratulatory reverie, he notices the other two are staring at him expectantly.

"What?" he asks, staring blankly back at each of them, furrowing his brow. _Did I miss something,_ he wonders.

"The strawberries?" asks Brennan. "Can you pass me the strawberries?" She asks in an '_earth to planet Booth' _tone.

"Oh," he says, passing them over. "Sure," he says, giving her a lopsided grin. She winks at him again, and he's knocked a bit off guard this time. _What the hell is going on and why does she have that smarmy look on her face? There's something I don't know. Hm,_ he grunts, puckering his lips in thought.

"What?" asks Brennan, lifting a piece of waffle and strawberry to her mouth.

"What?" he says back to Brennan while noticing Parker has jumped out of his seat. "Where are you going, Parker? Sit down."

"You made a sound. Like a "huh,' or something," she says.

"Oh," he says, absently, shrugging a shoulder.

"What's up?" she asks, closing her eyes as she chews the perfect mixture of melted butter, strawberries in strawberry juice, and golden waffle.

"Ummmh. This is delicious, Booth!"

"Oh, I'm glad you like them. It's one of my specialties. Don't wipe your hands on your shirt, Parker."

"Everything is a specialty with you, Booth."

"Wha -?"

"Relax, it's cute," she says, smiling warmly at him.

"Dad, she thinks your cute," Parker teases his dad.

"Parker!" blurts Booth. He stares at his son. _When did I lose control of this whole thing we have going on here?_ He wonders.

"Well, she does, Dad. Look at her, she's grinning like crazy at you," he says, pointing to Brennan with the tip of the fork in his hand.

They both look at Brennan. Parker is right, she's grinning at him like the cat that ate the canary. She's finally feeling in control for the first time in days, so she's relaxed and grinning.

"See, I told you," says Parker, spearing another syrup-drenched waffle square. Parker doesn't like strawberries; he prefers maple syrup on his waffles.

"Well," says Booth clearing his throat. "I hope she thinks I'm more than _cute,_ she kissed me last night!" he says proudly, making big eyes at Parker. "Close your mouth while you're chewing, please."

"I happen to already know that, Dad. Remember? I was there," says Parker, giggling and shaking his head. He returns his attention to his drenched waffles.

Booth shrugs. "Well, there's someone for everyone, right?" he says, looking back and forth between Bones and his son. "Parker, can you sit still, please?" Parker has been wiggling around like a Mexican Jumping Bean. "Do you need to excuse yourself?" He asks. This is code for, _'do you need to go to the bathroom?'_

"No, I don't have to _excuse myself_. But, you know what? Caroleena looks at me like that," says Parker with a sheepish grin, pointing at Brennan once again and kicking the supports under the table.

"Ohhh hoh. Now the truth comes out, huh?" says Booth. "Interesting. Don't you go thinking it's okay for you to let Caroleena kiss you just because she thinks you're cute and she smiles at you all goofy," he warns Parker. "And can we not talk about this anymore? We all have a lot to do today. Let's just focus on eating. Stop the kicking, Park!"

Brennan reaches under the table and squeezes Booth's knee. When he looks up at her she shoots him a raised eyebrow smirk. Then wiggles her eyebrows at him. _Something's up. She's playing with me. I __don't know what is going on, but she is definitely playing with me,_ he thinks. Deciding it's too much to think about this early on a Sunday morning, he abandons all concern and focuses on his bacon.

* * *

><p>"Want some bacon, Bones?" asks Parker.<p>

"Please," she says, making a disgusted face. "Keep that away from me. You two are the meat lovers here!"

"I LOVE bacon," enthuses Parker. "Hey, is it true that vegetarian people's farts are stinkier than normal people's farts?"

"Parker!" blurts Booth. "That is NOT appropriate dinner table conversation."

"This isn't dinner, dad, it's breakfast," objects Parker, mumbling into his plate.

"You know what I mean, Sport," he says, shooting Parker a warning glance

"It's okay Booth," says Brennan, turning to Parker. "Actually, Parker, vegetarian flatulence is no more odiferous than _normal _people's flatulence, however, vegetarians do tend to pass more gas than non-vegetarians. In general, vegetarians consume more fiber. Their intake of broccoli, cabbage, brussel sprouts, cauliflower, beans, and dairy products is greater. These foods tend to produce more gas. However, this does not result in greater levels of hydrogen sulfides, which are the odor-producing chemicals. Humans expel gas about fourteen times a day. Did you know that?"

"No, but I'm pretty sure I fart more than that," he says, giggling. "If you could measure how much gas you fart each day, how much would that be?"

"Less than two measuring cups."

"Wow," he says, impressed. "Now that sounds about right. Dad, can I be done?"

"How much have you eaten?"

"Two waffles, three pieces of bacon."

"Drink your juice, then you can be done. Put your dishes over on the counter top by the sink, please. Then go wash your face and hands."

"Ahh, Dad! I know what I have to do when I'm done! Can I play Xbox?"

Booth looks at the clock. It's a little after nine o'clock. "Fifteen minutes. I'll set the timer. Then we have to clean up and get ready to go to mass."

"Thanks, Dad. Wanna do Xbox with me, Bones."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm not finished eating." She _is_ finished eating. She doesn't want to play Xbox. She wants to talk with Booth before she has to leave. They still have to discuss how they are going to get to Sweets' office for their appointment, and what they will say, or not say, when they get there.

* * *

><p><em>Did you listen to The Silver Bullet Band to get the full effect of the Risky Business dance these two performed for bones? Please feel free to share you thoughts about this chapter. Let's see what other spoilers appear in the next chapter. I can guarantee that at least one does! Mu husband is finally returned from his business trip, so I hope to get a lot more done in the next two days than I have in the last seven! YAY!<em>


	185. Schedule Me In

_A/N Remember the argument alluded to in my spoiler? The one that gets Booth kicked out of the apartment? Well, here it is. So, they DO have an argument, but how does it go? Not as you might expect. We should all take note. Next we are off to the Jeffersonian and then a talk with Sweets. I hope you enjoy this little bit before the pajama party is officially over! ~MoxieGirl ~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 185 Schedule Me In<strong>

Brennan and Booth stand in the kitchen cleaning up after breakfast. Parker abandoned the Xbox and is engrossed in an episode of Johnny Quest.

"Hey, wanna grab a bite before we head over to the Hoover to see Sweets this afternoon?" Booth asks while rinsing off the dishes one by one before putting them into the dishwasher.

"What time are you thinking?" She asks, pulling her pda out of her bag and clicking through a couple of screens to access her schedule for the afternoon and tomorrow morning.

"Parker goes back to Rebecca's at 2:30 after his soccer match. I could swing by after that. We're meeting Hansen, Nathan, and Square Chicken afterwards. That's a two minute drive or a ten minute walk from there."

"Hm," she grunts, looking at the pda display. "I might have to meet you at the Hoover. I have several items requiring my attention before we fly out tomorrow." She scrolls through her to-do list.

"But you have to eat, right? I could bring something by the Jeffersonian and we could go to Sweets after that."

"That won't work. You will distract me, Booth. I need to focus," she says, peering intently at her long list of the things she was hoping to have crossed off by now. "That's why I'm going to the Jeffersonian, not staying here."

"Okay. Wanna meet me at the diner for a quick bite right before Sweets? When are you planning to eat?" He asks, wiping down the counter top, then the bacon grease-splattered flat top range, which by now is finally cool enough to touch.

Brennan shakes her head, grimacing to herself, still staring into her pda. "I'm stopping at home before the Jeffersonian. I'll grab a protein shake or yogurt, and some fruit. If I'm still hungry after that, I can raid my Tofurky stash at the office. Or I'll just have something delivered."

"If you don't want to eat with me, Bones -"

"What? Don't be absurd, Booth. I'm just … not accustomed to someone insinuating themselves into my schedule -"

"I'm not _insinuating_ myself anywhere … I just thought it would be nice, you know, to eat together," he says, closing the dishwasher door and walking toward her. He leans back against the counter top next to the fridge and crosses his arms.

"Well, I hadn't left much time to accommodate modifications from what I already have planned," she says in a slightly higher octave than her usual one. Brennan looks away from her pda for the first time since the conversation started. She notices the dejected look on his face. Booth shoves his hands into his pockets and stares at the ground.

"You're upset," she says, putting her pda in her pocket, and leaning against the aqua-blue Philco refrigerator door, crossing her arms. As she does so, several small Pin-up girlie magnets are knocked loose from the magnetic surface of the fridge. They hit the floor with a tiny smack.

"I'm not upset, Bones," he says, bending over to recover the magnets, then returning them, but this time to the side of the fridge out of swiping range.

"You sound upset. Your voice has gone up two octaves, your shoulders are tense, you've got those little unhappy lines across your supraorbital ridge, and your hands are jammed in your pockets -" she says, watching him carefully, her voice insistent.

"It's okay. I'm fine," says Booth, slightly annoyed, pulling his hands out of his pockets self-consciously, crossing his arms again. _I was right about no more privacy. She's gotten really good at reading me, _he thinks.

"Really?" she asks, unconvinced. "You say it's okay, but your tone and your posture continue to indicate that it's anything _but_ okay." She pauses, watching his expression. "I don't know what to do in a situation like this, Booth. This issue here is not personal," she says shrugging. _He has an expectation, an unmet expectation that we will eat together. Is he not even ware of it?_ She wonders. _Maybe that's why he's upset? His body language says he __wants__ me to know he's upset, but his words say he doesn't. Oh, for Pete's sake! Why can't he just say what he means? _"What am I expected to do when your words say one thing, but your body language says the opposite, Booth?" She 's serious. And he realizes it.

"You don't have to do anything," he says, relaxing his shoulders and uncrossing his arms, dropping them to his sides. He attempts to smile, attempts to hide his disappointment.

"Clearly I do, because -"

"Bones. I'll be fine. Really," he says, stepping forward and putting his arms around her. She still not convinced, even though he appears to have relaxed somewhat.

She leans back so she can look in his eyes. For a moment she says nothing, studying his face. "Can I trust that you really fine?" Despite his assurances, she questions if he's really aware of how he really feels at this moment. He can't hide what she can deduce from observing his behavior. She is a scientist, after all. An expert in examining minute and subtle details.

"Yes," he says, nodding, kissing her on the cheek. "You can trust me on this. I promise." He can see that she is trying to understand him. _So what if her understanding comes from physical clues rather than cues from her gut, right? _He thinks. _The result is the same. She gets me. Or at least she's trying to._

"Besides," he says, "It takes time and practice to get used to coordinating two schedules, two sets of needs, two sets of responsibilities. When I have Parker, I'm constantly thinking about meals and snacks and possible activities. Actually, the planning starts way before I even pick him up. Sometimes a week or more ahead. I guess I'm just used to thinking ahead like that." He shrugs.

"Hm. Interesting. I've never had to do that."

"You'll get that hang of it."

"So, is that an expectation of yours, then? That I'll learn how to integrate you into my schedule, my plans? It shouldn't be that difficult, I would think -"

"Well, making relationships work like a well-oiled machine requires more than a little strategic thinking."

"Hm," she grunts.

"For example, eating takes time, right?" He brushes a couple of stray hairs off her forehead and tucks them behind her ear. "If we're going to be together we might as well eat together rather than one of us having to eat because the other already did. Or we work it out so we both eat when we aren't together."

"I've never minded sitting with you while you eat, especially if we're eating at either one of our places," she says, smiling up at him.

"Or you could just do whatever you need to do … and I eat when I need to, but we should talk about these things."

"Who knew this would require so much planning?" She asks, rhetorically.

"And we don't even have a kid … imagine the forethought that goes into that life, huh? You've got feedings, and naps, and diapers to change. Life becomes a circus revolving around a tiny person. Believe me, it's no walk in the park, Bones."

She rears back a bit in his arms. "How did we go from planning a meal to having kids? I never would have thought of that."

"That's why you have me. You see? I can teach you lots of stuff."

"You already teach me more than you know, Booth." She puts her arms around his neck and hugs him. "I would certainly have planned to eat with you if I'd been thinking strategically," she says, apologetically.

"It's okay," he says, assuring her. Besides, we'll still have the evening with the guys at The Founding Fathers -"

"Wait a minute, Booth, I'm not going to The Founding Fathers tonight," she says, nervously, pulling out of the hug and reaching for her pda.

"Yes, you are," he says, chuckling confidently, his arms falling to his sides.

"Well, unless you have uncovered a time/space continuum that will allow me to exist on two planes at the exact same time," she begins, shaking her head doubtfully and smirking at him, "I will not be at The Founding Fathers with you and the Square Chicken tonight."

"Come on," he says, frustrated. "Am I ever going to get to see you today? I already told them you're coming," he complains, irritated all over again.

"How is that my problem?" she asks flatly. "You're seeing me now. You'll see me with Sweets -"

"How is that your problem?" He repeats her question, irritation apparent in his voice. He turns away from her, running his hands through his hair, realizing he's still annoyed at her unwillingness to make room for him in her schedule so they can eat together. He was looking forward to seeing more of her today after he drops Parker off. Starting tomorrow, they will be immersed in case work with no time to just _be_ together. Until Tuesday night, that is.

"You should have told me, Booth," she admonishes him, scrolling through her pda again.

"But, the guys just called yesterday afternoon. It was while you were at the Jeffersonian. I assumed -"

"You see? Assumptions and expectations have already started! You had an expectation that I'd be available whenever you want to parade me out in front of your FBI buddies." She's trying not to sound irritated, though she is. Her irritation is not about his assumptions, as much as over having to choose between going with him, and accomplishing several tasks that will make the next couple of days run smoothly. She takes a breath and blows it out, scratching her forehead, while looking at the floor.

He steals a glance at her. _This isn't going well, _he thinks, shifting from foot to foot. They both know they need to take a moment and relax before this gets blown _way_ out of proportion. Booth literally steps back, hands on his hips, and thinks for a moment. He concentrates on the waffle crumbs still hiding on the floor around the base of the island.

Stepping forward, he looks up, and puts a smile he doesn't really feel, thinking, _fake it till you make it right?_ The Holy Spirit gives Booth a silent thumbs up for his efforts. "Okay, let's start this conversation over," he says.

"Can we really do that?" She asks, shooting him a doubtful look. "We can't un-say what's been said, Booth. It can't be done."

"Ahh, but we can choose to ignore it," he says, calmly. "It wasn't going well anyway. Did you think it was going well?"

"Not particularly, no -"

"Okay then. I call do-over."

"Wha- Is that a real thing?" She suspects this is a Boothism. She tilts her head to the side, suspicious, watching him from narrowed eyes.

"Yes, it is a real thing, Bones. And of course we can do it, okay? We can do whatever we want, as long as we're both willing to play along. Just relax," he says, taking her hands and wiggling her arms loosely side to side. "Take a couple of deep breaths, and follow my lead," he says, taking two deep breaths himself.

She smirk-grins. "Mmm, Okay." Her look says,_ I feel foolish._

"Hey, Bones," he says, raising his head, looking her directly in the eyes. "I've been invited out for drinks with some friends from my grunt years. They want to meet this fabulous partner of mine. Care you join me?"

She looks at him, drops her hands to her sides, stares at him thinking. He smiles, wiggling his eyebrows at her. It's the charming grin she's come to know and love … or to ignore when it serves her purpose. She turns, puts her hands on the counter top, and stares blankly, contemplatively, toward the living room.

"Bones, you either want to or you don't. Maybe ... maybe you could just choose to make me happy," he suggests, an impish, supplicant expression on his face.

"You shouldn't have said that," she says, slowly shaking her head at the living room.

"Why?" He doesn't get it.

"Because!" She insists.

"Because why? There has to be a reason." He touches her shoulder so she turns toward him.

"Because it's not always about wanting to go, or _not_ wanting to go, or about wanting to make you happy, Booth," she explains. "I'm thinking about what I need to get done today. I'm considering options for rearranging my schedule to accommodate this new demand on my time." It comes out quite a bit sharper than she'd intended, so she shoots him an apologetic smile after the words leave her lips.

"Wanna try that again, Bones?" Despite this suggestion, Booth is doing a fairly effective job of not getting irritated. His tone implies that trying again would be a good idea. Another do-over.

She looks at him, then down at her feet. She shrugs, and starts over.

"I may not always have a strong opinion about wanting to do something, but I will always want to make you happy. That's not what's at issue here," she says. "You should have talked to me about this earlier," she says softly, apologetically, tilting her head to the side.

"You're right. I should have called," he concedes, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his right hand, then pinching his eyebrows together between his thumb and his index finger before putting his hands on his hips.

"There are a lot of things that I do that you are unaware of," she continues. "Here, and at the Jeffersonian. Meetings you are unaware of, organizations that I belong to which have expectations of me, then there's my publisher with a set of demands on my time, whether or not I like it."

"I forgot about that. We see each other all the time. You don't usually mention those things."

"Why would I? They aren't germane to our work together, Booth. They weren't germane to our relationship, either. But I am realizing that they will be germane to our life together now. Some of them are very important to me - others ... others are simply required."

"Well, how many things ARE you involved in?"

"Look, I'd be happy to provide you with a list ... Don't you have things that you do that I don't know about?"

"I have a kid. That takes about 80% of my free time. You and I don't have regular 40 hour a week jobs, so the free time that I do have, I spend with Parker, you know that."

"That is the rational assumption that I have made, yes," she nods.

"Other time I spend working on one of my cars at that garage over by Pops' old place, or enjoying sports, or getting together with the guys. Or at the range. You know I've been training on the Barnett Revolution AVI Crossbow," he says, cocking an invisible crossbow, and releasing the invisible arrow into the living room, assassinating a ceramic bust of J. Edgar Hoover on the bookshelf.

"Oh, yeah. How's that going?" she asks.

"Pretty well. I test next week."

"Want me to come?"

"No. Thanks for asking, though." He looks up and smiles. "It's about an hour of waiting around, then three minutes of shooting, then you're done," he says absently.

"Look, about tonight," she says, searching his eyes, trying to gauge how disappointed he will be if she just can't make it. "Don't you want to make me happy too? I will have had a long day after a night which provided an insufficient number of rem cycles interrupted by a tiny person twisting and turning in a very small bed with me."

"You could have kicked him out," he insists, chuckling.

She looks at him, then grins sheepishly and shrugs.

"The truth is, he was quite snuggly and sweet. I found myself surprisingly pleased that he was there," she admits, a half smile growing on her lips. "Anyway, I have six files to review prior to our meeting with Sweets. At home I have laundry to do, an overnight suitcase to pack, and a refrigerator filed with food that needs clearing out before another absence of indeterminate duration."

"Tomorrow morning," she continues, "At 8 a.m. I meet with Mr. Bray to examine the remains and review his hypotheses. Then I'd like to confer with Dr. Hodgins regarding the rogue phalanx. At 9:15 we both have our team meeting at the Jeffersonian. Then we catch a plane before 11:30. Which reminds me, we have to be at the Hudson Memorial Medical Annex at 7:15 tomorrow morning."

"What?" Booth is surprised.

"Yeah, to get our rapid tests completed. HIV, HPV -"

"Huh?"

"Didn't I tell you?"

"Right, right, right," he says, remembering now, though he hadn't thought they'd set a time. "That's fine. But how are we going to manage that?"

"We might as well ride together to work, or, to the medical annex first," she suggests. "Do you have to make an appearance at the Hoover?"

He thinks for a moment. "No … You have the Rockefeller, right? I have everything here that I had with me in PA. I'll have some phone calls to make … but I don't need to physically _be_ at the Hoover."

"Then we'll just ride together for everything tomorrow. Park at the airport."

He nods, grimacing. "Hm. That'll work -"

"So, knowing all I have to accomplish between now and tomorrow at approximately 11 o'clock, do you _really _want me to push all of that aside, the pushing aside of which will create a time constraint I'm not at all comfortable with," she says, leaning the hand holding her pda on the counter top, putting her other fist on her hip. "I will feel ill-prepared if I don't get some of these things done. Knowing all of this, do you still think I should come with you tonight?" She bats her eyes at him.

He looks at her, chewing on the inside of his lip, tilting his head back and forth, left to right, weighing the facts in his head.

"What do you have to do between now and our flight?" She asks him, seeing that he's on the fence.

"Well, I have to pack my carry-on -" he pauses, staring blankly into his empty mental list of things to do. "And there, uh ..." He searches for something else to mention. _There's got to be more I have to get done. Why can't I come up with a list? I've got nothing! _He thinks to himself.

"See my point?" she says, raising her eyebrows for emphasis.

"Wait ... I have Parker with me. We've got lots of stuff to do. First, we have to clean up a bit here, hopefully get in a couple levels of Kingdom Hearts, the video game. Mass is at 10:30, lunch at noon in the park. Then his soccer game at one, then back to Rebecca's at 2:30. When are we seeing Sweets?"

She tilts her head and grimaces at him. "Sweets is at 4:30, and, look, all of your activities are going to happen organically."

"What does that even mean, organically?" he says.

"You and Parker will go from activity to activity, enjoying each other's company. That's going to happen no matter what. When he's gone, you'll still only have to pack your carry on. You could even pack while he's here with you. How long can that take anyway? Fifteen minutes?"

"I get it, okay? You have a lot of important things to do - and I don't," he says, then "That came out a lot snarkier than I intended, but I really do get it, Bones" he says, irritated with himself for not remaining as cool as he had wanted. "Look, you shouldn't come tonight unless there's anything on your list that I can handle for you – something that would free up some time."

"You would do that for me?" She asks, sweetly, surprise in her eyes. She takes a step toward him, still holding her pda.

"Well, sure," he says, smiling sheepishly back at her. He takes a step toward her. "That's just the kinda guy I am," he says, gently lifting her chin with his fingers, planting a sweet little kiss on her lips, and staring dreamily into her eyes. He winks.

"You're trying to melt me, aren't you?" she narrows her eyes, feigning suspicion, and moving as close to him as she can without touching him, her lips right below his. She stares up into his chocolate browns.

"Whatever it takes, hot stuff," he says back, teasingly. He leans toward her, almost kissing her again, then leans slowly away.

She cocks one eyebrow at him, narrowing her eyes again. She puckers her lips in thought, drops her gaze to his lips, those fabulous, chewable, soft, pouty lips. _Uh uh um,_ she thinks. "You're incorrigible," she says with a throaty chuckle and a return wink that makes his stomach do a flip.

Without a word, she raises her arms on either side of him and rests her forearms on his trapezius muscles, between his neck and shoulders on each side.

"Something I could delegate, huh?" She asks, chewing on her lip in concentration, looking past him at the pda in her hand. She scrolls through the list again, still not touching him other than at her forearms. She sighs, slightly frustrated. "I've already delegated everything I can. I'm an expert delegator, Booth. How do you think I'm able to go out in the field with you, write two New York Bestselling Kathy Reich novels in eighteen months, and still have time to attend the occasional conference? It's just that we have such a compressed time-frame between now and our flight."

She thinks about the list, continuing to scroll. While she's doing this, he admires her beautiful face, her soft skin, her fringe of eyelashes. "You are so … beautiful," he says, genuine adoration in his voice, a goofy look on his face.

"Sh! Don't distract me," she insists, focusing on the back-lit screen of the technology that runs her life.

"Ah!" She blurts, chuckling. "Well, there is one thing on my list that involves you. We could skip that, and I'd have one free hour."

"What is it?" he asks eagerly ready to be of assistance. "Wait, you scheduled something for me without checking with me first? Isn't that interesting?" he says, raising an eyebrow, leveling an exaggerated the stink eye at her.

She slowly looks away from her pda and stares into his eyes, then grins.

"What is it?" His curiosity is getting the best of him.

"Make out with Booth. One hour," she says, not looking away, a twinkle in her eye.

"What? It does not say that!" he says, stepping back. "You put that on a list?" He looks toward her pda.

She holds it out, the display screen facing him.

"If it's important enough, it gets on the list," she says, nonchalantly. "Shall I delete it? It would give me at least one hour to spend with your friends." She's pretending that it's no big deal, but her amused smirk says otherwise.

He stares at her. "What time is it scheduled for?" He's squinting, attempting to read the full entry on her time-line.

"No specific time," she says, looking at it herself. "It's flexible," she tosses off, shrugging, grinning impishly.

"In that case, screw Hansen and the Square Chicken!" He grabs her by the wrist and heads toward the couch where he plops down, pulling her onto his lap. "You don't have to go right this minute, do you?"

"No," she says, chuckling. "But do you see all the things I have to consider?" She kisses him playfully on the nose. "I do have a lot of _very_ important things on that list."

"It's good to prioritize," he says agreeing, sinking his hands into her hair and pulling her lips close, then kissing her full on the mouth, creating a shiver that runs from her jaw, down her spine, and the rest of the way through her system.

"I thought you'd feel that way," she says, putting her arms around his shoulders, her fingers up into his hair. Booth closes his eyes and sighs a sigh of contentment. "Ohhhh, will you marry me?" He says, enjoying the scalp massage.

"Ohhhhh, you can't afford me, Love," she coos in her best Katharine Hepburn as she usually does when he asks this. His eyes are still closed, but he can hear the smile in her voice and imagine the twinkle in her eye.

After about six minutes, Brennan stops massaging his scalp, kisses him on his scratchy chin, and rests her head on his shoulder, enjoying sitting on his lap, saying nothing, doing nothing, just being.

"I think we handled that argument fairly well, don't you?" Booth opens his eyes without lift his head from the back of the couch.

"It wasn't an argument, Booth," she objects, quietly, a half smile playing on her lips. With her index finger she draws a feather-lite line along his silhouette from his hairline at the center of his forehead, down between his eyebrows, along his nasal ridge, then across his lips.

This whole time, Booth is watching her expression out of the corner of his eye as she makes her way down his features. He loves the way she looks at him, studies him. He loves how her dark eye lashes look like a plush fringe, hovering over her pale skin when she's looking down at something. Even more when it's part of him she's looking at. _It's so … sweet, _he thinks, sighing, smiling over at her. She returns his smile, stopping her invisible but very real line just below his chin. She turns his face toward hers and gives him a lingering, lip-only, smiling kiss that makes a smooching sound when she pulls away.

"What ever it was, I know _I_ was feeling a little stressed," he says, with a snort after a moment, closing his eyes again.

"Whatever," she says, "And, yeah, I do think we handled it pretty well. Thanks to you and your 'do-over' business, which I still find hard to believe is a real thing," she says, doubtfully.

"Oh, it's real. Ask Angela," he chuckles.

"I plan to," she chuckles back giving him a mock stern look.

"I do think, sometimes, you could be a little more … flexible," he says, carefully choosing his words and nodding slowly to soften the critique.

"And, you," she says, tapping him on his lips gently, "You have to stop assuming the worst when it really isn't personal."

"You are right," he conceds.

"And, I suppose, you are correct as well. About my inflexibility," she says. "I've never been that good at spontaneity … unless it's planned," she says, a gleam in her eye.

"That was a joke, right?"

She smiles broadly at him. "Yes. You got it! See, I can be very humorous, Booth. You just have to be around to see it." She passes her hand along his chest from pectoralis to pectoralis, grinning the whole time.

"I know that. Though I may be the only one who gets to see it," he says with a droll smirk.

She pinches his cheek with a little too much gusto.

"Hey," he says, "watch it! I need that cheek for the next sixty years. Don't bruise the merchandise, baby!"

She shrugs. "You play with the cat, you're gonna get mauled," she says.

"You mean … _'scratched.'_ If you play with the cat … forget it," he says. "We were both also wrong. Back there," he says, nodding his head back toward the kitchen where they had their tense discussion.

Brennan ponders his comment for a moment. "We're not wrong, Booth," she says, pensively. "We're just not perfect -"

"We'll never be perfect -"

"Maybe _you _won't -" she stops, watching his reaction. "It's another joke, ha ha!"

Booth rolls his eyes.

"Anyway, I like us not perfect," she says, shrugging, laying her head back on his shoulder.

"You know what, Bones?" He reaches around her and gives her a playful smack on the butt with his left hand, then run that hand up and down her right thigh, ending with a squeeze of her quadricep. He leaves his hand resting on her thigh, creating a nice warm patch of electricity. "I like us not perfect, too," he smiles up into her eyes.

"We're fun," she says, nodding, grinning.

"Yeah. We're a lot of fun," he agrees, with an affirmative grimace, then a full-in smile.

"And we're funny ..." she adds.

"Well, at least _I'm_ -" she cuts him off, reaching around his face and pinching his left cheek again.

"_We're_ really funny," she says, feigning offense that he would infer otherwise.

"That is true. I laugh at us all the time," he says.

"You do?" She lifts her head in surprise.

"Yeah," he says, "Are you kidding me? What about that ice cream flying across the kitchen last night? I'll be laughing about that for days!"

"How about that Risky Business dance this morning? Oh my God!" She's giggling, deciding not to tell him yet about the incriminating photo she took of him in his tighty whities and shades. "That almost killed me, Booth," she says, through giggles and hisses. "Well, not literally, of course, I'm not sure that's even possible. Though -"

"I know!" He cuts her off. "I was a little worried about you. You could barely breathe for a little while there, you were laughing so hard."

"That's right," she says, looking at him, pensively again as her giggling fades away. She figures he must know that the spectacle of the Booths gyrating to Bob Seger wasn't completely to blame for her respiratory distress. She can see by the way he's returning her gaze that he is well aware that it wasn't all Seger ... or the hysterical performance. He doesn't bring it up, though, he simply smiles at her, a sweet acknowledgment in his eye.

"How about Parker last night, huh? Us freaking out when all he was upset about was you getting to sit on the counter top?" Booth grins at her, amused at the memory.

"I wasn't freaking out, Booth. That was all you," she counters. "You were the one who almost went into cardiac arrest!" She pokes him playfully in the chest. Then she rests her hand on the bicep attached to the hand he's still resting on her thigh. She gives the pleasing firmness of his bicep a squeeze, and feels him flex in response. Oh my! She chuckles at the flip flop this causes in her chest. She hasn't admitted this to him, but a firm bicep has the same affect on her as breasts do on him.

After a moment, Booth says, "I think the tension is just getting to me. I would really like for us have some time alone. Some time when we're not both exhausted because it's so late at night," he says, grimacing. Putting his lips to her ear, he continues. "And we don't have to worry about being interrupted," he whispers. Parker in engrossed in the cartoon, but still.

"Is it really bothering you that much?" She whispers back after a moment. "Because it doesn't show."

"Are you kidding me?" He looks at her, baffled.

She shakes her head slowly, grimacing, her eyebrows raised. "I wouldn't joke about that, Booth. So, you have been having as difficult of a time as I have?" She fans herself, widens her eyes and shakes her head.

"Are there two distinct muscles that make up the, uh, calf muscle?" he asks, teasingly.

She turns her head to the side and grins, amused. "Of course there are. Good one, Booth!"

"Now about this activity you have planned for us later today -"

"My place. Three o'clock. And make sure you've already eaten lunch -" she's saying unabashedly when they both get interrupted by Booth number two.

"Shhh! Can't you see I'm trying to watch this?" Parker turns around from his spot in front of the television to chastise the two on the couch before turning back around to face the television screen, shaking his head.

* * *

><p>Now, that wasn't so bad, was it? Who knew they could be so healthy? Way to go, B&amp;B! Have you ever done a do-over in the middle of an argument? This strategy actually does work, as willing as your partner is willing to go along with it, and feelings haven't been irreparably bruised.<p>

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><p>Thank you for the wonderful reviews, and even more, for your PMs. Hearing what you think and learning about about your lives enriches the experience of writing for me. I love it! Please drop me a note and let me know what you liked, or didn't about this chapter.<p>

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><p><em>It is my goal to follow every Bones aficionado on Twitter. Join me there!<em>  
><em>~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter.<em>


	186. He Was Lovely

_A/N My dictionary app defines dignity as 'having or showing a composed or serious manner that is worthy of respect.' *"Hm," she grunts, squinting a the screen.* Have you ever experienced true anguish? Have you ever cried so hard you sank to the floor and prayed to God no one heard you? (Or maybe you prayed to God that someone did because you didn't want to be alone, but too vulnerable to ask for company) Feeling the full force of anguish when it rips through your body is not a dignified experience, I don't care who you are. _

_Face it, we all look ridiculous when we're in the throws of an outpouring of physical and emotional suffering. (Or when we're having sex, but that's a whole other matter) Our faces get all screwed-up and red, our nose runs, we drool on ourselves, our sinuses swell. It's not pretty. (Okay, maybe not so much like sex ... exactly) You certainly wouldn't describe it as composed or serious. However, there is no shame in anguish. None at all. It is a universal and very human experience. So why do we hide it? Because it embarrasses us. Why do you think actors and actresses win awards for delivering life-like depictions of anguished humanity? Because they had the balls (and got paid lots of money) to show the world what no one else wants anyone to see themselves doing._

_Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray was killed. Assassinated, actually. In cold blood. At the Jeffersonian. In front of Brennan and Booth. Several of you have asked me, "When is Brennan going to deal with it?" Patience, dear reader. There is a plan here. I will not give you your Christmas presents unwrapped in a K-Mart bag, sans fanfare. I will wrap them and bow them and put them under the tree (or by the menorah or the kinara) for you to savor at the right time. The anticipation may be painful, but it makes the reveal ever so sweet. _

_In this chapter, Brennan begins to deal with her anguish over Vincent Nigel-Murray's death. And then we will move on. ~MoxieGirl _

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><p><strong>Chapter 186 He Was Lovely<strong>

Brennan sits at her desk, a warm cup of tea steaming between her hands. _What a day already. What a week, _she thinks. It's a whole different world today than it was last Sunday morning. Last Sunday morning, she was thinking about Mr. Nigel-Murray's death. And about having spent the night in Booth's bed afterwards. But mostly about Mr. Nigel-Murray himself. She knows she is going to have to face the truth that one of her interns, her favorite intern, had been murdered here at the lab, on her sacred ground, in front of all of their people. Brennan shudders at the memory, realizing that she hasn't been blinking. Her eyes sting from insufficient basil tear fluid. She squeezes her eyes closed long enough for her lacrimal glands to remedy the situation and sooth the stinging dryness.

She knows she can't dance around her memories of Mr. Nigel-Murray's death for much longer. But neither can she concentrate, at least not here, fifty feet from where it happened. Vincent isn't staying in the box she stuffed him into. He keeps popping out, expanding like a loosely wadded-up piece of paper tossed on top of several others in a wire wastebasket. She doesn't want to face her feelings. Shit, she doesn't want _to have_ feelings. They frighten her. What will happen if she allows herself to give in to the anguish. No, don't call it anguish. Call it pain, remorse. Use abrupt, concise words, finite and sharp; words that suggest there is a beginning and an end to their torment.

Anguish permeates. It lingers. It produces wrenching, desperate sounds from deep inside. Anguish pulls a person to the floor, takes away their breath and their voice, and leaves them spent and empty, but not finished. A remnant of the anguish always remains. Perhaps in diminishing intensity, but it certainly remains.

Brennan swallows, hearing a clicking sound inside her head as she does it. An uncomfortable chilly tingle travels the perimeter of her face and upper body, causing her to shiver involuntarily. She's always been uncomfortable with feelings, and grief is the absolute worst. It makes her feel like she's battling against a ghost. She can push and claw at the sensation, but she cannot make it leave her.

_Life is symmetrical, balanced,_ she thinks. _Push and pull. Distal and proximal. Yes and no. Life and death._ She thinks of several more examples, then stops. She imagines each of these words at peace in its own space, yet tied to the another, collocated, and irrevocably opposite. As she finds a new life, she must also deal with a death. In many cases, the death is a metaphorical one. In this case it is not.

The metaphorical death of her invulnerability gives life to the possibility of intimacy. The life breathed into her soul through her relationships brings with it the painful burning ash smoldering in the pit of her abdomen, the pit where Mr. Nigel-Murray now lives inside her.

She stands up, then pauses, having forgotten what she had been planning to do. Walking over to the couch and the coffee table, which is still covered in files from the previous evening's work, she nods to herself, sucking in then blowing out a full, yet resigned, breath. Work. Work centers her. Work expects nothing but her rationality and brilliance, the two things she can count on.

She knows she will have to face the aftershocks of his death and the effect they are having on her. In the past she could lock such things away long enough that they'd fade, temporarily at least. Eventually, they resurface, but it is much easier to dismiss overdue, deferred pain than current pain. That's how she's bypassed the grieving process in the past. The fact that Mr. Nigel-Murray keeps popping out of his box tells her that her modus operandi, her usual strategy, will not be effective this time. It may never be again.

Sweets had once told her that the obsolescence of one survival strategy makes room for the creation of a healthier one. "_You don't have to enjoy the process. Most people actually find it unnerving. You just have to move forward. Trust your __**new**__ instincts. Give yourself permission to fail. It will all work out." _Then, he'd given her one of his goofy, confident grins; all teeth and red lips.

He had a tendency to spout philosophical-sounding advice, suggestions that didn't make sense in her world. In retrospect, she usually found that his counsel was both inspired and timely, despite her reluctance to give it any merit when it was proffered.

"I will never figure out how you are able to do this, Dr. Sweets," she'd said to him one afternoon. "You conjure up some mumbo jumbo as if you plucked it out of a vat of spider webs and eye of newt." They were at his office. She'd been reporting the success of a conversation she'd had with Dr. Saroyan. Sweets had all but scripted her dialog for her, infusing it with questions to help her 'get related' before asking for a favor from her boss at the Jeffersonian. Brennan hadn't accepted his suggestion as valid, but she cold appreciate the process, so she went with it. Sweets had been right.

"Where does this … emotional intelligence … you possess come from? It can't be from your years of experience; you couldn't even vote ten years ago," she'd commented, skeptically.

"Ah, but Dr. Brennan," he'd said, cocking his head to the side sagely, "in those brief years, I have studied and counseled a thousand people who's life experiences have proven, over and over, the validity and effectiveness of what I am sharing with you now."

"Clinical experience. I can accept that as a valid explanation," she'd responded as she turned to leave his office. "You can now report that you have studied and counseled 1,001," she said, looking him straight in the eye. After a slight smile and a very subtle nod, she'd left him standing in front of his desk. That night he'd taken himself to the comic book store and purchased all ten volumes of the _Ex Machina_ graphic novel series he'd been resisting buying himself for over a year. Feeling whimsical and generous with himself, he also purchased a very expensive 1941 copy of the original _All-American Comics_ "Green Lantern." Finally, he was going to be in possession of something that Agent Booth would envy him for. His purchases and the knowledge of Booth's impending envy made it a red-letter day for Dr. Lance Sweets.

Despite their effectiveness, Sweets' suggestions elicited feelings of frustration and discomfort for Brennan. She had to admit that they also facilitated the taking of risks, and gave her access to a boldness in the face of her emotional limitations. It weakened the rebar frame of her impervious shell. She reminds herself of this now.

_I don't have to like that Mr. Nigel-Murray was killed. I don't have to agree that working through the anguish is healthier than stuffing it in a box with my memories, my feelings, and my fears. I do, however, have to face the impact of my favorite intern's death on my psyche. No, on my soul. My invisible, metaphorical self. And I do have to walk through the valley of the shadow of death, if that is what is required for the healing to take place. _Just thinking of what it might be like makes her want to give back the lunch now digesting in her stomach.

Despite everything she's learned from Sweets, she can't resist the urge to desensitize herself. _Why not? It's gotta be healthier than puking up a perfectly good spinach leaf salad and a half pint of pineapple yogurt, right?_ For a moment she attempts to view her current situation from a more rational point of view. She methodically runs through several of the scientific tools they use in the lab, to examine evidence. _But how do you analyze joy and remorse, or appreciation and guilt, or significant gain and significant loss? You can't put them in a petri dish and observe them through a microscope, or run them through a mass spectrometer. You can't examine the kerf marks or hairline fractures they create, or date them by their remodeling. You can't paint appreciation any more than you can sketch loss. These things do not have isotopes to reveal the season or the geographic location of emotions such as joy. What then? How can this be viewed objectively? Perhaps it can't, she chagrins. Even if it could, what good would it do?_

Of all the lessons she has learned as Booth's partner, one of the most precious is that we are not on this earth merely to observe. We are here to live and to experience everything the world has to offer. At times, this means allowing ourselves to wallow in the subjective every once in a while, to feel those indefinable emotions such as pain, sorrow, joy and fear. Even if we don't want to. Booth says that this is what makes us unique from all the other animals in God's kingdom – that we can choose a quality of life rich with all the pieces that give us purpose. Then he'd reminded her of a wish he'd once made for her. It was a wish for love, laughter, friendship, purpose and a dance.

"Huh," she sighs, realizing that her life now has all of these, and that Booth is the one who brought them to her. She becomes aware of that lump in her throat once again. This time it's not because of her intern's death. It's a feeling she's becoming accustomed to. It descends on her, like a rain cloud, whenever she's with Booth. It fills her, saturates her actually, starting in her chest, and spreading throughout her body. It's a good, solid, sensation that fills her with contentment. She consciously chooses to set aside the knowledge that these sensations are the result of a potent hormonal cocktail coursing through her vascular system. Instead, she chooses to believe it is a physical manifestation of her feelings of love for him. These feelings intensify when she's in his presence, or sometimes when she's just thinking about him. She finds this synergy both pleasurable and satisfying, all at once.

But right now, she doesn't want to wallow, she wants to desensitize herself. _Maybe physics can be of more help to me,_ she thinks. She turns to Newton's third law of motion in classical mechanics: The mutual forces of action and reaction between two bodies are equal, opposite and collinear. To wit, to every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction.

Does this mean that the passion, the intensity, between her and Booth will be matched by the anguish she will endure for Vincent? She's reminded of Booth's passage from Ecclesiastes. Recalling its perspective on dying as part of the cycle of life, she closes her eyes and leans back, trying to remember how it goes. Mouthing the words as she recalls them, she realizes that the entire passage relates beautifully to the dichotomy between loss and gain.

"_A time to be born, and a time to die …_  
><em>A time to kill, and a time to heal …<em>  
><em>a time to break down, and a time to build up …"<em>

When she reaches the line about a time to break down, she swallows, feeling what she imagines as a ball of dough forming in her throat. It is part of the globus pheryngeous, the instinctual fight or flight response. She swallows several more times, attempting to will away this uncomfortable sensation. She focuses on more lines form the Ecclesiastes 3: 3-11.

"_A time to weep, and a time to laugh;_  
><em>a time to mourn, and a time to dance"<em>

_Well, that didn't help at all,_ she smirks. The ball is getting larger and firmer. She wonders for a moment if she could have developed swollen glands from exposure to Strepticoccus bacteria. She pushes gently but firmly on her lymph nodes, starting with the anterior cervical, posterior cervical, submandibular, supraclavicular, then finally and most importantly, her tonsillar lymph nodes. The now softball sized lump in her larnyx is most definitely not a result of multiplying bacterium. Shrugging, she continues mouthing the words to the passage.

"…_A time to embrace,_  
><em>and a time to refrain from embracing;<em>  
><em>A time to get, and a time to lose …"<em>

There it is again, the dry swallow, vigilantly reminding her that something psychological is going on. Though she's well aware that this is a response to intense emotion, she can't help eliminating any other possible culprits. It's the scientist in her. There's nothing she can do about it, or so she thinks.

"…_a time to keep, and a time to cast away;_  
><em>A time to rend, and a time to sew;<em>  
><em>a time to keep silence, and a time to speak …"<em>

Is this what it's all about? Equal and opposite? How can the gaining of an open heart for one person be a fair trade for someone else's entire life? How is that just?

She thinks of Vincent's face. His pale skin, dark wind-swept hair, and pink lips, his narrow cheekbones leading toward a narrow chin. His almost impish appearance. He was a struggler. A licentious fabricator of tales involving any and all attractive women that crossed his path. A lover of detail who found connections inside the chaos by casting his intellectual net wider and further than any other person she'd ever met. People thought he was strange because they didn't see his connections. In time, he would have learned to do his thinking with his mouth closed, but she would have missed watching his mind work when that happened. He usually unveiled a relevance to the topic at hand that no one else had the vision, the perspective, to see. She admired this about him, and now he's gone. _So many facts he never got to tell me,_ she thinks. _So many cases we will never work together. _

Thinking she's worked through something profound and should now be able to focus on work, she surveys the files laid out before her on the coffee table. The file on Banty Solicious catches her eye. She's the Washington victim buried only three feet deep. Picking up the white notepad from yesterday, she reviews her list comparing Aleesha Grimes and Banty Solicious, ruminating on the differences, fascinated by the similarities. _There has to be a connection. But what is it?_ She flutters her fingertips on the surface of the coffee table, biting on her lip, a pinched expression on her face. Something is right there. _Right here in front of me. What is it? _She pressures herself to produce the answer. After five unproductive minutes, she stands up and bends backward to stretch. Swinging her torso to the right, then to the left, she sees the darkened lab platform fifty feet from where she now stands. She knows that Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray isn't up there, but a creeping sensation in her chest tries to convince her that he is.

"_Go have a look,"_ it whispers to her.

"That's absurd," she says to her empty office. "Focus. I need to focus." She walks over to stand in her office doorway, her hands on her hips. Her posture says_, I am in charge,_ though her rapidly beating heart says, _I don't know how to do this; I feel anxious. _Grabbing the door by its knob, Brennan closes it to shut out the view of the platform, which seems to be calling to her. She turns toward the center of the room.

I need to get my blood pumping, my brain on the case. She quickly does twenty-five jumping jacks and jogs in place until her consciousness returns to the details of the case.

Back on the couch, she starts from the beginning of the case, moving forward. All the places they went, people they saw, evidence they gathered, reports they received. This process never fails to engross her.

* * *

><p><strong><span>TUESDAY:<span>**

***Remains found behind the Strawbridge Memorial Observatory on the Haverford College campus. Address 370 Lancaster Avenue, Haverford, PA.  
>***Booth detained to investigate.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>WEDNESDAY:<strong>

***Brennan flies out, has dinner with Booth at the Larrinaga's home.

* * *

><p><strong>THURSDAY:<strong>

VICTIM #1

***First visitation to the site.  
>***Case is assigned to FBI due to the Maryland victim's remains having been found in Pennsylvania.<br>***Visited Barbara and Bob Grimes  
>***Interviewed Bonita Lucas, and Chica Vegas<br>***Victim #1 identified through dental records.

**Name:** Aleesha Grimes.  
><strong>Age:<strong> Twenty-one years old.  
><strong>Distinguishing characteristics:<strong> Pretty, busty, dancer's posture. Five feet, five inches tall.  
><strong>Personality:<strong> Serial monogamist. Bright student but hid her intelligence from men. Liked men with means. Chose her sexual partners carefully.  
><strong>Parents:<strong> Barbara and Bob Grimes of 1834 Gorman Avenue, Laurel, Maryland.  
><strong>Residence:<strong> Living with parents between 3rd and 4th years of college at Haverford  
><strong>Last seen by parents:<strong> June 15, 2006 at 6 pm. Left on foot.

Brennan's mind wanders again. Her subconscious pokes at her consciousness. _Deal with me,_ it says.

_When had Mr. Nigel-Murray last seen his mother? How had they spent their last moments together? _She shakes her head, wishing her mind was like an Etch A Sketch™, her thoughts erasable with a simple shake.

_What was the last thing I said to my mother_? She remembers distinctly the last thing her mother said to her. Christine Brennan knew it was the last time she'd see her daughter. Brennan wonders how long her mother thought about what she wanted her last words to her daughter to be. Brennan has been over this more than a million times. However, she has no trouble shoving Christine Brennan back in her box when she needs to. She's had years of practice doing just that. Back to the case.

**Last seen by others:** Three high school friends, Bonita Lucas, Chicka Vegas, and Corrine Anderson. Met at Rita's Water Ice, 3353 Fort Meade Road, Laurel, MD, at appx. 6:20PM, left at Appx. 8:30PM  
><strong>Time of disappearance:<strong> After 8:30PM, June 15, 2006  
><strong>Mode of transport to Rita's and back:<strong> On foot, covering two miles within 25 minutes. Friends reveal she had recently taken up running to lose weight.  
><strong>Supposition:<strong> She may have hooked-up with a past boyfriend after leaving Rita's Water Ice.  
><strong>Burial site:<strong> Haverford College campus. Grassy area behind Strawbridge Memorial Observatory. The site of the future Stevens Morris Nguyen Center. Address 370 Lancaster Avenue, Haverford, PA. Remains buried at five feet. No container.  
><strong>Remains:<strong> Healthy. Arranged as if fully intact before decomposition began. However, bones found cleared of all viscera and soft tissue. Hodgins identifies bones as having been cleaned by larvae of the Dermestes maculatus, tissue-eating beetle larvae. All bones present and catalogued.

Brennan thinks about Mr. Nigel-Murray's remains. When they were returned to his mother, his remains were in pristine condition, except for one very small hole through the costal cartilage of the 4th cervical vertebra, continuing through the pulmonary artery, the aorta, and terminating in a fracture of the 8th thoracic vertebra where the sniper's bullet was lodged.

But these facts are not germane to the Aleesha Grimes and Banty Solicious cases, she reminds herself.

**Idiosyncrasy 1:** Victim's femora and tibias show signs of osteoarthritis. Color and density of femora and tibias match each other, but do not match any other bones. Patellae and all remaining bones do not show signs of osteoarthritis. Femora and tibias have traces of Dermestidae Plovokitimis larvae. Also substantial concentrations of cadmium and lead contamination in the bones. Isotope analysis revealed that the bones had to have come from Washington, in the vicinity of Maury Island or South Vashon Island where Antagano Smelting and Refining Company was found guilty of saoil contamination resulting in abnormally high incidences of cancer and related disease and death.

**Idiosyncrasy 2:** Extra bone found, not belonging to Allesha Grimes. Suspected at first to be of the intermediate phalanx of the right digitus secundus, now suspected to be a phalax from the foot. Bone had been covered in several layers of clear fingernail polish. Bone donor is a male, approximately 15 years old, lived in the vicinity of Haverford, PA. Bone has been in the open air for many years. _**Supposition:**_ bone may be a totem or keepsake.

**Affects left found with remains:** No clothing or affects found with the remains or anywhere in the vicinity.

**Persons of Interest in the Aleesha Grimes Murder:  
><strong>_*Slade Burup__,_ most recent ex-boyfriend, criminal record, electronics hound. Aleesha broke off the relationship. Slade fled when approached by Officer Angelus Scarpeti to be brought in for questioning.

_*George Norland__,_ ex-boyfriend who broke up with Aleesha before she became close with Dr. Larrinaga. No known criminal record.

_*Dr. Enrique Larrin__aga,_ 44, married to Carmen. Victim's professor and mentor, victim had a crush on him, no sexual relationship suspected. Attended several trips annually for business. Aleesha accompanied Larrinaga as research assistant on business trips to Berlin, Puerto Rico, and Arizona. Was at Washington convention in 2006. No known interest in hunting. Stratospherically intelligent, according to Hubbard. His cufflinks, a suggestive journal entry, and photos of him with Aleesha were found among her personal affects by her father, Bob Grimes. All three items proven to indicate nothing more than an obsessive college girl's crush on her professor. Allesha had digitally enhanced the photos by replacing Carmen's face with her own. The cuff links, she had stolen while babysitting for the Larrinaga's.

_*Carmen Larrinaga__,_ 46, wife of Dr. Larrinaga, suspected Aleesha had a crush on Larrinaga, Carmen warned Aleesha to keep a professional distance from Enri. Victim babysat for the Larrinaga family. Awaiting criminal record check. Was at Washington convention with her husband in 2006. No known interest in hunting.

_*Dr. Flynn Hubbard__,_ 54, Larrinaga's boss and mentor, professor at Haverford, divorced,  
>graduated from high school in '75 with Gary DiAngela, no sexual relationship with victim suspected. No criminal record. Kept travel journals, details including business trips. Is an accomplished chess player, attends competitions out of town 4-5 times a year. Reports no interest in hunting.<p>

_*Dr. Clyde Bing__,_ 33, professor at Haverford, had sex once with victim, promiscuous. Married but recently served with divorce papers. Had an unnatural interest in Aleesha, behaved as if she spurned him. Brilliant scientist, somehow politically connected, fired for inappropriate sexual activity in previous position at NYU, gets drunk and disorderly on a monthly basis, has a girl friend, Janine Brocco, 21, previous secretary for Bing. From Illinois. Hunts. Awaiting criminal record check.

_*Gary DiAngela_, 54, graduated from high school with Dr. Flynn Hubbard, sole heir of a wealthy businessman, doesn't work by choice, hasn't completed a college degree, though has studied extensively at numerous institutions. Awaiting criminal record check. Widower, wife died of cancer when daughter was 13 yrs old. Daughter, 29, studying to become a nurse. Unsubstantiated, but suspected to have slept with Hubbard's wife. Faints at the site of blood. No known interest in hunting.

_*Officer Angelus Scarpeti,_ ~44 yrs old, Enrique's friend and local law enforcement officer, married at seventeen, 5 daughters. Sent to retrieve Slade Burup for questioning. Also, collected Aleesha's journal, photos, and purloined cuff links from Bob and Barbara Grimes. Picked-up Bing and interrogated him after bar scene. Awaiting criminal record check.

VICTIM #2

***Suspected second victim identified as resident of Washington State as a result of traces of Dermestidae Plovokitimis larvae and substantial concentrations of cadmium and lead contamination in the bones.  
>***Victim identified by Sheriff Sharon Restovich of King County, Washington, as Banty Solicious.<br>***Disinterment of remains scheduled for Monday morning.

**Name:** Banty Solicious  
><strong>Age:<strong> Between 20 and 35 yrs  
><strong>Distinguishing characteristics:<strong> Suffered from osteoarthritis in her legs  
><strong>Time of disappearance:<strong> June 17, 2006  
><strong>Burial site: <strong>Island Center Forest.  
><strong>Remains:<strong> Cleared of all viscera and tissue prior to interment, remains arranged as if she had decomposed at burial site, identified through dental records.  
><strong>Affects left found with remains:<strong> No clothing or affects found with the remains or anywhere in the vicinity.  
><strong>Persons of interest:<strong> None to date.

* * *

><p><span>FRIDAY:<span>

***Interrogated Dr. Enrique Larrinaga  
>***Visited Haverford College to inspect Larrinaga's office, ran into Hubbard, Bing and DiAngela playing cards.<br>***Interviewed Carmen Larrinaga, then Dr. Larrinaga and Carmen together  
>***Interrogated Slade Burup, netting only the name of his steroid dealer<p>

"Friday," she says out loud. This is where she stops reviewing her notes, and thinks instead about Booth. It's about time for a break anyway, right? Reaching inside her bag to check for messages on her cell, she feels something that hadn't been in there this morning. It's a folded half sheet of paper. Opening it, she recognizes Booth's clipped handwriting. The first sentence has two lines drawn through it. He must have had second thoughts, or didn't want her to see what he had written. Then, he must have reconsidered. Written in the margin beside the crossed out words is:_ "Oh well, what the hell!"_

**_Bones ~_**

This was crossed out:

**_You are the only person I kinda, sorta,  
>almost don't mind having see through me.<br>And believe me, this is a first._**

Followed by the _"Oh, what the hell!"_ Then:

**_Thank you for having faith in me, in us - for everything._**  
><strong><em>This afternoon 3PM. Your place. I'll bring the Pringles®.<em>**

He'd signed it:

**_B-OX  
><em>**_(From Booth with a hug and a kiss!)_

"Aw," she purrs, smiling after reading it. This is one of those smiles that stays on your face until something else really powerful comes along to take it off. "As if I would have forgotten what 'B-OX' stands for," she says out loud, chuckling. Folding it back up, she slides it into her back pocket and considers calling him. No. She needs to focus and get through all her notes.

Brennan is anxious to get to Washington State to examine the remains of Banty Solicious. She suspects that once the dental records confirmed the identity, not much else was done to investigate her murder.

_Washington State doesn't have their own forensic anthropologist to aid them in solving crimes where all evidence seems to have vanished with the soft tissue, she thinks. Sheriff Restovich said the whole town was in shock from Banty's disappearance and death. Hopefully, the residents will be willing to talk about anything they saw or heard five years ago that could lead to another piece of this very strange puzzle. _

_One of the most puzzling aspects of this case is the timing. Aleesha Grimes, missing on June 15, 2006, found five years later in a five-foot hole on a college campus. Banty Solicious, missing two days later on June 17, was found a year later, approximately 2,800 miles away, in a lush Washington forest, buried a mere three feet deep._

_Were the girls alive and in captivity for a number of days before they were killed? Did they meet each other? Is there a connection between these two girls? It takes forty-six hours to drive non-stop from D.C. to Washington. That would be the safest way for him to transport remains without anyone noticing what he was up to. If he went by train, bus, or plane, how would he explain traveling with four human bones tucked under his arm? Perhaps, he is able to smuggle his nasty habit without suspicion because he poses as an anthropologist … freaky. Or a coroner … or who knows what? _

Brennan does some quick calculations in her head. _Aleesha's femur measures 44.68 cm, weighing approximately 6-7 lbs. Her tibia measures 34.32 cm, weighing approximately 3-4 lbs. With two each of each bone, the total comes out somewhere around 18-22 lbs. So whatever he's transporting those bones in has to be able to tote ~ 20lbs, and have a dimension in excess of 45 cm or 18 inches in length. _

_Does he mail the bones through the U.S. Postal system or Federal Express, so they will be waiting for him when he flies across the country to the other set of remains? _

_Does he mail them to a partner, who then buries them?_

When she stops to consider these questions, her mind wanders back to Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray once again.

"Aggggggggh!" Somehow, forcing a primal sound to pour from her insides to the cooler air of her office seems to dull the anxiety, but only for a moment.

"Didn't I just work through this? I've worked through this," she insists out loud. _But it's not gone. How long do I have to indulge this … remorse._ She wonders, frustrated.

"_Until you face it, and deal with it," _whispers a voice from out of her subconscious. "_Get into it, let yourself feel it. Only then will it start to drain away slowly. But it will never be gone completely. It's residue will remain with you for as long as your heart beats."_

Resigned, Brennan abandons her notes, opens her office door like a woman in a trance, and walks out to the platform. The lights are off except for the light gray pall cast through the ceiling windows by a sun that cowers behind dense clouds. Without turning on the lights, she steps up to the card reader, slowly reaches into her pocket to retrieve her security pass, and swipes it vertically in slow motion.

At the top of the steps, she pauses, like a person bracing themselves before viewing their deceased parent lying in a coffin at the wake. She takes several deep breaths, her head rising and falling with each. _This is absurd,_ she thinks. _No one is here. Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray's body is across the ocean, buried in English soil. The blood that gushed from his heart no longer stains the surface of the floor where her fell. The blood -"_ she thinks, her thoughts trailing off. She instinctively rubs the pads of her fingers together as if testing the texture of a soft piece of cloth, but it's blood that she's imagining.

She looks at her hands, clenches and unclenches them, attempting to obliterate the memory of the warm, scratchy texture of the dying man's Jeffersonian lab coat, the metallic smell of his blood pooling on the floor in deep crimson, some of it getting on her clothes, her hands. These memories are trapped in her skin. She shivers.

Realizing she's been standing at the top of the steps awash in … what? Fear, remorse, regret, sadness? She is overwhelmed with a plethora of churning emotions. It was not difficult to live for a while in sweet denial when her parents disappeared. Any moment, they'd come back, right? And day now, they'd call with some crazy story about why they couldn't call before. Any year now …

Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray's death was irrefutable. She was there. She saw the life drain from his eyes, saw his skin pale, heard his dying words, sat beside his body, memorizing his features, admiring his cranium the night he died. She hears his last words now.

"_I... ple-please don't. Just don't make me go. I-I don't want to go.  
>I love -it's been lovely. Being here with - with you."<em>

_Booth was correct,_ she finally admits to herself. Sweets was also correct_. It is not as easy being here, alone, with my memories of my favorite intern, she whimpers inside her head_. She recognizes the sensation of impending tears. The lump in her trachea is once more making its presence known. She swallows, once more hearing the clicking sound in her ears.

_When there were people here with me on Monday and Tuesday, it was easy to drown out the echo of breaking window glass, she thinks. _With Angela, Hodgins and Parker on the platform, she didn't hear the echo of the almost noiseless "pfffft" of the miniature torpedo that whizzed through the air and sunk itself inside Vincent's body, stealing his life.

_I keep looking for the purpose, the equal and opposite reaction. Was the barrier between Booth and I softened by Vincent's death? Is that what made out relationship possible? Did Vincent have to die so that we could love? This is irrational. It does not make sense to imagine a causal relationship where there clearly is none. So why do I keep thinking about it? _

_Because,_ she tells herself, _because of the push and pull. Distal and proximal. Yes and no. Life and death. Some of these which are inarguably causal. The seed has to die for the new plant to grow. Causal. Death to life. _In her associative mind, she marvels, not for the first time this week, at how each flows into the other. Tapered at the touching points, yet touching nonetheless, creating a never-ending circle, a dog chasing its tail. _It's beautiful, really,_ she thinks, _Despite the pain and loss_. Vincent would appreciate that.

At that tender thought, smiles wanly, her whole body feels weak and heavy. She slowly crouches down beside the stainless steel table. Brennan is overwhelmed by a sense of impending release. Along with it comes the knowledge that she will be powerless to stop it. You don't have to like it, you just have to do it. Just let it happen. Resigned to the inevitable, Brennan's shoulders drop, her hands falling to her sides, her chin resting just above her chest, her fingers poised on the floor like a runner about the take off for the 100 meter dash, keeping her steady.

"Just let it come," she whispers to the empty space. The sorrow is taking it's time. Sensations of physical pain make sporadic shots through her extremities. She can feel something leaving her body. But it's not enough. There is a lot more in there, holding on, coiled around her muscles, tied to her fingers and toes, braided into her hair ... this sorrow.

"Let it out," she whispers, taking several cleansing breaths. "Let it out," she says to the room.

Another couple of breaths. On the last breath, she gasps at the sensation of that softball caught in her throat. She can't speak anymore, or swallow. And it makes her angry. Without thinking, she reaches out toward the spot where Vincent had lain when he took his last breath. He's not there, but maybe his warmth lingers, even if only for a moment of irrational thought. She reaches forward and brushes her fingertips across an invisible outline of Mr. Nigel-Murray's lifeless body. She lays her hands on the cool surface. The coolness confirms for her that he, indeed, is not there. He's no longer there.

"He's not here," whispers the voice from before.

She drops her knees to the ground, her hands sliding over the cool surface, and she sobs quietly for a moment. But it still isn't enough. There's a kink in the water hose of her emotional release, holding back the stream. Unkink it and what will be released is a torrent of pent-up anguish. Taking a deep breath, Brennan clenches her fists once more, squeezes her eyes shut, and screams for all she's worth.

**"WHY DID HE HAVE TO GO? HE WAS INNOCENT. HE LOVED IT HERE!**

Her trachea begins to feel irritated from the abuse of her screaming, but she's not finished yet.

**"JUST THIS ONCE CAN SOMEONE PLEASE STAY?**

"_Caralho*! Where the hell did that come from?"_

She wonders if she will ever be free of that last sliver of abandonment fear. But Nigel-Murray didn't leave her. He was taken. Against his will. Cognitively, she is aware of this. But she had grown attached to him, which meant she risked intimacy, even if it was professional intimacy. She had chosen to risk it. She had allowed herself to foster affection for him.

_I knew it,_ she chastises herself, beating her fists once against her thighs. _I knew I shouldn't get attached to the interns. Didn't I learn anything from caring for Zach? This is what happens when I get attached!_

**"I DIDN'T WANT HIM TO GO. HE HAD A BEAUTIFUL MIND. AND A PERFECT CRANIUM. HE WAS LOVELY AND I LOVED HIM! I LOVED HIM!"**

Then it comes. Finally, she sobs like a child. She sobs loudly, the noises wrenched from her body, making her shake involuntarily. She cries open-mouthed and silently, saliva stringing from one side of her lips to the opposite. She closes her mouth, shaking with each wave of sadness, trying to contain the torrent, the rough vibrations of her pain abusing her insides.

When she can't hold it inside any longer, she opens her mouth to let out a moan, which morphs into an anguished cry for mercy, then a whimper. For ten minutes, she kneels like this. Alternately crying, sobbing, and sitting perfectly still making no noise at all. Gradually, a peacefulness comes over her and she becomes aware of the coolness of the platform floor, that initial sensation that started this whole outpour. _No, that's a lie. This was started a very long time ago, well before she came to the Jeffersonian today. Well before she came to the Jeffersonian_, she tells herself.

Her hands lie flat, palms down, against the invisible, cool outline of a slain body, she looks at her skin. It's pink, slightly wrinkled, her nails trimmed to less than a 3/4 moon. Two thoughts descend upon her. First, this hand is alive. She bends her fingers, turning her hand over to look at her palm. _This hand is alive, though Vincent's is dead. And, this hand has work to do._ Almost as if he were there in the room with her, Vincent's voice reaches out to her from the ether and whispers into her ear,

"_Solve this case. Solve this case and get on with your life." _

She straightens and looks around her. No one is there, but she can hear that voice with the proper mewing English accent. She hears it over and over inside her head.

"_Solve this case. Catch that wanker. Solve this case and get on with your life."_

Quietly dusting the invisible dust off her shirt and jeans, Brennan stands and places her hands on her hips, staring up through the ceiling windows. She looks at the familiar surroundings, then up at the sky through the skylights. She sighs, then shakes her head.

"Okay," she says. "Okay."

* * *

><p><em>*Caralho ~ Brazillian slang word for 'fuck.' Brennan actually knows how to swear in about ten different languages.<em>

* * *

><p><em>Review or don't. Relate or don't. No one is going to know.<br>Tell someone you love that you love them in case you can't tomorrow.  
>Then go read the other Fanfic I've started writing called<br>"The Meaning in the Episode."  
>It provides some of the fluff and interaction that<br>was left out of the Season 7 episodes.  
>Thank you for each and every wonderful review for<br>The When and the How: A Bone to Pick  
><em>_Next scene is at Brennan's apartment at 3PM! _


	187. Cosmo GIrl

**A/N NOTE TO THE NEW READER WANTING TO KNOW ABOUT THE "Will You Marry Me?" Game that B&B play with each other ... It isn't from a movie ... that I know of. I made it up! Although ... somewhere I made a mistake and switched Katharine with Audrey Hepburn ... in this story. Please pardon that mistake ... I haven't had a chance to fix it. **

**Also ... you need not fearSeason 7 spoilers HERE! This is PURELY SEASON 6, Sweetie! So - feel free to read the A/Ns if you get the urge!**

**~M-OX**

* * *

><p><strong>Cosmo Girl<strong>

Booth reaches into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone in response to the text alert tone. There's a text from Brennan.

"... _**I need you. Now." **_That's all it says.

He's sitting in the stands at Parker's soccer match. His eyes flick down to his cell as he absently punches in his response. _**"Is everything okay?"**_ He watches the game, waiting for a response.

"... _**Yes. Was on lab platform at Jeffersonian. Thinking about VNM."**_

"_**Okay. See You soon." **_Booth returns his attention to Parker's game, starting to put his cell back in his pocket. His cell alert sounds.

"... _**I'm home now."**_

_This is odd, _he thinks._ Brennan doesn't do this, doesn't text simply to provide progress reports on her location or activity unless it pertains to a case._

"... _**At soccer game with Parker. Be there around 2:45." **_Pressing send, he slips his cell back into his pocket. A moment later, the text alert sounds once again.

_"... **I'd like to have you. Now,"** is spelled out across his screen._

His eyebrows rise in surprise at her response, his expression blank otherwise. He's still more into the game than the texts.

"... _**Are you sure you're okay?"**_ He texts her back, his eyes glued to the screen, a quizzical expression on his face. _Maybe she really isn't okay._

"... _**Of course. Why?" **_The response comes almost immediately.

_Maybe nothing is wrong,_ he thinks, scrolling back to review her previous texts.

"... _**I need you. Now**_**."** Then,

"... _**I'm home now,"**_ followed by,

"... _**I'd like to have you. Now."  
><strong>_

A smile begins to spread across his face. He chuckles to himself, looking around at the other spectators to see if anyone's looking over his shoulder. _Is she flirting with me_?

"... _**Are you **__**sexting**__** me?" **_Might as well just ask her outright.

No response. A half a minute later, still no response. Then finally …

**"... )" **A sideways winking smiley face appears on the screen.

Wow. Flashfire on the back of his neck. _Can she possibly know about sexting? She's smart enough to figure it out, right?_

Booth climbs down the bleachers and nonchalantly walks over to the side of the field where the non-playing teammates and the coach are gathered. Some of the nine-year-old boys are kicking an extra soccer ball around, while others are looking at some kind of trading cards Booth doesn't recognize. Booth wonders, _What ever happened to good old baseball cards? _He walks over and stands beside Coach Tom.

"How much longer you think we got on this game, Tom?" He asks. They stand side-by-side, hands on hips, watching the players running after the black and white ball. Tom flicks a disapproving glance at Booth, then quickly returns his attention to his players. Any moment now, one of them is going to spit tobacco on the ground, or scratch his balls.

"Eh, 'bout another ten, fifteen." Says the coach, not taking his eyes off the field.

Booth looks at his watch. It's 1:48 right now. Rebecca said anytime between two and three o'clock was good for the drop-off at her place. He usually stretches his time with Parker out as long as possible. But maybe not this time.

He steps back from the coach and texts Brennan.

"... _**How badly do you need me?"**_

The reply is almost instantaneous.

_**"... Almost as badly as I want you."**_

_Hm,_ he grunts. _Something is definitely wrong,_ he thinks,_ or ...** "Are you upset?"**_

"... _**Wouldn't call it that …"**_

He's confused. Might as well come right out and ask the question again.

"... _**You just sexted me, didn't you?"**_

No answer. Hm. He decides to poke the hornets nest. Maybe then he'll get a more direct response. He sends her his own teasing text.

"... _**What are you wearing?"**_

No answer for twenty seconds.

_"... **A bathing suit."**_

_Holy shit,_ he thinks. The cell phone slips out of Booth's slightly sweaty palm. He tries to catch it, but misses. It hits the grass with a tiny rustle and a thud. _She's definitely sexting me … I think,_ he says to himself, not too confidently. He picks the cell up quickly, looking around to make sure none of the boys are paying attention. His neck is now on fire.

"... _**You are kidding me." **_He manages to text her back.

No response at first.

"... _**Only one way to find out. ; )"**_ Another sideways winking smiley face. Five seconds later, another text comes through.

"... _**On another note – bring the Banty Solicious medical records."**_

"... _**I love it when you talk dirty to me. ; P "**_ He's grinning as he texts her back.

"... _**Get off the phone and get your ass over here."**_

"... _**Even more when you're bossy." **_Now he's chuckling, but his heart is beating out a fierce rumba against the inside of his ribcage.

"... _**Don't make me start without you."**_

He's not chuckling anymore. In his shock at her brazen warning, he blurts the most offensive curse word in the dictionary. The one referred to by the kids as "the 'F' word." He looks around to see if anyone heard him. He doesn't believe in swearing in the presence of children. The exception being an occasional '_shit'_ or '_damn_,' but definitely not something like, _'holy fuck balls_.' He gets a nasty look from a mom sitting in a lawn chair about eight feet away. He shrugs it off.

Looking at his cell display again, he thinks, _Thank God I'm not driving._ A blade of adrenaline slices through his heart, catching him off guard. He notices he's sweating. He considers his options, and blows out a lungful of air, tapping his finger on his phone. _Do I cut this game short? Take Parker home? High tail it over to Bones? _Decisions. He doesn't want to be that dad who puts his girlfriend above his kid._ If we leave in ten, we'll get to Rebecca's at 2:20. That will only be shaving ten minutes off of time with Parker._ He exhales audibly, scratching his forehead. _We'll leave in fifteen ... and I'll drive like a bat out of hell._

_Who ever thought there'd come the day when I'd get a booty call from Bones?_ He's shaking his head. He can feel the heat on his neck and the top of his ears. He knows they've got to be blood red by now. There's nothing he can do about it, short of dumping the ice cooler over his head.

Booth chuckles to himself. _She wants me,_ he thinks, a cocky half smile that turns into a full-on sweet, sheepish one. _It's nice to be wanted this way by her,_ he muses, sighing. _It is. It's really nice to be wanted by her, and for her to be able to say as much._

After ten minutes, he strides up beside the coach once again, Booth says, "Hey, Tom? I gotta take Parker."

Tom stands with legs a shoulder's length apart, his arms across his chest, the bill of his Green Bay Packers cap casting his eyes into shadow. He rotates sideways as little as possible and eyeballs Booth, giving him the stink eye. "How the hell am I supposed to run a tight game when you parents keep taking the kids out early? Shit!"

"I hear ya," says Booth, shrugging and grimacing. "Nothin' I can do about it, man." His return expression says, 'deal with it.'

Coach Tom shakes his head disgustedly, spits, and returns his attention to the game.

"PARKER! WE GOTTA GO, BUDDY!" shouts Booth, making a bullhorn with his hands around his mouth.

Parker runs over to Booth, winded. "In the middle of a quarter, Dad? Can I just stay for five more minutes?"

Booth pauses, scratches his jawbone, clenches his teeth, then nods at Parker, stepping back toward the coach.

"We have to go do this thing for a thing … " he shrugs apologetically at the coach.

Booth backs away from the coach and watches Parker play another five minutes.

Rethinking the sexting thing, he turns back to his cell. He shakes his head, anxious to get over to Brennan's apartment. _Finally, some time alone,_ he thinks, with a heavy sigh, not knowing how he's going to keep himself from ripping her clothes off when he gets there.

"COME ON, PARKER, HUSTLE UP, BUDDY!"

He notices she's left another text. He must not have heard the alert over the din of yelling and cheering by the players and spectators.

"_**I can't wait to kiss you, and …"**_

There's not another text. No ending to that sentence. Now, he has no choice. He must go. Now. Thank God the game is so close to over! Would it be wrong to use the sirens, the flashing lights? Yes, it would be wrong. Shit. He realizes that whenever he's imagined them being together, he never thought about little things like this. He always thought he'd be the instigator, the seducer. Why on earth did he think that? Hasn't he knows her long enough to know she's not a passive person by any stretch of the imagination? She's the female version of an alpha male. Of course she would be comfortable taking charge, once she knew it was safe to do so. Whew.

Eight minutes after receiving that last text, he gets another one while in the car with Parker in the back seat, strapped into a booster seat.

"... _**Have coroner's report-Banty Solicious?**_

"... _**Yep – I have it here in the car, Why?" **_Back to business_._

"... _**I want you to look at something."**_

_**"... I figured that out. ) Pulling up to Rebecca's now. Be there in less than ten."**_

Six minutes later, at 2:38, he pulls into Brennan's parking lot, throws open the driver's side door, and flies out of the Sequoia toward the entrance to her building.

* * *

><p>Returning home form the Jeffersonian, Brennan drops her bag on the couch and goes straight through her bedroom to the bathroom. She turns on the hot water for the shower and returns to her bedroom to strip. The cold shower she'd had at Booth's wasn't enough to give her that clean, relaxed feeling. Having knelt on the floor, cried her eyes out, and made a mess of herself at the Jeffersonian, she feels the need to cleanse herself physically to fully relax, to purge herself of any residual anxiety.<p>

After ten minutes under the scalding waterfall, she finally feels purified. Dried off and wrapped in her bathrobe, she crawls onto her bed. What she'd really like to do is take a long nap. Then she thinks of Booth, and changes her mind. What she'd really like to do is take a long nap … with Booth wrapped around her. _That would be nirvana,_ she thinks, sighing, looking over at the clock on her bedside table.

It's 1:30 now. She'd spent three and a half hours at the Jeffersonian and made a fair amount of progress. Not as much as she would have liked, but at least she has the timeline and the important facts collected on two sheets of paper. And, she'd made progress in the grieving process over Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray. Not that this was on the list of things to do, but she's known that it had to happen sometime. Better that it happen now rather than when they are out in Washington.

Walking into the living room, she plops down on the couch and grabs her bag. Fishing out her cell phone, she also takes out the Cosmopolitan magazine she'd ended up purchasing from the vendor where she purchased her coffee on the way into the Jeffersonian. She's never read a Cosmo before, but she felt obligated to purchase this one. On the cover is a beautiful portrait of Adele, a singer Brennan has recently become fond of. Angela plays one of Adele's albums in her office when she needs to get 'in the zone,' as she calls it. Usually that means she doing reconstructive work for facial recognition.

Having been to Angela's office several times while Adele was gently paying over Angela's sound system, Brennan had become fond enough of the chanteuse to down load a number of her songs from iTunes. And here she is, Adele, on the cover of Cosmopolitan Magazine.

Brennan had no interest in reading the article, but she did want to look at Adele's bone structure. When she'd pulled the magazine out of it's holder, she accidentally ripped the front cover. As a result, she'd felt obliged to pay for it. As long as she'd paid for it, she might as well take it home.

The cover of the December 2011 Cosmopolitan magazine advertises two top articles. The first, in thick white letters and located in the optimum cover spot for human eye scanning, is, _"100 Best Sex Tips of the Year."_ The other top article, this one in Pupon yellow type, is _"Sh*t My Guy Says, Where's a muzzle when you need one?"_

The second article doesn't interest her. Booth is nothing if not appropriate and respectful unless he's intimidating a suspect or goading an underling to pick up the pace or show the proper respect for authority. The first article, however, could prove interesting.

She flips the glossy rag open, looking for the table of contents.

"Don't these people know that a table of contents is supposed to be on the FIRST PAGE," she blurts in frustration. Finally, on page seventeen, she finds the index she's looking for. _"100 Best Sex Tips of the Year,"_ on page 120. She flips through the magazine, hunting for page 120.

"Why the hell don't half of these pages have numbers on them? No wonder they need sex to sell this magazine, it's a nightmare to navigate!" She shakes her head in exasperation.

She peruses the first thirty suggestions. Most of the suggestions won' apply to their relationship until Tuesday. She's a bit taken aback by the bawdy nature of the majority of the suggestions. _Holy copulating donkey turds, some of this is barely on the right side of pornography! Shouldn't they be selling this is a brown paper wrapper?_

No need to spike his food with an aphrodisiac as suggested in number eleven_. Motivation is the least of our concerns, _she thinks, chuckling to herself. She's not worried about belly fat inhibiting her ability to enjoy herself, so number eighteen is a bust. She won't have enough time to dress up as Sailor Moon or rent _Brokeback Mountain_, so numbers six and twenty-five are no good. _What am I thinking? This is absurd. _Despite her disdain for such a ridiculous publication, she doesn't stop reading. _Consider it research,_ she tells herself.

Finally, something she can use: Tip #2. _"Cosmos 2011 Man Panel agreed that the hottest sext is "I need you now."_

* * *

><p><em>Okay. Not earth shattering, but fun. Next ... what happens when he gets there?<br>_Hope I can sneak away from the fam tonight to take this to the next level! Your comments are appreciated!__


	188. We're All Alone

_A/N Wow. This is what happens when we have a holiday - MoxieGirl gets behind in her writing! You may want to go back and review the last couple of chapters if you have forgotten where we're at. I recommend reviewing at least 185-187, if you have the time and nothing else going o in your life! However, tonight is BONES NIGHT! YAY! So - here we are, finally alone, after two days surrounded by other people. Ninety minutes alone at Brennen's apartment before the appointment with Sweets. I wonder if they'll make it to Sweets, is what I'm wondering. Hm. I hope you enjoy reading this chapter! ~MoxieGirl (MoxieGirl44 on Twitter)_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 188 We're All Alone<strong>

Sitting on her couch in her bathrobe, Brennan flips through the December 2011 issue of Cosmo. On page 120 is the article, _"100 Best Sex Tips of the Year." _

**Cosmopolitan Magazine Tip #2** S_exting your lover will keep the heat turned up in your relationship.  
><em>'_Sext'_ him? She raises her eyebrows at that. It's obviously a combination of the words sex and text. Cosmo says the sexiest _sext_ to send is: _'I need you now'_. Okay, she thinks, shrugging and grabbing her phone.

**"… **_**I need you. Now." **_She types into the phone.

_This is fun,_ she decides. As she presses the send button, she gets the same rush of adrenaline she experienced before she left Booth in the interrogation room with Dr. Larrinaga. That was when she'd whispered _'I think I forgot my panties' _into Booth's ear. It's the way she also felt when she left those same panties at Granny's restaurant to be delivered to him after she left. She wrinkles her nose and chuckles to herself.

_**Cosmopolitan Magazine Tip # 59:** According to a Cosmo poll, guys think the sexiest outfit you can lounge in is yoga pants and a tank.  
><em>She looks down at what she's wearing. A bathrobe. Not the nice silky one either. This is the fluffy cotton robe Russ' girls gave her for Christmas. She considers changing. _What the hell,_ she decides, heading into her bedroom. A moment later she reemerges in a blue bra tank top and black yoga pants.

Situated back on the couch, she pulls the case files out of her bag. Something about the Banty file has been poking at her brain. _Quite thorough notes, as far as the FBI would be concerned,_ she thinks to herself, smirking. _But not nearly enough detail to satisfy a forensic anthropologist. Nothing substantial here about the bones! Nothing on the condition they were found in, their weight, size, color, degree of brittleness, any particulates found on or around them. Some of this information should be covered in the autopsy report. Booth must have those reports. What about Banty's medical history? How long had she had osteoarthritis? Was it only in her femorae and tibias? For that matter, do the bones found with Aleesha Grimes' remains even belong to Banty Solicious? The timelines seem to overlap, and the details have glaring similarities, but we have no DNA samples to compare as of yet. There could be more than one body buried in that region with osteoarthritis and mismatched bones._

She knows Booth won't cut his time short with Parker. However, sometimes there could be ten to fifteen minutes of downtime between Parker's field time. Sometimes Booth attempts to make small talk with the other parents, just to pass the time, but he rarely tells people what he does for a living. _'We found a woman turned into soup after sitting in her tanning bed for three days,' _tends to be a conversation stopper. So, usually he keeps to himself_. If he's bored,_ she tells herself, _he'll respond to the text, right?_

Looking at the files once again, her mind drifts to her afternoon at the Jeffersonian. She reflects on the deluge of tears. She thinks about the voice she heard. _"Solve this case,"_ it had whispered in her ear. She wishes Vincent could work this case with her. How far and wide would he cast his intellectual net if he saw this collection of data? What odd factoid would he present that would in some convoluted way bring to light a perspective, a detail, that would help her make a connection, recognize a relationship, snap a crucial piece of the puzzle into place?

Closing her eyes, she conjures the sound of his voice inside her head, replaying the audio illusion over and over. The familiar ball of dough begins forming in her throat once again.

Her phone buzzes. Booth has sent a reply to her _sext._ He is at the soccer game. Bored, apparently.

"… _**Is everything okay?"**_ The words appear on her screen.

"… _**Yes. Was on lab platform at Jeffersonian. Thinking about VNM." **_

Each time she texts, he texts back immediately. After a couple perfunctory texts, she decides to try a variation on Cosmo's initial recommendation. _Why not? He would probably enjoy it,_ she tells herself, a sneaky grin on her face.

"… **I'd like to have you. Now,"** she punches in. Send. She chuckles to herself.

As she awaits his return text, she glances over at the magazine again. She's already eliminated 88% of the _100 Best Sex Tips of the Year _as not pertinent to their relationship until Tuesday. She then eliminated numbers 6, 11, 18, and 25 as irrelevant or impractical to execute with such short notice. She reviews the remaining eight recommendations. _Now, why don't they call these 'Sexymendations'? That would be just as ridiculous as 'sexting',_ she thinks, disappointed in the inconsistency of their cloying literary creativity.

**_C_**_**osmopolitan Magazine Tip #2: **__Sexting 'I need you now.'  
><em>"Already doing that," she says out loud with a droll expression.

_**Cosmopolitan Magazine Tip #4: **__Dry humping is a great way to keep the home fires smokin' hot!  
><em>"Hm. Interesting," she says, grimacing. "That could get really uncomfortable if executed with a great deal of zeal. Could cause rashes, skin burns, blisters. What is the target market for this periodical, anyway? Isn't this what teenagers do before they lose their virginity?"

_**Cosmopolitan Magazine Tip #12:**__ Make out in the back seat of a car.  
><em>She has no intention of getting into a car just to make out; not when they have a perfectly good apartment at their disposal.

_**Cosmopolitan Magazine Tip #27:**__ When out in public with your lover, give him a private flashing of your naughty bits.  
><em>She snorts and tucks this suggestion away for future use.

_**Cosmopolitan Magazine Tip #49: **__Make sure to let him know how excited you are to get naked with him.  
><em>She's already done this several times, or was it Booth who said something like that to her, not the other way around? Regardless, it is a good piece of advice. She commits it to memory and makes a mental note to slip it into the conversation later tonight_._

_**Cosmopolitan Magazine Tip #76:**__ Tease him over an extended period of time to build up the anticipation, thereby ensuring an explosion when you finally get busy. _If that is the prerequisite for mind-blowing sex, their coupling should blow the minds of anyone within a ten-mile radius … _on Tuesday._ She hopes the buildings on Maury and South Vashon Islands in Washington are earthquake proof.

_**Cosmopolitan Magazine Tip #84:**__ Tug on your lover's hair while kissing passionately. Arousal makes the nerves of the scalp more sensitive.  
><em>Now this, she's never thought of before. "Good to know," she says with a mischievous grin.

_**Cosmopolitan Magazine Tip #85:**__ Get bossy with your man! Assertive women are more orgasmic than non-assertive women.  
><em>"Well, that's just common sense," she says with a chuckle. "But I will consider it my duty to our romance to continue to be demanding of Booth."

As she finishes running through these last eight viable _sexymendations,_ her cell phone buzzes, alerting her that Booth has sent another text.

**"… **_**Are you ... SEXTING me?"**_

"Ohhhhh!" She chortles excitedly, biting her lip, trying to think of a clever response. When none comes to mind, she simply sends a sideways winking smiley face.

Several minutes later, another text comes through.

**"… **_**How badly do you need me?"**_

"Ohh!" She yelps, chuckling again. "I have a response for this one," she says, typing it into her screen excitedly.

**"… **_**Almost as badly as I want you."**_ She's quite pleased with herself for this response. "Angela would be proud," she says outloud.

**"… **_**Are you upset?**_

Brennan exhales audibly, deflating her puffed-up cheeks when she reads this text._ Truth be told, I'm exhausted and emotionally raw from that experience on the platform at the Jeffersonian. I haven't slept well in days, and more than anything, I'd like to curl up on my bed, with Booth wrapped around me, and take a nap. But this is supposed to be playful sexting, right? So, put all of that in a box and get on with the game, _she tells herself.

**"… **_**Wouldn't call it that,"**_ she texts back to him. His reply is almost immediate. _He must be seriously bored,_ she says to herself.

**"… **_**You just SEXTED me, didn't you?"**_

While she's again trying to come up with a provocative response, he sends another of his own.

**"…** _**What are you wearing?"**_

This puts a smile on her tired face. "Awww, he's playing along," she says sweetly to her empty living room. She decides to taunt him.

**"… _A bathing suit." _**It's a lie, but a small one, and the sentiment is the same. She doesn't want to go into an explanation, in 140 characters or less, about Cosmopolitan's suggestion about wearing a tank top and yoga pants.

They exchange several more entertaining texts. She reminds him that there's an enormous box addressed to him in the middle of her living room. It contains his 103" Panasonic flat screen TV with 3D glasses and an extra large connective dongle. Surprisingly, he wasn't as interested in the television as he seemed to be about her choice of clothing.

Taking Cosmo's advice about being bossy to increase the likelihood of orgasmic success, she texts him the following:

**"… **_**On another note - BRING THE BANTY SOLICIOUS MEDICAL RECORDS!"**_ She doesn't even say please or follow it with a smile.

**"… **_**I love it when you talk dirty to me, "**_ is his response with a wink and a smile.

**"… **_**Get off the phone and get your ass over here."**_

To her delight, his response is equally playful.

**"… **_**I love it when you're bossy." **_She knows he's grinning on the other end of the cyber line.

**"… **_**Don't make me start without you," **_she volleys back in her final sext.

"Ha! Game. Set. Match," she blurts with a chuckle toward the enormous box in the middle of her living room. "That should give him something to think about for the rest of the soccer game!"

* * *

><p>When Booth arrives, they will have ninety free, private, minutes on their hands. She's been enjoying this sexy back-and-forth they've had going on the last couple of days. The many years leading up to this change in their relationship remind her of the Tubitü tribe she studied in 1999. The peoples of the Tubitü Rainforest were famous for their success in arranging marriages for their children. This, the relationship between Brennan and Booth, was certainly not arranged. However, there are several parallels between their relationship and that of a courting Tubitü couple.<p>

The Tubitü courtship ritual, initiated by an agreement between the parents of the betrothed, involved a full year spent by the bride and groom passively observing each other. They were not allowed to interact directly with each other until their wedding day. Because the marriages were arranged, and marital longevity was crucial to the perpetuation of the race, there were very specific, very strict guidelines for the twelve month courtship period.

Betrothals always took place at the beginning of the dry plains hunting season. The bride-to-be would spend the entire hunting season observing, but not interacting with her betrothed. She would watch him hunt and participate in competitions of strength and endurance against other males in his cohort. This was also the only time she was allowed to attend the elder meetings. There, she would watch her betrothed argue with the elders, which was expected of boys entering manhood. During this time, she was not allowed to make eye contact, speak to, or touch her betrothed. She is to watch him, to learn to appreciate who he is, and to understand what his potential place among his peers and the tribe will be in the years to come. In doing so, she would inevitably fall in love with him.

After the dry hunting season, the groom-to-be would spend a great deal of time observing the bride and her mother as they created household items, managed the household, cared for the family children, and prepared meals. The purpose of this was for the groom to have an appreciation for the female position in the home. The groom was not to talk to the bride. He was also forbidden to assist her with any of her chores, of which there are far too many to list here. His purpose was to see how she got these things done all on her own, which is how it would be in their household as a married couple. If he were to offer to help her, it would be considered shameful, an insinuation that she was incapable of running her household. The other purpose for lack of interaction was that the groom's attention was to remain focused on the bride. If he were to help, it would divert his attention to the task at hand.

The groom was told to watch and appreciate her body, her movements, her interactions with others, her sense of humor. He was to find the beauty in his intended. He was to observe her moods, watch her laugh and cry. He was, however, forbidden to participate or comfort her. He was to learn compassion, learn what upsets her, what she takes pride and pleasure in. Of course, she was not to speak to him either. If she desires to let him know about her thoughts, she will bring a friend over and show her handiwork or talk about her hopes and dreams with that friend. She is not to make eye contact with the groom. He is to memorize the sound of her voice, which he wouldn't be able to do if he was trying to figure out what he wanted to say.

By the time their wedding ceremony arrives a year later, their anticipation is great. They have grown to love one another through careful observation of each other. The divorce rate among the Tubitü was non-existent. Their tribe grew to be 10,000 strong before it was wiped out by Vibrio cholera, the bacteria responsible for cholera. Cholera was introduced into their population by a visiting Angolian who had spent time in the Congo and contracted cholera there.

In a sense, this is how it has been between her and Booth, minus the cholera. They have been able to watch each other work. They've observed each other in highly dangerous and stressful situations. They've seen each other enjoy successes, shared them even, and watched each other endure failures in their personal and their professional lives. They've seen each other at their best and at their worst. This brief period of waiting, like a courtship, or the end to one, she muses, serves not only to build up the heat, but also to flesh out some of the important issues. It gives them a chance to talk about their relationship and each other in a way they never have been able to in the past.

He has repeatedly seen first hand how strong she is. He's learning to appreciate how vulnerable she can be. She knows the source of his convictions and what his deepest fears are. She didn't think it was at all possible, but she wants him now so much more than she did just last Sunday. So much has seemed to change inside her. She suspects, however, that the change is mostly due to the fact that now she's able to indulge thoughts and feelings she has suppressed for so long. She's able to share them, and that makes a world of difference. Like the Tubitü courting ritual, Booth and Brennan's six year prelude, especially including these past three days, bodes very well for the success and longevity of their relationship. It is important to her to be able to draw these parallels. It gives her comfort. Faith, Booth would call it. This thought makes her smile.

When she sees him now, he's the same old Booth at first. When he looks in her eyes now, it's so very different than it was even a week ago. It's open and passionate and tender and affirming. When he looks in her eyes, suddenly she can't see anything else; she sees only him. And she wants to swiftly go to him and touch him, press her body to his, breathe him in, run her fingers through his hair and she never wants to stop.

In past relationships, she's never felt the urge to reveal her thoughts or feelings to a lover, that would be far too risky. But with Booth, she wants to tell him everything. It's become a risk she's willing to take. She knows he will protect what she tells him, gives him. He will appreciate and respect it. She believes this without reservation. He knows what she's gone through to get to a place where she can do this. She only hopes she can return this courtesy to him.

She acknowledges that she doesn't always know which things he tells her are intended as private between the two of them and which information is intended to share. This has gotten her into trouble in the past. She has hurt him, unintentionally by revealing something he told her in confidence. On several occasions, once he's made her aware that something she'd revealed was intended to remain between the two of them, she was overcome by such an uncomfortable physical reaction that she'd been unable to sleep. A couple of times she's even been unable to eat without serious digestive consequences for days. The discomfort, psychologically at least, she recognized as sadness or anguish, and possibly shame, though she reasoned that it is irrational to feel guilty for doing something she was unaware was wrong.

She tries to suss out, using logic, what will be important to him and what won't, but it's not easy. He has a fascination with comic books. Graphic novels, he calls them. If she were the one with the comic book fascination, she wouldn't want anyone to know about such a juvenile obsession, yet he freely has conversations about it with Sweets, Hodgins, and even Wendell. On the other hand, his sexual conquests, which she would think this alpha male would want heralded as proof of his virility and desirability as a mate, he's very private about. He enjoys spending hours watching grown men prance around in tights chasing a ball and jumping on top of each other, touching each other on the ass. Contact sport behavior, though similar in many ways to battle, is not unlike the mating behaviors of any number of species she could name. Team sports are clearly created for public display to fulfill the voyeuristic urges of latent homosexuality in the males spectators, yet he's quite free with that information as well! This does not make sense to her. While she is comfortable with her own sexuality, she wouldn't make a public display of indulging in porn, if that were her obsession the way hockey and foot ball are his.

When she was considering using his sperm, she made a comment about it in front of one of the FBI agents and Booth pretended she was telling the punch line of a joke. She'd have thought he'd want to advertise that he was so virile and desirable that he had been chosen above a genius squint no less. He should have been proud that his DNA was so valuable that the world's leading forensic anthropologist would choose him over all others. Apparently, this was not the case. These things baffled her.

He is a puzzle sometimes, his reasoning non-linear, if you could even call it reasoning. She tries to draw parallels, to inform her choices according to those parallels. When B + C = F, then do G. When G + P = S, do anything, except X, and you'll be fine. Yet invariably, she messes things up. She hopes that he can give her some of that grace he talks about, when she misreads him, because it is likely to happen many times before she has all the Booth rules figured out.

His belief in a benevolent, all-powerful, all-knowledgeable God is another thing that alludes her. She's learning, but she still doesn't see the rationale in fiercely committing to something so intangible, immeasurable. Perhaps the assimilating of faith is a neurological occurrence, just like love. She recalls a study conducted by some PhDs at Albert Einstein College of Medicine and the State University of New York at Stony Brook who examined 2,500 brain scans of people in the beginnings of new romantic love relationships. Their conclusion was that falling in love is among the most irrational of human behaviors, not merely a matter of satisfying a simple pleasure, or winning a reward. In an analysis of the images, researchers argue that romantic love is a biological urge distinct from sexual arousal. Short of the threat of harm, this irrational experience called love is the one thing that most motivates us. Is it possible that there is also an area in the brain that regulates one's faith?

"Huh, I don't mind that there are these things we don't understand about each other," she says, sighing. She smiles and thinks of calling him, but doesn't want to disturb his time with Parker any more than she already has.

* * *

><p>At 2:39 PM, Booth knocks on Brennan's door. Brennan looks at the clock on her mantle and is surprised that he's arrived so quickly.<p>

She gets up off the couch and walks toward the door on wobbly legs, hardly able to breathe. Why the hell does being apart, then knowing he's right outside the door, make her crazy like this? She's immediately flush and giddy. Calm yourself, for goodness sake! She admonishes herself.

She unlocks the door. Booth stands there, his forearm resting against the doorframe at about head level. He's staring at the ground when she swings the door open. As he looks up, she sees the heat in his eyes. His stare pierces her with a shot of adrenaline that shoots straight through her chest. Suddenly, she's paralyzed. Her stomach drops to the floor. He reaches out with his free arm and pulls her too him as he walks across the thresh hold, swinging the door closed behind him with his foot. He doesn't even say hello. His mouth is on her neck and he's swiftly making his way up to her ear as he walks her backward toward the living room.

"We are alone. _Alone._ Finally," he whispers huskily as he sinks his nose into the hair behind her ear. He wallows in the scent he's longed to immerse himself in for years before traveling back down the side of her neck, grazing her skin with his tongue and teeth, kissing every inch. He doesn't expecting her to say anything back, which is good, because all of a sudden she can't breathe, much less speak. She's overcome by the heady sensation that seeing him again brings with it.

She's a little worried her knees are going to buckle and she'll slide onto the floor, taking him with her. _Not that there'd be anything wrong with that,_ she thinks. Just in case, she grabs onto each of his upper arms, and holds on tightly. Once again, just like last night in his kitchen, she can't help thinking his biceps and triceps feel like elastomer over tungsten carbide, the only metal that's stiffer than steel and denser than titanium. _Okay, that may be going overboard, _she thinks, but her thoughts sound like they are coming to her through a layer of gauze; her brain being as intoxicated as it is by his mere presence. _He's just a regular guy, with some really great arms, and he's in love with me, and it's been four hours since I've seen him and twenty-nine hours since I've been alone with him._ She thinks, feeling the buzz of those mind-altering hormones, and deciding to cut herself some slack.

He flexes in response to her grip and all she can think of is the word 'swoon.' As in, 'having your arms around me, squeezing me up against your wonderful, warm body is so sexy, I think I am going to pass out.'

"When was the last time we were alone?" She gasps finally, leaning her head against his, closing her eyes. She slides her palms up his shoulders and around to the back of his neck, then into his hair, closing her fists around chunks of hair on the top of his head. "I swear, I could just eat you," she murmurs, pressing her soft chest into his firm one, "if that weren't such an unhealthy proposition."

"I think it was in the hotel room before we left Pennsylvania," he says, "when we were last alone."

"Right, " she says, absently. She's already moved on to other thoughts. "This morning, when you grabbed my hand and pulled me back-"

"I remember," he says, bending down just a bit to lift her slightly off the floor.

" - and you put your arms around me, and sang that Bob Segar song into my ear," she says, "I thought I was going to die right there." _Another exaggeration. What's happening to me? _She tugs on his hair gently, just like Cosmo advised. He stops what he's doing and looks in her eyes. The raw desire she sees there makes her heart skip several beats. "Wow," she whispers weakly, dropping her forehead on his, going limp, her body too heavy to hold up on her own anymore.

"You make me crazy," he says, covering her mouth with his. She's been sighing and gasping, making all kinds of contented noises as he's been lighting her skin on fire with kisses, walking her backwards toward the couch. When they get there, he slows down, but doesn't stop.

He kicks his shoes off and lowers her backward over the back of the couch. As her feet leave the floor, she holds on tightly to his shoulders. When she lands, he goes with her, one arm caught underneath her shoulders, the other he slides across the small of her back and under the wide waistband of her yoga pants. As smoothly as if she'd done this a hundred times before, she wraps her legs around him and arches into him so they are hip to hip, innominate to innominate.

"Ahhhh," he sighs, breathing hot breath on her neck as he continues to nibble on her shoulders, her cheeks and jaw line, her ear lobe. She grabs him by the face and brings his mouth to hers.

"Oh, God," she moans. "Finally alone. I've missed you," she says against the warm skin of his neck where she's kissing him now, enjoying the feeling of his stubble against her tongue. "It feels more like four days than four hours, as illogical as that sounds," she whispers between kisses. "I have no tangible proof, but based upon the absurdity of the comments coming out of my mouth, and the ones floating around in my head, that my brain has officially turned to some kind of worthless gelatinous mass."

"You talk too much," says Booth, moving his head to the right so she can continue that trail of kisses up his neck toward his ear. "I've missed you. I can hardly think about anything else."

"Me too." Not exactly true. She has been thinking of the case and Mr. Nigel-Murray, but she's giving herself some latitude here, in consideration of the fact that she's high on that drug called Booth right now.

He kisses a path down her neck, alternately kissing and drawing little wet circles or hearts or God knows what on her skin, and dragging his jaw over her clavicles. He makes it down to the dip in her tank top and kisses the swells of her breasts, which are trying to make a break for the outside world.

"Ohhhh. He groans. "My happy place. I think I'll just move in right here," he says, planting his face in the tank top between her breasts.

"I really don't understand the fascination with breasts," she says, rolling her head back and forth. She leans her head forward into the hair on the top of his head which is right below her chin at this point. She smiles. "Hmmmmmm," she purrs, enjoying his Boothy scent. "They are nutrition delivery devices, breasts."

"I don't think I could explain it in any way you would understand, the breast obsession, that is."

"Or how about this explanation," she says, "you simply do not know of any rational explanation why men, yourself included, are enamored with breasts."

"Touché."

"Well, you should know that I have a weakness as well, though mine is quite rational."

"Really? Do tell."

"For me, it's strong, firm upper arms, which, anthropologically speaking, are signs of a good warrior, a protector, a virile mate," she says, slipping her hands up his arms under his tee shirt and grabbing hold of what melts her. "Although, in retrospect, lots of skin makes me crazy too. Chest and back. Not clear on the rationale behind that, but it's gotta have something to do with the hormonal release resulting from skin on skin contact …"

"Good to know. I'll keep that in mind," he says, chuckling.

"So, if you want to keep things under control, whatever you do, don't take your shirt off," she says.

"What? Why?"

She turns red, those capillaries bursting red splotches all over her cheeks and the sides of her neck.

"Because! That skin on skin… it's like crack cocaine to me, metaphorically speaking, of course."

"Or Pringles?"

"Yeah. No! Much worse," she says, shaking her head. "For you, it would be like if I took my top off."

"Well, you've got a bra under there, right?"

"Nope."

"Huh?"

"This is a bra tank. The support is built in."

"What?" he acts surprised and curious. He backs up a little so he can lift the bottom of her tank top from the hem.

"Don't pretend you've never seen one of these before, you just wanted to take a peak."

"Can't blame a guy for tryin'," he says. "Breasts are like kryptonite. If this came off," he says, dropping his nose to her tank for a moment, "I'd lose all my powers of resistance – BOOM – down for the count. So, that's not a fair comparison."

"It's a completely fair comparison! See, uh, that's how I feel about all that skin … bare chest and biceps … I wouldn't be able to handle myself."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"You never told me that before."

"There was no logical reason for you to know before."

"Fair enough," he says. "So, it's the open mouth kissing … and now lots of skin on skin … that drive you crazy? Are there any other tips, I mean, warnings, you can give me?" He chuckles, eyebrows raised, a thoroughly amused grin on his face.

"And strong upper arms," she reminds him. "Booth, women are just as sensual as men. It's just that we're also cognitive."

He continues his exploration further down the tank top bodice. Her rib cage, her stomach her hips, he bites the inside of her thighs through the fabric of her yoga pants. This whole time, she's wiggling around languorously, pressing into his touch, her breath catching in her throat as he passes between her thighs and then back up through her breasts again to kiss her under her chin, up her jawline, over her chin, her forehead, then down to her lips where he kisses her like he's a starving man devouring a steak. She feels weak and energized all at once. She drops her head back and he makes a trail down her throat with his tongue.

"You smell unbelievable, and you taste even better," he whispers.

"I hope so," she coos, "I just took a shower."

"You taste like Bones …"

"I hope you mean the person, not a part of the skeletal system."

He chuckles into the fabric of her tank top covering her chest as he plants another grazing kiss at the bottom of her sternum before slowly moving his way back up to her clavicle where he paints a trail of kisses and tickles over the swell of her cleavage. In one swift move he opens his mouth wide and bites her teasingly, half of his mouth full of bare skin, the other full of stretchy tank top fabric and whatever's beneath it.

"Get up! GET! UP! What are you trying to do to me? Shit!" She yelps, dragging herself up into a half-sit. He's lifted the top of his torso in response to her reaction and he's supporting himself with both arms on the seat cushions. Finally he sits up.

"Lets just take a moment here," she gasps. Her face, neck and chest are flushed, and there's a red mark on her skin just above her right breast where he bit her. There's a damp tongue impression on the fabric covering that breast. He chuckles at her reaction, amused. "I don't know what you think you're doing -" She can't finish because he's rubbing his chin along her neckline and down between her breasts, breathing heat into the fabric covering what taunts him. She can barely breathe.

"Oh, hell. You are the worst," she whines. "How can you give me a limitation like, _'wait until Tuesday,'_ and then touch me like that and put me in a position like this? It's not fair. It's not fair!" She whimpers.

"What? You don't think I can stop this from going too far?"

"YOU … are the worst kind of tease! You think you can remain in control?"

"I don't think I'm the one with control issues …"

"Oh, yes you are! You have way too _much_control."

"The downside of sniper training, I suppose."

"Well, get over it. This is sex, sort of, and sex is about losing control, so you're going to have to relax. And you're going to need to let go," she says, grabbing the front of his tee shirt and pulling him closer. "Is this going to be a problem on Tuesday?" She slides her arm around his neck and kisses him, running her tongue over his teeth. She pushes him back and crawls onto his lap, straddling him.

"This is hilarious that YOU are telling ME that I need to relax. YOU'RE the one who needs to learn to relax, let your guard down, lady."

"We're not talking about letting a guard down, here, Booth. We're talking about physical relaxation. And look at me! I'm relaxed. But you need to lose a bit of that control," she says, squeezing his hips with her knees. He closes his eyes for a moment, dropping his head against the back of the couch.

"Are you trying to seduce me?"

"I'm just trying to loosen you up a bit. Is it working?"

"It's doing something," he says, snarkily. "I'm not sure you'd call it relaxation though."

"Maybe that's what you need, Booth. You are too tense. Too in control. Too 'everything must be perfect."

He grabs her by her hips and squeezes his favorite of her 206 bones.

"You're probably right," he admits, grimacing.

"See, there you go. Just relax," she purrs, rocking forward to whisper in his ear, causing a shiver to run down his neck and straight to where she's sitting on him.

_This is not relaxing me in the least bit,_ he thinks, _but I'm not complaining. _

Without opening his eyes, he turns toward her voice while sliding his hand up the outside of the back of her tank top to rest it on the nape of her neck, pressing gently. She leans closer and drags her lips across his as she whispers something completely unintelligible before capturing his tongue between her teeth and playing with it, then kissing his bottom lip. A heat washes over him as his eyes fall open slightly, squinting as if sensitive to what dim light meets them. She's holding onto the back of the couch, a peaceful grin on her face, watching him as his expression softens and he begins to relax a little bit, finally. He slides his hands back down the outside of her tank top, then up underneath it, onto her bare waist, then rocks her back, then forward again, slowly. Yowsa. Immediate NHOs.

"I want you so badly," she says. It's completely true, but did she say it the Cosmo way? "I can't wait to get naked with you." There you go. "I had a dream like this," she whispers.

"Really?" He looks up into her smiling eyes.

"Ohhhhh, yeah," she says, a gleam in her eye. "Remember when I fell asleep on you in the library at the hotel while we were reviewing case notes Friday night after the bar?"

He gives her an uncertain look, his brow furrowed.

"I was drooling on your arm? I told you I had the kind of dream you don't tell your mother about, or some such thing."

Comprehension dawns for Booth. He slowly nods his head, pursing his lips. Then a half smile creeps onto his lips. "You never did tell me how that dream went."

"Basically like this," she whispers, rocking forward against him ever so slowly again, then back. "I think this qualifies as Cosmopolitan Magazine's Sex tip number 4," she says.

"What?" His expression says, 'where the hell did that come from?'

"Never mind," she says dreamily. "Nothing to worry your pretty little head about," she tells him, grinning lasciviously down into his eyes. "But believe me, you'll be grateful I read the article …" she winks at him.

He laughs the happy laugh of inevitable future pleasure. She can't stop watching his face, as she rocks forward, then back again.

He starts humming, then singing the words to one of Pops' old songs. It's _Can't Take My Eyes Off You_ by Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons.

**"_You're just too good to be true-ew,"_ **

he starts to sing quietly, a goofy grin plastered across his face.

**_"Can't take my eyes off of you-ew."_ **

He opens one eye to peak at her.

**_"You'd be like heaven to touch,"_ **

he's grinning and singing like a hobo.

**_"I want to hold you … so much.  
>At long last love has arrived, and I thank God I'm alive."<em>**

She starts chuckling, then laughing, giggling.

**"_You're just too good to be true; can't take my eyes off of you."_**

"Awwww." Brennan leans forward and kisses him sweetly, shaking her head. _God I love this man,_ she thinks. _He makes me happy._

His ears, neck and what she can see of his chest are flushed. He slides his hands down her back, down her hips, where he squeezes them, then moves further down her body, slipping his hands just under the wide waist band of her yoga pants. His hands are warm against the padded coolness of the skin on her backside. This, of course, generates a heat that permeates wall past the area he's covering with his hands.

She moans in response, rolling her forehead against his cheekbone.

**"_Pardon the way that I sta-are. There's nothing else to compa-are.  
>The sight of you leaves me weak. Hmmm. Hmmm.<br>But if you feel like I feel, please let me know this is real.  
>Blab la bla … I don't know this next verse … but I do know the chorus … "<em> **

he croons, as she chuckles on and on. "Here it comes," he says.

**_"Da-duh, da-duh, Da-duh dat dat duh, da-duh, da-duh daaaaaaa!_ **

Okay, NOW, here it comes.

**_I. Love. You. Ba-aby, and if it's quite alright I need you,  
>Baby, to warm the lonely nights.<br>I need you baby trust in me when I say- hey hey hey!"  
><em>**

He tries to do another verse, but decides to skip it and head back to the chorus. The whole time, Brennan is grinning ear to ear and shaking her head. _I'm in love with a fruitcake,_ she says to herself, laughing even harder.

"That was nice," she says, clapping quietly, grinning like a fool at him. She finds his eyes on her. He's been watching her in awe. Awe and appreciation. He's whipped. His eyes get glossy … she leans down and rubs her jaw against his, then kisses him tenderly, gently on the mouth. She's slowly rocking back on him. She leans forward and takes his face in her hands and kisses him again, then wraps her arms around his shoulders. He sinks his face into her chest again and closes his eyes, then drags his chin back and forth just above the top edge of her tank top, sending a shiver down her spine. She tosses her head back and begins to chuckle … a throaty, happy, fully satisfied sound. He leans completely forward.

"Hold on," he grunts, scooting to the edge of the couch seat.

"Agh!" She yelps as he lifts the two of them off the couch and carries her in the direction of the bedroom.

"Booth!" She yelps again, jumping out of his arms. "Booth –"

"Hey," he says, "we've been in a bar booth, on a dance floor, in elevators, hotel hallways, on coaches, in airplane seats, on the floor. On the way over here I took a mental inventory of your entire place. There's no reason not to take advantage of the fact that we have a perfectly good and comfortable bed in the next room. We're going in there." It's pretty much a command.

"But I thought -" she's leaning away from him, quizzical expression on her face.

"Listen, If we've been able to behave ourselves up till now, there's no reason we can't handle it in a little comfort. And you are driving me crazy – I have got to get you underneath me or on top of me or whatever it takes to get as much contact with you as possible or I'm going to have to shoot something. I'm not kidding. You don't want to test me on this, Bones."

She laughs, covering her mouth.

"Come on. I'm a big boy. I can handle it!"

"Okay," she says, giving in. "But it's not you I'm worried about," she whimpers. "I'm a Booth addict, a card-carrying, walking erogenous zone whenever you're around. I- I can't be held responsible –"

"Yes you can – and you will. Now, GET over here." He grabs her by the hand and swings her into the room, tossing her onto the bed, then crawls toward her on his hands an knees.

"Oh, My God," she says groaning. "You have no idea how much I want you. You are a fool for thinking I can handle this -" but her words are cut short by a hungry kiss that lands on her throat, knocking any thought she may have had right out of her brain.

"Submission comes easy when you're so thoroughly inspired," he whispers into her ear.

She makes some kind of sound to indicate that she's down for the count, at his mercy, if he choses to give it.

After a couple minutes of energetic smooching, they pull apart to breathe, and stop giggling, of course, because all good bedroom play has to involve a good deal of giggling … if it's done right, that is.

"Why are we waiting until Tuesday?" Brennan just can't seem to keep the reason from slipping out of her brain.

"There's a reason – I don't remember what it is right now – but there is a reason. A good one."

"I can't go see Sweets and be able to keep anything from him. If we were to end up having sex right now, he'd know. He always asks."

"Whatever," mumbles Booth, to busy nuzzling her ear lobe to think about it anymore.

"It's starting to not feel appropriate. Is that really appropriate? For him to ask us that kind of question?" She taps on his arm. _Ohh. Nice arm,_ she thinks. _Humerus-s-s-s, bicep, tricep. Delicious._ _Whhhhhoa. _She slides her arms aroud him and up the back of his tee shirt. It's not her fault. She warned him this could happen …

"We've set a precedence. And he's our therapist," he says on a wispy exhale.

"Doesn't that seem odd to you? He's so young, yet he's the voice of wisdom?"

"Human lie detector."

"Yeah – right now I wish he wasn't so good at that. I'd really like to just get all this off," she says, yanking at her tank top.

"I know …" he chuckles.

"But, I have to be able to look him in the eye and say that we haven't had sexual intercourse. He would know if I lied."

"We could just do it and go ahead and tell him."

"I don't want to. I don't want to discuss our sex life with him. With anyone. That's just ours. I don't want to share it. Why are you grinning like that?"

"It's nice to hear you say 'our sex life'. We wouldn't have to give him details."

"I can't believe you just said that – Mr. Privacy!"

"I just don't like seeing you stressing about it. Maybe he won't ask."

"All he'd have to do is take one look at us and he'd know the dam had broken."

"You think so, huh?"

"Hell yes," he says, snorting.

"Neither one of us has done it in a while. It could be a very brief encounter."

"I don't want to talk about it.

"Yes you do. You're dying to talk about it."

"No, there's a difference. I'm dying to do it. That doesn't mean I want to talk about it … in specific biological terms."

"Talking's the best part! Remember I said the brain is the biggest sex organ?"

"Don't remind me." Warning eyebrow raised.

"Tell my brain what you want to do with my body," she says, pulling his hair so he has to stop and look at her."

"I want to make love with you," he whispers into her hair.

"Tell me _specifically_ what you want to do," she insists.

"You mean, like sex talk? I thought you wanted to cool this down?" He counters, more loudly.

She just looks at him. "Listen, you wanna play with the lady parts, you have to talk about the lady parts."

"Well, believe me, that is not going to cool this down." He shakes his head. "It'll do the opposite."

"I talk about body parts all the time and I've never found it …" she shrugs.

He cocks an eyebrow at her. Leans over and whispers in her ear again, while running his fingers back and forth, up and down her thigh, and across her bare stomach under her tank.

"I am going to kiss every inch of your body … and I mean EVERY inch. And then, I'm going to do it again, and then again. Then, I'm going to plant myself between these thighs and not leave until you beg for mercy."

"Holy crap, you're good at this," she rasps. "Too damn good at this." She swallows dryly. She doesn't know if she should laugh, or cry, or pass out. She's afraid her yoga pants are going to catch fire just from the heat generated between the two them by his suggestions. "I see what you mean," she croaks, her face and chest turning even redder than they were before. "Wanna talk about the case?"

"No." He starts kissing her neck again. She gives in, closing her eyes, and relaxes for a moment.

"Then, can I ask you something about what we were talking about last night?"

"Anything." _Oh no,_ he thinks, bracing himself for whatever's coming.

"I hope it doesn't bother you that I've had sexual intercourse with other people, but I can understand how it might disturb an alpha male such as yourself."

He shrugs.

"In some cultures, an alpha male finding himself in this position would compensate by stripping me naked in front of the tribe, rubbing his saliva over my entire body, then rolling me around in the dirt on your property, I mean, his property, covering me in it's unique scent, and not letting me wash for three days."

"Awesome," says Booth, laughing whole-heartedly.

"While I am certain you would find some perverse enjoyment in performing that ritual, I can assure you that what I have shared with you already, no one, absolutely no one, living or dead, has ever touched. Metaphorically." _Or ever will,_ she thinks.

He smiles. "Not even Sweets?"

She smiles. "Not by a log shot," he assures him.

"I want to have your babies," he says, completely deadpan.

"Now THAT, though physiologically impossible, would be awesome … and miraculous!" she says. "Do you think you'll breastfeed? Because, I'd really like to see that," she says, laughing and gasping for air.

"You think I could?" He prods his pecs with both hands. Shrugs.

"Well," she says, tilting her head, eyebrows raised, "If any man can accomplish something no man before has been able to accomplish, it's you, Booth."

"I love how you have so much faith in me," he says, playing along.

"You make it easy," she says, smiling.

* * *

><p>"Can I tell you about Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray … and what happened today at the Jeffersonian?" She asks this time with a pensive, somber tone in her voice.<p>

"Can you please stop using his full name? He's _Vincent._ He was your intern. Your favorite intern. He crawled into your heart and will never leave. There is no disrespect in calling him Vincent."

She goes suddenly still. He notices, and pulls away to look at her face. She's staring at the ceiling, tears welling up in her eyes. She looks chastised, like a puppy who just got her nose smacked with a rolled-up newspaper.

That was not at all the response he expected. _Was I too harsh?_ "Oh, hey," he says, dragging his hand back and forth over her mid section. "Call him whatever you want, okay? There's nothing wrong with using his full name." He reaches up to her eye lids and wipes them with his thumb, brushing away the tears. When her eyes open, they shift fretfully from the ceiling down to his lips.

"I cared a great deal for him, Booth. I didn't realize it until this afternoon. I think I … loved him," she confesses, tilting her head to the side, looking like she's no more than ten years old all of a sudden.

He looks at her.

"I don't mean … in the same way that I love you. It wasn't a sexual kind of love."

"I know," he says, grimacing. "It's just that, well, I don't think I've ever heard you say that about anyone other than Angela."

She shrugs, grimaces, her face bunching up before another torrent of silent tears, well up in her eyes.

"Wow. This is … this has been really hard, huh?"

She nods, trying to regulate her breathing so she won't hyperventilate. She breathes in deeply through her nose, then blows out through puckered lips.

"So … you cared a lot about him. Does it bother you that you never told him?"

"No. I wouldn't have told him anyway."

"Right, what was I thinking?" He leans back, lying on his side next to her, propping his head up on one fist, rubbing wide circles on her midsection, trying to soothe her. "What you need is a break. You need a vacation, some time to think some things out. Maybe after this case is finished, we should go somewhere for a week."

"No. What I need is for you to hold me. Just hold me. Tell me I will be fine. Tell me … I don't know. You always know the right thing to say, Booth. Just tell me anything."

"There is nothing you could have done. This was the plan for his life, Bones. None of us knew it. But he wasn't meant to live past that day."

She rolls onto her side toward him, burying her face in his chest. He rubs her back, kisses the top of her head.

She's quiet for a while.

"Is this all about Vincent, or is there something else going on here?"

She rolls her face back and forth against his chest as if to say, 'no.' Then she sighs in resignation, and nods into his chest.

"Yes. There's more," she says, pausing. Once again, these are crazy irrational thoughts, Booth. You think I'm this phenomenal person – and I'm not. Not always. I mean, I am. But not always in here, you know?" She leans her puffy red face away from his chest so she can look at him. She taps on her chest. "In here."

He kisses her forehead, wraps his hand around hers. Grimaces sympathetically.

"You see my work and you've come to expect something … and the more you see, the more I have to live up to … and the more I wonder what will happen when the day comes that I make a big mistake. The more you get to know me, the real me, the me inside here," she says, pulling their hands to her sternum, "the more you are going to find out that though I am that extraordinary person on the outside – here in the world, there are times what I am not that person in here. I find that frustrating about myself. And I fear that you are going to see that … that you may be disappointed by it."

"Why?"

"Because – what if it turns out that I'm really more this person the person inside, than that person that everyone sees on the outside? What if the person you fell in love with is that person – the strong, brilliant, beautiful, person? What if I do lose my perspective? What if you choose to leave because you didn't get what was advertised? What then?"

He shrugs, shaking his head slowly back and forth, never losing eye contact. "Now, that would never happen."

"And I do miss Vincent. I can't stop thinking about him. While I love what we do because it's honorable, and it makes the world a safer place for hundreds of people, there is a cost to what we do. What if someday I don't want to pay it anymore?" She lies back again, looking up at the ceiling once more. "I'm having a nervous breakdown," she says flatly.

"No you're not. You're being human."

"I don't want to be human."

"What do you want? You want to be a robot? When I met you … you were … well, you were a machine – a productive, beautiful, focused, unilateral machine."

"And you changed me."

"I didn't change you. You changed yourself. Or, maybe you didn't change at all. Maybe you've always been who you are right now, but you're just not hiding it anymore. Ever think of that? Maybe you saw what other people have, the freedom of self-expression, and that's what changed. You took what you already were, and allowed your real self to come through."

"What if I don't like me? What if I'm uncomfortable with this freely-expressed self?"

"What if I look back … and I do have those regrets. Look at me. I'm 34! What if I want to have children? See how ridiculous this is? Temperance Brennan, world renowned leading forensic anthropologist and simpering sloppy mess … realizes too late that she wants to have children."

"It's not too late. What are you talking about? Now that _is_ ridiculous! Look at me, I'm almost forty, for God's sake, and I only have one kid. I never thought much about it until I had Parker, but I wouldn't mind having a couple more kids. No one loves kids more than I do. You don't get to see that. Most everyone I know doesn't get to see that, because I don't advertise it. How long did you know me before you found out I had Parker? It wasn't until that Christmas when we were quarantined at the Jeffersonian."

"That's right."

"See? I'd love to have more kids," he says. "We could have one together."

"We tried that. You started seeing little what's-his-name? Little Dennis or Stewie or whatever – and Luc Robitaille and Corporal Parker."

"Yeah, but that wasn't _because_ we were talking about you having a baby. That was because I had a brain tumor. That had nothing to do with you. You were the one who saved my life," he says, shaking his head. "And that was about _you_ having a kid, not us having a kid together. I would have just been the donor, right?"

She nods.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to do the insemination myself the next time. Kind of a 'direct deposit', if you will."

She chuckles. After a while, she says, "I'd like that. She starts to tear up again."

"What? You would? Seriously?"

"Well, that is kinda where this is headed, isn't it?" She shrugs, not sure for a moment why this would be a surprise to him. If she hadn't previously considered the whole path they might take, she never would have even started down it with him. That's how she does things. All the possible outcomes on the table.

Booth, on the other hand, takes things as they come, sometimes flies by the seat of his pants, no pun intended. That's why this is a surprise to him. Sometimes he just holds his breath, hoping to make it through the next hand of cards he's dealt. He forgets that Brennan is very good at counting cards. She likes to know all the possible plays ahead of time.

She starts to tear up again. She closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose, as if that will quell the tears.

"What are you thinking now?" he asks, thinking they were past the crying part.

She shakes her head, flexing her jaw muscles. She's holding something back, doesn't want to let it out.

"I get anxious whenever things start looking normal."

"Normal – what do you mean, normal? What about us looks normal to you?"

"Having a baby, that's what normal people do. It starts to feel normal. I never imagined myself normal … like everyone else. You know, kids, a house, a husband."

"You never thought you'd have a husband?"

"What? Can you see me as a delicate flower in a big poofie dress?" She snorts, and smirks, rolls her eyes.

He stares at her, expressionless. Of course he can see her in a poofie dress, standing at the back of a church with Max at her side, a glorious smile on her face, just for him. But he's not going to say that right now.

"That just seemed to be something other people got to do," she says, continuing. "Have babies. Get married. Not me. I didn't get what other people got usually. That would have been presumptuous," she says, meaning absurd, outside the realm of reason. "By the time I was a teen, and other girsl were obsessed with such things, I didn't have parents topay for a wedding. I didn't have a father to walk me down the aisle and give me away," she says, her voice cracking, meager tears sliding down her face and into her ears, "or family members to fill the pews." She swallows, wiping the tears away herself this time.

A light is going on in Booth's head. Another piece in the Bones puzzle. There it is, clicking into place.

"So you rejected it all …" he says, nodding in comprehension. "Wow," he says, sighing heavily.

"Yes, I did," she answers, looking at her fingers, then laying the crook of her elbow across her eyes.

After a moment, Booth takes her arm off of her face, and looks in her eyes.

"No family sitting in the pews," he repeats, nodding slightly, pursing his lips. This is key.

"Correct," she says. "No one holding hands, no singing hymns …" She shrugs, wanting to move on. "I envisioned a life of travel, exploration, exotic lovers."

"Wait. Wait a minute, Bones," he says, cocking his head to the side, raising an eyebrow. "So – church is for families?"

She looks at him, then gets an expression on her face that tells him she'd rather be anywhere else right now than in this conversation with him. She starts to roll away from him, but he pulls her back. She sighs, closes her eyes, and tries to shake off this uncomfortable feeling. She feels naked, transparent, not in a good way. And she hadn't had a chance to figure this out herself. She'd prefer to think about this in private …

"Wow," he says. After a moment, he says enthusiastically, "Well, if you were thinking of a life of travel, exploration, exotic lovers … I'll be more than happy to wear a beret if that will make you feel better," he says, smiling gently into her eyes.

She opens her eyes and smiles up at him appreciatively. After all this time, one thing he certainly knows is when to back off and give her the space she needs.

"No," he continues. "A beret is kinda – bleh – cheeky for an alpha male. How about a sombrero? Or, better yet, a cowboy hat and boots! Cowboy boots. I'd love a great pair of cowboy boots. Tony Lamas or some 100% Vaqueros! Black, with white welt stitching. Or, maybe a little alligator hide. Ohhh. And a Stetson. A black Stetson."

She chuckles, rolling forward to lean on him, putting her arm over him. "That's not exactly the kind of exotic I had in mind. I was thinking more …" she pauses, shrugging, relieved they've moved past the wedding talk. "I don't know what I was thinking – but I'm pretty sure it involved speaking in Italian and something about the island of Greece."

"_Per favore, approfittarsi di me, bella donna!"_ He says, winking and wiggling his eyebrows at her. In Italian, it means '_Please take advantage of me, beautiful lady'._ It's the only phrase he knows.

"I didn't know you spoke Italian."

"I don't really. I know enough to get me in trouble."

"You mean, into bed with an Italian woman."

"Well, it's not, _'Un dia, vamos a duchar Juntos …"_ It's the beginning of the cryptic Spanish quote she wrote down for him to figure out. It means, '_One day we will shower together …'_

Her eyes grow wide. "Have you figured that out yet?"

"I'm working on it. I should have it completely translated by Tuesday."

"I hope so."

"Oh, the pressure is on. You'll still get naked and do the horizontal mambo with me if I don't have it all figured out correctly, right?"

"I'll get naked with you and do whatever dance you want, no matter what," she assures him.

"Who knew you'd be so easy?"

"Easy? You call over six years of courtship easy?"

"It wasn't all courtship!"

She snorts and looks at him with one of those '_who do you think you're kidding'_ glares.

"Okay fine. Look, the person I fell in love with is both out here and inside here. The more I get to know the person in here, the more I love you."

"Really?" She's not sure she's ready to be convinced of this.

"Of course, are you crazy? Yes!"

"You're the one who's crazy. That's completely irrational."

"Luckily for you, I don't live my life according to what's rational."

"Well, I do."

"No you don't. Maybe you think you do … but you don't," he says, nodding, confidently.

"What?"

Now it's his turn to give her the _'are you kidding me'_ stare, his eyebrows pinched together in a look of incredulity.

"So, you want a list? Let's start with allowing a jury of your peers to consider that you might have killed the director of the FBI."

She smirks, shrugs ne shoulder.

"Consider that you, while being in love with me, gave my girlfriend suggestions for a gift that you knew would make her a hero in my eyes."

She stares at him, a blank expression on her face. It hadn't occurred to her that it had been irrational. In retrospect, she realizes it was. Quite irrational. Again, love is irrational.

"Consider that you kiss me repeatedly knowing full well that all kinds of bacteria is passed through just one kiss. Consider that you have given me plenty of information that I could use to hurt you … plenty. You have been vulnerable – to a fairly hefty degree."

"I have haven't I?" She gives him a half smile, then chews on the inside of her lip.

"Yes. You have. And that ain't the behavior of a strictly rational human being."

She stares at him. Caught.

"That's why there's sex," he says, raising one eyebrow. Game. Set. Match.

"What? I don't follow."

"Look, we do completely irrational things, and sometimes they make us feel vulnerable and a little insecure, maybe even stupid." He pauses, looking into her eyes. "Making love, done right, is total and complete acceptance of another person, irrationalities and all." A slow smile spreads across his face.

For a moment, she says nothing, looking back and forth from one of his eyes to the other. Then she smiles, reaching up to touch his face.

"Awwwwh. How'd I get so lucky?" She whispers. "If I tell you I'm feeling super irrational and super vulnerable, will you make love to me right now?" She looks up into his eyes again.

"You are sneaky. And persuasive." He narrows his eyes. "But, sorry, no. I'll tell you what we can do ..."

"What?"

"Let's cuddle up and take a nap. Isn't that what you said you'd really like to do?"

"I didn't say that, but how'd you know?" She says this, rolling over onto her other side so she's facing away from him. He scoots up behind her and wraps his arm around her, slipping his hand between the bed and her rib cage.

"Because that's what you always say …" he grins, kissing her on the back of her head. _And because I know you so well,_ he thinks.

_Whew, I love this man, _she thinks, sighing.

"You just want to keep me in this bed and take a nap yourself."

"I'd rather keep you in this bed and NOT take a nap – but I can wait," he says, chuckling.

"Tell me again why we're waiting until Tuesday?" she murmurs, covering her mouth and yawning.

"Actually, it has something to do with exactly what you mentioned earlier being worried about. I think you need to see that our relationship … that everything that's going on …is not going to compromise your work."

She would have been satisfied with that answer, if she hadn't already fallen asleep in his arms.

Getting no response form her, he peeks over her head and sees that she's passed out cold. He moves the hand from under her rib cage to a higher position, right beneath her breast. He grins, sighs, and falls asleep himself.

* * *

><p><em>Okay - I know you're all watching BONES tonight. I understand it's suposed to be FANTASTIC with DB <em>  
><em>turing in a performance that's amazing! So - when you finally get to the end of this little chapter, drop <em>  
><em>me a line and let me know what you thought. Do you think Booth learned anything about Brennan that <em>  
><em>he hadn't know before? Could you see this actually happening between them, way back before Season7 <em>  
><em>began? Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews, dear readers! They keep me motivated to continue writing!<em>

_~MoxieGirl (MoxieGirl44 on Twitter)_

_P.S. Before we get to the next chapter of The When and the How: A Bone to Pick,  
>there will be small chaplets added to<br>The Meaning in the Episode" to cover Season7 Episodes 3 & 4.  
>If you haven't checked that out yet, you can get to it from my profile. <em>


	189. That's Bullshit

_A/N Where the hell has MoxieGirl been? Has she abandoned us? No flipping way, folks. Never! I got the crazy idea to start a Bones series called __**The Meaning in the Episode. **It's __a series of companion pieces corresponding with each S7 episode. Each vignette provides the fluff & missing conversations that HH forgot to include in the televised version of the show. That's why TWATH:AB2P has been sorely neglected . . . though never, ever far from my heart, rest assured. **Thank you** for coming back and continuing to read. _

_The other endeavor that took me temporarily away was the writing of __**I Decide**__, wherein young Booth stands up to his father, and Pops shares a memory with Brennan. IT includes an excerpt that you've already read in TWATH, but much more. Check it out!_

_Finally, if you received numerous TWATH:B2P alerts last week – I sincerely APOLOGIZE – it was my fault entirely. But this, Dear Reader, is the real deal. From here forward, we are back to our regularly scheduled postings of TWATH:B2P chapter. So, without further ado, here's your early Christmas present, "Chapter 189 That's Bullshit."  
><em>

_Enjoy! ~ MoxieGirl_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 189 That's Bullshit!<strong>

Brennan and Booth drive separately to the Hoover building, planning to arrive five minutes apart. Though they frequently ride together, this afternoon they prefer it appear that this is the first time they'll be seeing each other since Saturday afternoon when Booth delivered Brennan to her apartment straight from the airport.

Avoiding questions that require a direct lie is the name of the game as far as Brennan is concerned. If Sweets asks if they were together today, she knows her face will betray her memories of having awakened this morning in Parker's bed, then being treated to an outrageous rendition of 'Old Time Rock 'N Roll' by both Parker and Booth clad in nothing more than their tightie whities, Oxford cloths, and black sunglasses. Following that joyous memory, which she fortuitously had the brilliant idea of photographing, is a memory of having Booth wrapped around her as he rocked her from side to side while crooning Bob Segar's 'We've Got Tonight'. That thought alone is enough to inspire goose bumps to erupt up and down her extremities. And finally, there's the enjoyable foray into the world of Cosmo Girl-inspired flirtation which segued into a breathtaking session of making out like desperate teenagers, then falling asleep in each others' arms on Brennan's bed. No, better not to take any chances. Driving separately it is.

"Why are we meeting with him again?" Booth had inquired of Brennan when they awoke from their nap, neither of them wanting to get up and go anywhere. "Let's call and reschedule," he'd said, tightening his arms around her and nuzzling her neck from his cozy position wrapped around her body like a full-length mink coat on a breezy winter day.

"Protocol requires all those present at the assassination of Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray undergo an assessment by a board certified grief counselor or degreed practicing psychiatrist. The Jeffersonian further prohibits employees who have experiencing such a direct trauma while on the job from returning to full duty without the written approval by said professional. Everyone else has gone through it, Booth. Apparently Dr. Hodgins didn't pass the first time," she'd said, shifting onto her back so she could look up into his eyes, touch his face, run her fingers through his hair, and kiss him one more time before they had to leave their cocoon. "And since we have a case to work and we need to leave again tomorrow, we can't reschedule," she'd explained.

"Well, hell," he'd replied, leaning onto her and covering her clavicles, chest, and neck with raspberries, causing her to scream with laughter and to wiggle around trying to get away. Any other time, she would have 'fought' back. But today, they are on a schedule. Eventually, she managed to wriggle free and slide off the bed. "Just think," he yelled toward her disappearing form as she ran into the bathroom to splash water on her face and drag a brush through her hair. "Next Sunday we can do this again, except we'll be buck-freaking-naked!"

"Well, you better take your vitamins, Booth, because I plan to give it right back to you."

"Bring it, baby!" He'd replied, chucking while popping his head in the bathroom door to buss her on the cheek and smack her on the ass before leaving for the Hoover.

* * *

><p>When Booth gets to the Hoover ahead of Brennan, he casually calls Sweets on his cell from the lobby.<p>

"Sweets! Whose stupid idea was it to meet on a Sunday afternoon?"

"Hello, Agent Booth. I'm fine. Thank you for asking," he says sarcastically. "We didn't have much of a choice considering the demands of this new case. Are you here yet?"

"Getting on the elevator. Is Bones there yet?"

"She didn't come with you?"

"Nope. I've got plans afterward," he says. This is actually true. He's meeting Hanson and Square Chicken for drinks later. "Bones wants to get a head start on her notes for tomorrow morning's meeting. She should be here any minute, though" he says, hanging up as he exits the elevator on Sweets' floor and strolls into his office. He sets the phone on the coffee table and takes off his army green jacket before planting himself on the loveseat across from Sweets' chair.

The two men stare at each other, expressionless, for a moment. Before either says anything, Booth's phone rings.

"Bones! Where are you?" Booth does an effective job of sounding slightly annoyed.

"I'm on my way up. How's it going? Does he suspect anything?" She whispers even though Sweets can't hear her.

"I just got here, fine, and of course not," he says cryptically, chuckling into his cell. "We can't start without you. Pick up the pace, will ya? I've got places to see, people to do." He smiles at Sweets. Sweets returns a perfunctory smile.

"Booth, relax. Why are you speaking so loudly? I'm not deaf. Forced casualness will occur as the opposite," she warns him. "Getting in the elevator now. It will be nice to see you for the first time since you dropped me at my apartment yesterday afternoon."

"Relax, I'm a pro. You, however, should take your own advice. See you soon -"

"Wait! Booth?"

"Yep?"

"I'm completely naked under my clothes," she says, giggling.

Booth coughs. "Heh. Now, how is that supposed to help me here?" he mumbles into the phone, standing and facing the door.

"You said you work best under pressure, _Agent Sexy Booth."_

"Not that kind of pressure," he says, quickly walking out of Sweets' office and into the hall. He faces toward the elevator as if he expects her to appear any moment. This way Sweets can't hear him. "Cut that out, or I'll show you some _real_ pressure, and I mean, literal pressure," he says under his breath.

"How is that supposed to discourage me? That sounds like something I'm fairly certain I would enjoy. You're not at all very good at this sex talk black mail thing," she chuffs.

Walking back into Sweets' office, Booth raises his voice back to its regular volume. "Well, put the pedal to the metal and get your butt in here," he says, rolling his eyes at Sweets as he hangs up the phone.

"She's on her way up. Say, how long do you think this is going to take?" He looks at his watch. He's acutely aware that subterfuge is not one of Brennan's strong suits – so the shorter this meeting is, the better. "I'm meeting some people at Founding Fathers around seven."

Before Sweets can reply, Booth continues.

"Hey, I'm gonna run up to my office for a minute," he says. Booth leaves without waiting for a response. He might as well grab anything he might need for the next couple of days. Booth sprints toward the stairwell and takes the steps three at a time.

"Go right ahead," mumbles Sweets to his empty office. "Take all the time you need, Special Agent _Seeley Booth_. I'll just sit here. By myself." Sweets plops into his shrink seat across from the loveseat and focuses on straightening his tie. "Why the hell did I put a tie on today?" He says to the room, annoyed.

Two minutes after Booth exits Sweets' office, the phone Booth left on Sweet's coffee table begins to ring. Recognizing the distinctive Cyndi Lauper ring tone, Sweets knows its gotta be Brennan, so Sweets answers it.

"Dr. Brennan, this is Dr. Sweets. Are you having difficulty getting into the building? The doors should be unlocked."

"No difficulties, I assure you. However, I've returned to my car to retrieve a copy of the Aleesha Grimes/Banty Solicious file. I would appreciate it if you'd review it prior to tomorrow morning's meeting at the Jeffersonian. I will be up presently."

"Not a problem, Dr. Brennan."

She pauses. "Where's Booth?"

"He ran upstairs to his office. He'll most likely beat you back here. Is there a problem?"

"Why would you think there's a problem?"

"No reason. I didn't expect you to call, that's all."

"Well, I wanted to assure you that I'm not delayed because I've _fallen … in a hole,"_ she says, dragging out the last four words dramatically. She gets no response. "Dr. Sweets? Are you still there? I said, I haven't _fallen . . . in a hole._ It's a joke. Humorous, isn't it? Because if I had actually fallen in a hole, I would most definitely be late … I just want to assure you that that's not the case. Get it?" He can tell by the sound of her inflection that she's smiling expectantly.

"Dr. Brennan, I- I don't know what to say," he says, hesitantly. He silently shakes his head as he holds the phone away from his ear and looks at it as if he doesn't recognize the technology. "I guess I'm not used to your newly developed frivolity."

"That wasn't exactly an acknowledgment of my successful use of jocularity," she says, disappointed. "Regardless, I will be there momentarily." They hang up.

"That was interesting," he says to the now silent phone cradled in his palm.

As he's staring at the display, a candid photo appears. It's Booth with Parker nestled between his legs as they sit atop a picnic table on a sunny afternoon. As he admires the obvious affection between Agent Booth and his son, he watches as the image fades out and is replaced by another photo. This one is of Dr. Brennan sleeping, her hair splayed out luxuriously across a pillow. He recognizes the oversized FBI tee shirt she's wearing. It's one of Booth's. He also notes the masculine color scheme of the blankets and sheets covering the bed in which she lies.

Sweets' eyes snap up to meet Booth's when he senses the agent's presence back in the room. Sweets' mouth is hanging open, his eyes as big as silver dollars, his eyebrows reaching half way up his pale forehead toward the fringe of his curly dark locks.

"What are you doing with my phone, Sweets?" Booth queries accusingly. He interprets Sweets' reaction as one of embarrassment at being caught. Booth shoots Sweets a reproachful smirk.

"I think the more interesting question, Agent Booth, is what _you_ are doing with a photo of Dr. Brennan, asleep, no less, on your cell phone? One might even assume this photo was taken without her permission," he parries, thrusting the cell, screen forward, toward Booth. Booth grabs it from Sweets, his smirk replaced by a defensive scowl in an attempt to mask his own embarrassment. Brennan hasn't even made it into the office and already Booth has screwed things up for her. _Shit. Shit. Shit,_ he thinks, trying to appear calm, but becoming aware of a wisp of sweat over his upper lip.

"Even more interesting than that," Sweets sputters, sounding betrayed, "is why she's wearing _your_ clothes and sleeping in what I can only assume is _your_ bed?" Booth paces, buying time, his pulse rising with his stress level. He ends up standing beside Sweets' desk. Sweets turns as Booth moves, watching him closely.

"What is this, some sick version of 'Goldilocks And The Three Bears? Maybe she's scandalously eaten my oatmeal too. Oh my!" Booth finally counters snarkily, giving Sweets the mother of a stink eye.

Sweets ignores Booth's sarcasm without flinching. He's used to it by now.

"What?" Booth continues, evasively. "Do I have to have _your_ permission to have a photo on my phone?" Booth chuckles nervously, shooting Sweets a glare that says, _'what the hell business is it of yours?' _

Sweets' returned glare conveys, _'it's totally the hell my business, I'm your shrink, Agent double-oh-ass-hat!_

"I'm not falling for that, Agent Booth. Don't shift the focus onto me," he parries. "This isn't about having a photo on your phone. And that's just not any photo. It's Dr. Brennan. Without her clothes on!"

At this, Booth feels his blood rushing to his neck and ears. The way Sweets put it makes it sound really creepy. It's beginning to really piss Booth off. _This is why you keep things private, because explaining everything to an outsider just screws it all up and invites comments and opinions, neither of which I'm interested in, he thinks. This is exactly why Brennan requested we keep this to ourselves! _

As fate would have it, this is how Brennan finds them. Staring at each other from across the office in a posture that suggests a testosterone-influenced pissing contest.

"Dr. Sweets. Booth. Sorry that took me so long," she says casually. She rounds the loveseat and sits down. "What's going on?" She looks from one to the other, quizzically. The men don't move except to turn toward her. Feeling awkward being the only one sitting, she stands. "Are you arguing? I just talked to you two minutes ago, Sweets. What the hell can happened in two minutes?"

Booth rolls his eyes and mouths a regretful, 'I'm sorry,' behind Sweets' back.

Sweets sits down on the edge of his chair. Booth forces himself to adopt a relaxed posture and hesitantly joins the other two around the coffee table. _She's going to kill me,_ he's thinking, _please don't kill me._

"Sweets was just, ah, admiring your photo on my cell," Booth explains, chuckling awkwardly. "I didn't offer it, I was upstairs -"

"I know," she says, sitting down. "He answered when I called you just now," she says to Booth nonchalantly.

"Dr. Brennan. There is a photo of you on Booth's phone," Sweets states as if tattling on the neighbor boy who spray painted 'Brittany is a whore' on Brittany's parents' mailbox.

"I'm well aware of that, Dr. Sweets. It's quite flattering, the photo, don't you think?" Brennan reaches out toward Booth. "Let me see it again," she says.

Booth, dumbstruck, scrolls to the photo and hands her the phone. "Sit," she commands, shooting him a _'what's gotten into you'_ expression.

"Yes," she says, smiling down at the image of herself, remembering their discussion about this very image last night_. Keep the conversation non-emotional, focused on facts, any facts That will help me maintain the appearance that there is nothing to hide,_ she thinks. "I photograph well. It's widely acknowledge I am quite attractive, even by mathematical standards." She gives Booth a disarming, yet nervous, and exaggeratingly happy smile as she hands the phone back to Booth. Her intent was meant to calm him, but does the opposite. It makes his heart skip a beat. He flushes and looks down, returning his cell to his pocket.

"Uh, some cultures still believe a photo can imprison a person's soul within its amalgam of polyester, celluloid, salts and gelatin," she states, regaining her composure quickly. "Some small Mayan communities in Chiapas hold the belief that an infant's soul is not fully corporeally attached. As such, it is susceptible to having some of its thirteen parts captured by photography making it difficult for the soul to return to the body." She scoots back in her seat attempting to appear as if nothing unusual had just transpired. Her demeanor begs, _'lets move on to the next topic!'_

Booth is impressed at her composure. And relieved, but his heart is still pounding. This is the first time they've been together and unable to touch or even look at each other without being observed. He's itching to put his arm around her.

"Dr. Brennan?" Sweets regards her expectantly.

"Yes, Dr. Sweets?" She raises her eyebrows innocently_. I have nothing to hide,_ she thinks _Nothing to hide. I am exuding confidence. I am in love with the man sitting next to me and I am going to successfully hide it from Sweets. I will not touch Booth, no matter how badly I want to. I am the definition of control. _

"Isn't that Booth's tee shirt you're wearing?" Brennan winces at this question and looks down at her shirt. She opens her mouth to object to what she thinks is an obvious error, but is cut off by Sweets' next question. "In the photo, Dr. Brennan. And … is that possibly Booth's bed you're lying in? Am I the only one here who finds this curious?" He looks expectantly from Brennan to Booth and back.

"Yes, you are, because you are the only one present who is unaware of the circumstances surrounding the taking of that photo. I was at Booth's house without any pajamas, so I borrowed one of his tee shirts," she explains as if that should clear everything up. Her explanation is met with a blank stare from Sweets.

"And I didn't take the photo, Parker did," says Booth, leaning back himself, slipping the cell into his back pocket.

"Of _you?_ In _Booth's_ bed?" Sweets stares blankly at Brennan, then turns his attention to Booth. "Of _her?_ In _your_ bed?"

"I know. I'm against Parker seeing anyone in my bed –"

"He's a little too protective—" Brennan interjects, leaning her head to the side toward Booth, but keeping her eyes on Sweets. She shrugs to emphasize her point.

"She's a little too liberal –" Booth leans his head in her direction, speaking toward Sweets.

Sweets is watching the volley and wondering if he's fallen through a wormhole and entered an alternate universe. He shakes his head as if to clear it.

"It's the way the world is, kids are smarter than we give them credit for being, Booth," Brennan continues self-assuredly, glancing quickly at Booth, then back to Sweets.

"Well, when you have a kid," explains Booth sagely, leaning his head sideways toward her again, "you can decide how you want them to be raised." He says this still not looking directly at her.

Sweets is sitting on the edge of his seat, mute, but he's now slouched toward the back of it, staring at the ceiling, his mouth hanging open, a dazed expression permanently secured to his face.

Unable to resist the opportunity, Booth and Brennan steal a glance at each other for a moment, both of them recalling their discussion earlier about the possibility of having a child. They exchange a hint of a smile with only their eyes, before returning their attention to Sweets.

Confident they are going to pull this thing off without suffering repercussions, Booth relaxes and drapes his arm across the top of the loveseat behind Brennan. He doesn't touch her, but there's the suggestion of connection, or ownership, and intimacy. For a moment, Brennan stops breathing, but she doesn't dare look over at Booth, or call attention to what he's just done. All of a sudden, it hits Booth that he's never done this before in front of Sweets and shouldn't be doing it now, not if he intends to maintain their current front. He leans forward and performs a reverse 'movie-date-stretch-that-turns-into-a-grope' move. As he leans back, he casually intertwines his fingers in his own lap and begins rotating his thumbs around each other as if bored.

Surprisingly, Sweets doesn't catch any of this. Not consciously, at least.

Brennan crosses her arms and thrusts her hands into her armpits to keep herself from touching Booth or reaching over and sliding her fingers between his. Not being able to creates that familiar tightening sensation in her chest akin to panic. Recognizing the signs immediately, Brennan quietly practices her calming techniques and breathes through it.

Sweets remains oblivious to the mounting tension between Brennan and Booth.

"Anyway, her being in my bed was okay," Booth explains, affecting a nonchalant attitude, continuing with the narrative about the sleeping Brennan photo.

"How was that okay, Agent booth?" Sweets blurts, finally looking over at him. "I mean, what is going on here? And why is it okay that this happened in front of … _Parker_ took the photo?" Sweets' voice is merely a squeak at this point and his face has gone pale.

"Are you feeling alright, Dr. Sweets? You look a bit jaundiced, almost fluorescent green," says Brennan. "You might want to see someone about this. It could be your liver."

Sweets looks at her incredulous. _Am I the only one here who can see that the emperor has no clothes? _He wonders.

"People! This is completely inappropriate." He tosses his hands into the air in frustration, letting them fall back down, limp onto the arm rests of his chair.

"Sweets, I wasn't there!" Booth insists, crossing _his_ arms so he doesn't reach toward Brennan again.

"So," he sighs, exasperatedly, "how did Parker take this photo and is Rebecca aware of this?"

"With my cell phone, obviously, Dr. Sweets, and yes, Rebecca is the one we did it for," cries Brennan.

"What? Parker took a photo of you in Booth's bed wearing Booth's tee shirt," Sweets squeaks, then clears his throat. "For Rebecca?" Shaking his head as if doing so will snap him back to reality, he looks around the office for something that he knows is not there. "I knew I should have installed a liquor cabinet in this office when I had the chance!" He mumbles.

"No, don't be absurd, Dr. Sweets! Rebecca is the reason Parker was at Booth's apartment with me," she says, as if this should be obvious and not at all out of the ordinary.

"I actually had nothing to do with this," Booth shrugs. "I was an afterthought. I didn't enter the picture until after the photo had been taken," explains Booth, raising his palms, denying any culpability.

"You're not in the picture, Booth," says Brennan, looking at him askance. "Let me see that again."

"No – I mean I didn't even know any of this was going on until you called me – " Booth turns toward Sweets. "She called me in Philadelphia._ I_ was in Philadelphia –"

"Got it," says Sweets, trying to follow the bizarre order of events. He crosses his arms and begins to pull on his red lower lip.

"I found out they were together after she'd already picked him up and the two of them were at my house. I didn't have anything to do with the photo either," he says shrugging and glancing out the window as if this isn't even his conversation.

"It's on _your_ phone, Agent Booth!" Sweets is exasperated. In his state of utter confusion, he's only processing half of what he's being told.

"Listen carefully," says Booth, leaning forward, focusing a penetrating look at Sweets. "Rebecca and I had nothing to do with this, Sweets. The photo at least."

"That's your tee shirt, Booth! And your bed, right?"

"And I can explain that," says Brennan calmly. _She's handling this like a pro,_ thinks Booth. _Impressive. Scary!_

They begin to explain, talking over each other, until Sweets calls a halt to their unintelligible voices.

"Stop! Okay? Now, back up," says Sweets, raising his hands in resignation, holding the two of them at bay. "Lets go from the beginning. Please, and only one person at a time. I'm getting a migrane." Sweets rises and goes to his desk to root through a drawer looking for his bottle of Tylenol®. All he finds is a bottle of Tums®. Shrugging, he pops the cap and tosses a handful of the pastel tablets into his mouth, chewing without the assistance of a glass of water to wash it down.

Brennan begins. "I took him, Booth, to the airport," she says, gesturing toward her partner.

"I'd ordered a television set, but there was a mix-up."

"At the airport? Why would you order a television at the airport?" Sweets is already perplexed by the nonlinear turn this is taking so early in the retelling.

"Simmer down and just listen, Sweets!" It's Booth speaking again. "This will go a lot more smoothly if you just listen. Believe me, it will all make sense if you just … listen." Booth whispers that last word, and pauses to gather his thoughts. "Almost two months ago, I ordered a 65 inch Panasonic TC-PVT30 with 3D glasses. After three delivery screw-ups and lots of negotiating, the Plasma World people agreed to deliver it that very night."

"Is that the one with the connective dongle?" Sweets asks as if reading their minds, a twinkle in his eye for the first time all night. Booth nods and flashes a big toothy grin.

"That's hella wicked," he says in awe. "Did I mention I got my hands on a 1941 copy of 'Green Lantern'. It's the _All-American Comics_ original," brags sweets, in a hushed voice.

"Get the hell out! How much it put you back?" Booth's eyes bug out.

Sweets tells him.

"You lucky bastard. Where is it?" Booth grins conspiratorially and looks around the office.

"Anyway …" says Brennan, clearing her throat. "After they hung up, Booth and the Plasma World people, Booth realized he was going to be gone when they would be delivering the television … with the dongle …" she barely stifles a snort. Booth looks at Brennan and they both chuckle, remembering their dongle jokes.

"I didn't realize this colossal flaw in my plan at first," says Booth, continuing from there.

"But I did," Brennan says, nodding.

"So I asked her if she wouldn't mind being there when it was delivered – or did you offer?" Booth turns to Brennan for confirmation.

"I don't actually remember. But while I was there, waiting, all by myself, because remember, Booth was in Philadelphia, I heard Rebecca leaving a message on the answering machine. She was frantic."

"Her boyfriend was in the hospital. He'd fallen out of a tree or off a roof or something equally stupid," says Booth.

"Right. They needed to keep him at the hospital over night for observation. Rebecca wanted to stay with him, the boyfriend, but Parker had school in the morning …"

"Right. And since I was in Philadelphia … "

"And I was there to hear Rebecca's message . . . "

"… She offered," says Booth, completing Brennan's sentence. "Which, by the way," he says, leaning toward Brennan and looking her straight in the eyes, "I can't thank you enough for that."

"You are most welcome, Booth," she replies warmly, giving him a twinkly smile that makes his heart do a flip, then a flop. "You know I find his company quite enjoyable."

Booth smiles back at her, sheepishly, forgetting they are under the observation of a human microscope right now. Brennan reluctantly drags her eyes away from Booth's, clears her throat, and continues in a serious tone.

"Anyway, I have a foster care license," she adds, nodding, "and no known history of inappropriate behavior in the presence of or involving minors. So, Parker and I spent the evening at Booth's house. By ourselves."

"Can we just get back to, uh …" says Sweets, closing his eyes and blowing out a long breath. He'd leaned forward during their story volley, but now he slouches back once again. "Just tell me about being in Booth's bed. Please!"

"What?" She says, caught off guard by how his comment sounds being said out loud in this office.

"In Booth's bed. And in his tee shirt. With Parker. You seem surprised that I'm asking –

"Well, for a moment it sounded like you were suggesting that ... " she pauses and waves her hand between herself and Booth. "That maybe –"

"By the reaction you just had, Dr. Brennan, can I assume it would have been uncomfortable if I _had_ been referring to that?" Sweets sits up, his psych radar sensing a hint of tension in the air. _Is that … fear … anxiety … I smell?_ He wonders.

"Of course not," she says, a small crack forming in the veneer of her confidence.

_That's a 'yes',_ Sweets says to himself.

"One might deduce that the suggestion of you and Booth sleeping together would only be uncomfortable for you if you had slept together and you didn't want me to know about it," he says.

"Didn't want you to know about it?" She repeats the question without inflection. Sweets recognizes this as a delay tactic.

"If we had sex," says Booth. "It would be private, _not a_ _secret, as you are suggesting_," says Booth, exuding more annoyance than defensiveness. He's remembering Brennan's comment about keeping their sex life just between them. He feels a smiles forming in his heart, but stops it before his heart notifies his face.

"It's okay, Booth," Brennan says, sounding preternaturally calm again.

Sweets makes eye contact with Brennan, his expression one of juicy expectation. He's thinking, _I will know if you have had sex. I can read the two of you like a book._

"No, Dr. Sweets, we have not had sexual intercourse. However, having sexual intercourse -or making love, as Booth prefers to call it," she says nodding at her partner, "is a very private affair. Though the three of us have set a precedence of speaking freely about our individual sexual entanglements, I would like to take the sexual aspect of my personal life off the table as a subject for discussion. With either one of you," she adds with finality, glancing at Booth then back at Sweets.

"So, you haven't had sex yet?" Sweets constructs the question to imply the inevitability of it happening in the future. "How are we to talk about the development of a romantic relationship between the two of you if the topic of sex is off the table?"

"Did you not hear what she just said, Sweets?" Booth, impressed with Brennan's chutzpah, is now getting irritated with Sweets' needling.

"We didn't have sex," Brennan repeats.

"This is the last time I'm going to say it, Sweets," says Booth somewhat sternly, "If you respect your relationship with Dr. Brennan, I recommend that you respect her request. She's creating a healthy boundary here, isn't that what you call it? One that we need to respect. Her sex life is no longer open for review or anything else. End of discussion."

Sweets stares at Booth, narrowing his eyes. _He's__ not lying and __she's__ not lying. They haven't had sex. But something funky is going on here, something I haven't been able to put my finger on yet. But I will. _

"So, what is this all about? The setting of boundaries all of a sudden?" Sweets asks, cocking his head to the side, suspiciously.

She locks eyes with him for a moment before talking. The recent developments between her and Booth have given her confidence, and a fierce determination to have things go her way, meaning remaining _privately_.

"The work you and I have completed has helped me more than you know," she begins, filling her lungs to capacity, then exhaling calmly. It sounds like she's going to continue, but she doesn't. When Sweets finally realizes this, he looks over at Booth.

"Agent Booth, you don't seem disturbed at all about this," he says, trying to get a read on Booth's opinion, reaction, anything, to this turn of events – Brennan setting a previously nonexistent boundary.

"Sweets, we've just been alone in Philadelphia for five days. We discussed it – at length – and I'm okay with it. She needs to do what she needs to do for her own happiness, and I won't stand in the way of that - no matter what our relationship means to me – or what we've been through in the past," he says. "There comes a time when it's best for people to move forward, to grow up, and to move on." He grimaces and meets Sweets' gaze, giving nothing away.

"Thank you, Booth," Brennan says, nodding toward him, but not making eye contact lest her resolve crack and slip away. The sound of Booth's voice has been wreaking havoc with her circulation despite her convincingly calm demeanor

Booth acknowledges her appreciation with a single nod without taking his eyes off Sweets. Now would not be a good time to look at Brennan. Sweets is scrutinizing and calculating … cooking up some hair-brained psychobabble in that cocksure little head of his. Booth knows from experience that if he so much as flinches, Sweets will interpret it as a tell of some sort, just like in the game of poker. He will read that flinch as proof that Booth is lying, or about to make a move of some sort.

_Booth is an expert manipulator,_ Sweets reminds himself, _one of the best I've ever seen. That's why he's so good at his job. The question is, is he directing his expertise at me right now?_ Sweets sits up in his chair, resting his elbows on the arm rests, his hands steepled in front of his chest. He narrows his eyes at Booth, then looks at Bones. _This is a scrummy conundrum, as Gordon Gordon would say,_ he thinks.

_This is my poker face,_ Booth tells himself. _My expression is a non-expression. I am in stealth mode. My thoughts are of nothing. I am not thinking of Bones naked under her clothes. Booth sighs. Shit! Okay . . . I have the ten, the Jack, the King, and the ace of spades. I know the next card will be the Queen of spades, because I've had this dream a million times. This time, I will give nothing away. I am impervious. My face is a mask. I have a royal flush. _

"This is bullshit," blurts Sweets unable to handle Booth's cold, penetrating stare any longer. Booth's got a Fort Knox thing going on there, and Sweets knows he's no match for his much more experienced adversary. "But it is bullshit we will return to later, after we conclude our schizophrenic conversation about the flipping photo on the phone," spits Sweets, defeated. He looks at both of them once more before continuing. "So, tell me the end of the flipping story!"

"I had failed to bring appropriate sleep attire to Booth's house," says Brennan, clearing her throat unemotionally. After remaining silent through the second round of this afternoon's pissing contest, she appreciates being able to use her voice again. "So I borrowed one of Booth's tee shirts," continues Brennan slowly. She forces herself not to think about how intoxicatingly Boothy that tee shirt smelled, or how wonderful it felt against her skin, seemingly still warm from being up against Booth's. _Oh! Don't think about Booth's skin! Shit! Stuff it. Lock it up. Compartmentalize._ She swallows, slowly and silently. _Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Whew!_

"Parker woke in the middle of the night, per usual," explains Booth, taking over. "He needed to use the bathroom. He went through my bedroom and into my bathroom with the lights out, just like he always does. Being a little boy with crappy aim when he's half asleep, well, even when the light is on he has crappy aim," says Booth chuckling, "so he had to clean up. He flipped on the bathroom light, and before he turned it back off on the way into my bedroom, he saw Bones lying in my bed. Having the imagination of a nine year old, he assumed she was dead." Booth grimaces and shrugs. "In a panic, he grabbed her phone to call me and accidentally took her picture. Once he got me on the phone, I calmed him down, assured him she wasn't dead, and walked him through the process of erasing the photo."

"How'd the photo get onto _your_ phone?" Sweets is not going to allow Booth to step over a single detail.

"I had to make sure Dr. Brennan wasn't dead, so I had Parker send me the photo before erasing it," explains Booth as if it were the obvious thing to do.

"And how do you feel about that Dr. Brennan?"

"It's just a picture. I'm not naked," she says, shrugging.

"But he kept the photo – don't you find that a little … inappropriate, considering that you are asleep, in his tee shirt, in his bed?"

"No, I don't. Booth and I have been friends for the better part of a decade, I'm sure he has many photos of me. After his brain surgery, I provided him with a scrapbook containing over fifty photos, mostly of the two of us together or me by myself."

"I see," comments Sweets, watching her closely. He senses no hint of deception in her demeanor. This disappoints him. He's getting nothing from these two. Nothing obvious, at least.

"As I said, Dr. Sweets, it's not like I'm naked. If you are concerned that I might find it inappropriate should he consider using this as a masturbatory aid, I assure you, I—"

"_Jesus Christ, Bones!"_ Blurts Booth, whipping around toward her and staring at her, wild-eyed and stunned. "What the hell? Do you have absolutely no filter on that brain of yours?" There goes the poker face, right out the window. "What the hell? I thought you said your sex life was off the table! Jesus!" He runs his hand, clumsily, through his hair, a flash of cold perspiration making itself known across his scalp.

"This isn't about my sex life, Booth," she explains calmly. "This is about _your_ sex life." He can't very well point out that her sex life and his are soon to be one in the same. Shit! He's caught.

"But … but … Sweets!" he pleads, "Help me out here!" Sweets simply shrugs, one eyebrow raised, an amused grin on his face. What he had been unable to achieve during the last half hour working his Jedi Mind Trick Mojo on both of them, Brennan has been able to accomplish in less than a second. Booth's impenetrable calm now sports a sizeable crack right down the center. Once Booth's exterior has been breached, Brennan's can't be far behind.

Booth's panicked expression morphs into a resigned one as he slumps back against the couch, beaten. "There's twenty minutes of my life I'll never get back!" Booth mumbles with a great deal of chagrin. With a slightly disgusted glance at Bones, then at Sweets, he shakes his head. With both hands, he vigorously rubs his entire face as if rinsing off soap at a bathroom sink. Planting an elbow on the couch armrest, he leans his temple against his fist and shakes his head. For a moment it appears he has nothing to say. "Can we move on? _Please?"_ He says finally, looking at his watch, making no attempt to be subtle. "Aren't we supposed to be talking about Mr. Nigel-Murray or something?"

Sweets looks from one of them to the other and back. He's beaming and feels rejuvenated. He knows there's something going on between them. He can feel it. They barely look at each other, but it's as if they are intentionally avoiding making physical or emotional contact. But there's something more. The awkward uneasiness that plagued them for months after Hannah's abrupt retreat seems to have evaporated. They appear to be interacting like the old Brennan and Booth – but a softer version of themselves, if that makes sense. There's an ease between them, an energy, or synergy, a togetherness. They aren't arguing. They volley comfortably to each other in the telling of the story, _their_ story, a story they own …together. He wonders what else they might own together. And if he can get it out of them before their time is up today.

If he wants an opportunity at the truth behind this change in their dynamic, he knows he'll have to pay very close attention to what they say, and don't say. He'll have to catalog their body language, integrate it with their verbal communication, and test some implications with carefully worded inquiry.

* * *

><p>Sweets had planned to introduce the Risk Exercise before delving into the grief assessment, but now he decides to switch it up. The risk exercise is long overdue … and never fails to provide a wealth of information for all involved. He's confident they are ready for it, but first, a discussion about Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray's death.<p>

"Okay," blurts Sweets, abruptly, "lets talk about Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray's death and how you each are handling it." He first looks to Booth who is more than happy to move on to a new topic.

"Well, I … I believe I am fine, Sweets," he says, assuredly and candidly, as he scoots to sit at the edge of his seat on the couch. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, joining his hands together as if in prayer. I have … experience processing the deaths of people I've worked with. That's been part of my job both in combat as well as in the field as an agent." Booth is nodding slowly, almost bobbing up and down slightly, staring at his hands and the floor.

"Do you feel responsible for this particular death, Agent Booth?" Sweets asks the question gently, but not in a whisper, as he crosses his legs and relaxes.

Booth emits a long sigh, focusing on his thumbs. "I don't think I do. I mean, if the world were a perfect place, I would have caught Broadsky a year ago and many people would still be alive today who unfortunately are not. However, experience has taught me that blaming myself for a murderer's heinous crimes doesn't do anybody any good," says Booth, chewing on his lower lip, then looking up at Sweets. "Those deaths, and Vincent's death, are devastating. And tragic. But, no, I do not feel responsible," he sighs. He takes a couple of deep breaths, then looks up again into the empathetic eyes of Dr. Sweets. Looking down again, he continues. "Am I remorseful? Hell, yes. Saddened? Deeply," he grimaces, straightening out his fingers and resting them on the coffee table. "I think this has been the toughest on Bones, though," he says, turning to look back at her. "She, uh, I think she -"

"We'll let Dr. Brennan speak for herself," interjects Sweets quietly. "Okay? Thanks for sharing your … experience." Sweets pauses for a moment, as Booth slides backward and relaxes against the couch cushions, letting out s sigh. "Have you noticed any change in your quality of sleep or eating habits, Agent Booth?"

Booth grimaces, looking up at the ceiling, trying not to think about the quality of his most recent nap. "Hmmmm," he begins, looking above Sweets' head at the wall above his desk. "Noooo. Not that I've noticed. We've been working fairly steadily," he says, glancing over at Brennan. She looks at him, grimacing, and nods. "We were up very late working on the case almost every night in Philly, then I had Parker Saturday night – that sleep's never peaceful. This is no different than usual, though," he says, directing his final comment straight at Sweets, looking him in the eyes.

"Any … appetite … differences?" Sweets has started making notes on a yellow-lined pad of paper he'd had lying on the floor next to his chair.

"Boy, that's a loaded question," says Booth chuckling and grinning at Sweets. This is the kind of comment Sweets would expect him to make. They both laugh. Brennan rolls her eyes.

"I believe he is referring to your appetite for sustenance, Booth," explains Brennan in a serious tone.

Booth and Sweets exchange a pregnant glance, each of them smirking. "I'm well aware of what he's most likely referring to, Bones. Just trying to lighten the mood here a bit."

"This is a discussion about the death of one of my interns. I don't see how it is possible, or appropriate, to lighten the mood, literally or metaphorically …" says Brennan, her voice trailing off.

"Dr. Brennan, that was a perfect segue. Do you feel ready to talk about how experiencing Vincent Nigel-Murray's death has effected you?"

"I didn't experience his death, Dr. Sweets. Mr. Nigel Murray is the only one who experienced his death – and even he was only present for a very short while before … he wasn't any more …" she says, exhaling and looking very small all of a sudden.

"Dr. Brennan, focusing on the semantics of language is one of the coping mechanisms that serves to provide distance between yourself and your feelings. I want you to disregard my literal words, and see if you can focus on the meaning … behind them," he says, reaching out toward her as if offering her a piece of fruit. He raises his eyebrows as he looks in her eyes. It's a question. A request. "I know it's not easy," he says, nodding and smiling genuinely.

Brennan emits a long sigh. "I need to tell you about what happened earlier today when I was at the Jeffersonian …" she begins.

For the next thirty minutes the three of them talk easily about Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray's death. Brennan shares her guilt over not thinking about Vincent when she was first back at the Jeffersonian on Saturday. She details her experience from earlier today when she couldn't focus on the case without feeling a pull toward the platform. As she remembers back to her thoughts and feelings that first night of the day Vincent was killed, Booth sits next to her, not touching her physically, but she can feel his empathy and see it in his eyes whenever she glances at him.

She describes Vincent's bone structure in detail, leaving nothing out. She talks about what she loved about his brain and how he processed information. She talks about what she will miss about him, and what he will miss out on in life. She sheds a few tears, which she wipes away with Booth's proffered handkerchief. She explains with a half-hearted chuckle, that she's surprised she has any tears left after the outpouring she experienced at the Jeffersonian only hours ago this afternoon.

As he listens and watches, Sweets is impressed with her acknowledgment of her feelings. She has come a long way since they first started working together secretly, preparing her for the day when Booth would be ready to face a relationship change between them. Today, however, she appears to be without fear of her feelings. Or perhaps the fear remains, but a sense of security has been wrapped around it.

"Did you two discuss Vincent while in Philadelphia?" Sweets asks. Maybe that is what has created this facility in her sharing about her feelings.

Booth and Brennan exchange a lingering look.

"We did," she says, finally. "It was a very emotional time. It was good to be removed from our usual environment, and to have time to process unobserved." After a moment she adds, "It was good …"

Sweets nods, his hands steepled in front of his lips. "Okay," he says, wondering if her last statement was about Vincent Nigel-Murray, or something else. Now, it's time to use the Risk Exercise to get to the bottom of _that _scrummy conundrum. "Good work, you two. Shall we move on?"

* * *

><p><em>So you see? We are back on track and well on our way to Tuesday.<br>The Risk Exercise with these three will prove to be quite interesting.  
>Stay tuned! And to all of you traveling over the holidays, Godspeed!<br>I wish you all the joy of Santa and enough Prozak to endure  
>interfacing with the relatives.<em>


	190. A Soft Place

_A/N I counted. It's been twenty days since I had more than twenty consecutive minutes of freedom from those I serve (aka: kids and husband). There has been much wailing and gnashing of teeth on my part as a result of being separated from my other love: writing FanFiction about BONES! Today, the kids went back to school, and the husband went back to work. And so you, dear reader, can now read this chapter. _It may be torturous, but you might need to reread the last two chapters so you remember what's going on at this point. Sorry for any undue stress this suggestion may cause you - LOL! __

_It is AWESOME to be writing uninterrupted again. And to be hearing from all of you!_

~MoxieGirl ~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 190 A Soft Place To Fall<strong>

"Did we pass? Are we cleared for duty? I already feel like I've had enough shrinky-dinking for a month of Sundays," Booth says, looking at his watch with an exaggerated flourish. He stands. If they can leave now, maybe he can talk Brennan into grabbing a bite with him before he meets the guys.

"Relax, Agent Booth, we're not done yet," Sweets tosses off absently, not looking up at him. He's flipping through his notes, more to make Booth wait than for any other reason.

"Sweets," blurts Booth, frustrated, "Why is it that when you say 'relax', that's the last thing I feel like doing?" He plops back down, grimacing toward Brennan who hasn't moved an inch in the last five minutes.

Brennan yawns and glances over at Booth. This brings Sweets' attention back to the pair. He has no intention of missing anything between these two. Of course, we all know the value of good intentions. Booth, acutely aware of the scrutiny they are under, returns Brennan's glance with a nonchalant one of his own. Looking around the room, Booth affects a bored demeanor and yawns himself.

"Booth absurdly believes yawning is a communicable disease – contractible through your eyes … from _seeing_ someone else yawn," comments Brennan, chuckling. "As if there were light-born antigen for yawning."

Booth grimaces and shrugs. "I never said it was a disease," he counters, defensively.

Sweets yawns, saying nothing.

"See?" says Booth, as if vindicated. Brennan rolls her eyes. Sweets ignores both of them.

"It has more to do with the power of suggestion and the decreased level of oxygen in the lungs, though no one is completely sure about that."

Sweets resumes his review of his notes.

Jamming his right elbow into his armrest, and dramatically leaning his forehead on it, Booth drops his left arm behind the couch, letting his fingers dangle toward the floor. No part of him is touching or even leaning toward Brennan, but the exposed length of his body beckons to her. She knows exactly how it would feel if she scooted over and claimed her territory right there under his arm, leaning into his fifth through ninth ribs, resting her palm on his thigh. In her mind's eye, she sees herself kicking off her shoe, crossing her left leg over her right, and tucking her toes between his calves. If she could just sink her nose into his neck and fill her lungs with Eau de Booth, she knows she'd be able to relax. Yes, that would calm her considerably, she decides, tilting her head to the side in thought. Or, it could do the opposite.

Booth glances over at Brennan and notices she's intently chewing her fingernails. He tries to catch her attention by staring intently at her profile. Eventually, she looks over and sees his minute, yet frantic head-shaking. At first she thinks he's shivering because he's cold. When he puts his fingers to his mouth and pretends to chew on the tips, then glances pointedly toward her mouth, she realizes this is a signal and stops mid-chew. She slowly swivels her eyes toward Sweets, praying this exchange has gone unnoticed.

Tucking her hands under her arms and closing her eyes, she tries, unsuccessfully, to banish the pheromone-induced thoughts poking through her measured demeanor. This, of course, invites more. Inside her eyelids, she sees herself leaning up against him again. She watches as the Booth of her imagination encircles her in his arms then bends his head to plant kisses on her cheekbone. Without realizing it, Brennan starts to slowly shake her head. _This is not helping!_ She thinks.

She bites the inside of her lip, looking around the room for a more effective distraction. Finding none, she recalls that she and Booth have frequently and successfully employed their shared sense of the absurd to keep their minds entertained when solutions to cases evade them. _Why not try it now, right? How would Sweets react if I crawled over to Booth on my hands and knees and curled up on his lap like a haughty feline? What if I kissed Booth, right here, right in front of Sweets, tongue contact and all? _The prospect of witnessing Sweets turn crimson and lose control of his bladder would almost be worth it, she muses and almost snorts, catching herself before any noise escapes her throat._ Agh! This isn't helping either. I'm still seeing myself over there with Booth!_

_Holy cats! _She exclaims to her internal self, remembering this morning's revelation that she's most likely ovulating. _This is nature's nasty, insensitive, impetuous little strategy to ensure the race continues! The elevated progesterone level combines with those infuriating pheromones and creates an irrepressible pull toward my mate!_ _Mate, that sounds nice, _she thinks, smiling to herself. At this thought, Brennan giggles spontaneously, then stops abruptly. All eyes turn toward her. Sweets wears a decidedly startled expression; Booth isn't sure if he should be confused or worried.

"Oh, Sorry. I'm ovulating," she says sardonically. "Can we continue?" She clears her throat, focusing her attention on Sweets and adopting an impatient, yet professional attitude. "What is your assessment of my ability to," she pauses, searching for an appropriate verb, "_function_ in the capacity required by my responsibilities at the Jeffersonian as they relate to our liaison with the FBI, uh, Dr. Sweets?" She clears her throat once more and heaves a sigh, giving him an intensely expectant glance.

"I have a few more questions, then a risk exercise we need to conduct before I am able to accurately assess your readiness for duty, Dr. Brennan. And yours as well, Agent Booth," says Sweets dryly, resting his left ankle on his right knee, his foot twitching back and forth nervously.

What he's not telling them is that he's been tasked with the responsibility of delivering what he knows full well will be unwelcome news. After five unprecedentedly successful years, the liaison between the FBI and the Jeffersonian was a disappointment this past year. Sweets knows the root cause of the decrease in productivity is a direct result of Brennan and Booth's floundering relationship. Instead of working together as one, they've been aimless and disjointed, like mosquitoes bouncing around a porch light. Neither wants to get too close to what's between them, lest they burn up, yet neither wants to leave either.

Sweets knows these people. This dissonance between them has lasted longer than he anticipated. Much longer. Nonetheless, he still has faith in these two. It is going to take a wicked fierce catalyst to snap them back together and force them to be even better than they were before. Hopefully this will be the first domino in a quick succession of others that will force them to take a hard look at themselves and make some decisions. In preparation for this meeting, Sweets sought counsel from Dr. Gordon Gordon Wyatt, the FBI psychiatrist turned gourmet chef. Gordon's advice, per usual, was solid, and included a serving of Boeuf Bourguignon that would have made Julia Child cry.

Sweets lays the pad of paper in his lap and inspects his tie before beginning.

"What I'm seeing here are some things I expected," begins Sweets, clearing his throat and sitting forward. "For example, it is predictable that Booth would maintain that he doesn't feel responsible for Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray's death." Sweets tosses his pad of paper on the coffee table with a thwap, and sits back. Booth subversively glances at what Sweets has written. Sweets notices, of course, and leans forward, flipping the pad face down making a smacking sound.

Sweets stares at Booth, expectantly.

"What? Was that a question?" Booth stares blankly back at Sweets disdainfully.

"Agent Booth, it is improbable that you absolve yourself of all culpability regarding this particular tragedy."

Booth's arms are across his chest defensively, his knee is pumping like the horse head on a pump jack mining crude oil out of West Texas. He gives Sweets the stink eye, flexing his jaw and saying nothing. His look says, _I still don't hear a question, Doogie Howser._

"However, this does not concern me," continues Sweets, directing his attention toward Brennan, "because Agent Booth possesses well-established coping mechanisms that will get him through this with minimal adverse impacts on his job performance, which may, or may not, be a good thing."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Blurts Booth, taken aback.

"What coping mechanism is that?" It's Brennan who asks without acknowledging Booth's question.

"He turns his feelings inward and focuses on others instead," replies Sweets, toward her, relieved to be diverted from Booth's question. "He processes his own emotions under the guise of comforting others."

"Fascinating," says Brennan, furrowing her brow as if looking at a bone fragment under a microscope, then slowly nodding. After a moment, she regards Booth with the same attitude of fascination. "You aren't suggesting that his comforting of others is duplicitous?"

"Absolutely not. No value judgment. It works for him while simultaneously benefits others."

"Well, Dr. Sweets, you say you aren't making a value judgment, but your tone is circumspect."

"Thank you," says Booth, glancing at Brennan's profile. He's scowling, but also listening and considering the veracity of Sweets' observation.

"He will also, if he hasn't already, find some way to relieve his subverted emotions through an aggressive display of anger or misplaced authority," continues Sweets, avoiding addressing his inferred opinion of Booth's coping mechanisms.

"Still in the room here, people," says Booth, raising a hand and smirking toward the other two. Neither Sweets nor Brennan look at him. Booth rolls his eyes, letting his hand drop.

"Yes. I have observed that behavior myself," she says, nodding. "Have you noticed that he's more likely to direct that aggression toward a target at the shooting range lately? He's been spending a lot of time over there. That is both preferable and quite healthy." She constructs it as a sentence, but her inflection indicates she's seeking confirmation.

Sweets pauses as if considering this, then purses his lips and nods, exhaling as if he'd been holding his breath.

"I've been working on my Class M!" Booth blurts in defense.

"See … he will be fine. Or at least, as fine as he was before this particular incident, for what that's worth," says Sweets, chewing on his final phrase. Gordon had advised that Sweets not sugar-coat anything or use ambiguous euphemisms, even if it irritates Booth. Give it to him straight.

"What do you mean by that? At least I'm not shooting people!" Booth gasps in exasperation.

"Or clowns," adds Brennan, finally looking over at him. But she's picking up on a rather wide omission on Sweets' part and wondering where this is all heading. He seems to be alluding to the discordant interactions between Booth and herself this past year. Though she hasn't any tangible proof assembled, she knows this must have taken a toll on their fieldwork and lab efficiency.

"No – but you yourself have said that with each death we all die a little," says Sweets, finally turning his attention to Booth.

"I was referring to lives taken by snipers in the pursuit of eliminating the threat to hundreds of lives."

"Epps wasn't a threat to hundreds of lives, Agent Booth," counters Sweets.

"I didn't _kill_ Howard Epps, and I didn't _kill _Vincent, isn't that what so many hours being shrunk by Gordon Gordon was supposed to convince me of?"

"Are you saying you aren't convinced?"

"No – I'm not saying – don't do that, Sweets!"

"Do what?"

"Put words in my mouth. I hate it when you do that."

"The words you choose, Agent Booth, sometimes say more about what's going on inside your head than the meaning of the vocabulary. Case in point, when you say 'Gordon was supposed to convince me', it implies that Dr. Wyatt was merely fulfilling his duty by manipulating you into choosing his version of the truth over yours.

"But –"

"Perhaps you may have accepted that Vincent's death was not your fault. It is, of course, a more rational and palatable viewpoint. However, part of you still feels responsible. Not only for his death, but for the effect his death has had on … others." Sweets watches Booth very carefully as this final bold suggestion bounces defiantly from his lips. Gordon had suggested getting this, Booth's complicity in _Brennan's_ pain, into the conversation early on. Let him stew a bit with it.

Sweets is met with a stunned, stone cold stare. _I hope he doesn't hit me,_ Sweets thinks. _At least not in the face. Is he angry, or just stunned?_

'_Booth is a very smart man,'_ Gordon had said, refilling Sweets' glass of Campo Viejo Reserve, _'especially when it comes to the nature of the tortured human soul. I dare say he will make the implied conclusion without you having to spell it out for him. Fortunately for you both, Dr. Brennan will be none the wiser for a beat, giving Booth a little time to simmer in his kettle of __Vichyssoise__.'_

Brennan wants to reach out to Booth, but it is not something she would usually do in Sweets' office – so she breathes through the impulse, watching Booth's silhouette. She can feel his tension rising, see his jaw muscles clench twice. He's intentionally not looking over at her. He doesn't want to read it in her eyes that she holds him responsible for her pain. She reaches over and lays her palm on the couch cushion between them, hoping he can feel her affection for him, her belief in him, no matter what responsibility he feels about Nigel-Murray's death … or anything else.

"If I agree that I do have some … lingering sense of responsibility … does that mean I have to go back to Gordon Gordon and get shrunk again?" He's going to step over Sweets' mention of Brennan for now.

Sweets meets Booth's stare with the same intensity he's being given. He rejects the impulse to look away until he is certain that Booth has received the unspoken message. He wants Booth to begin considering the impact of his actions this past year on the woman sitting beside him.

"Well, first of all, Gordon Gordon is no longer in the practice of 'shrinking' people, as you like to call it. And second of all – no, it doesn't mean that at all. But it does prove my point—"

"Which was? Remind me . . . you made that point about twelve compound sentences ago and I've already forgotten what it was."

"That you feel responsible," answers Sweets, adopting a casual, almost bored, attitude, "but that it most likely will not adversely effect the quality of your performance over that of the past twelve months – which may not be a good thing." Sweets returns his attention to his notes. He stares at his pad of paper as if trying to start a fire with his penetrating focus. He needs a moment to breathe, and think about where he wants to take this conversation next.

Booth's been noticing that Sweets' customarily casual and direct demeanor during his interactions with them has been replaced by a clipped and professional coolness. This feels more like a game of chess rather than the usual round of tiddlywinks seem to engage in inside these four walls. It doesn't escape him that Sweets appears distracted. _This obviously isn't just about that damn photo,_ he thinks, _or some grief assessment bovine feces. What the hell is going on here?_Booth ponders the situation and watches Sweets through suspicious eyes, his Spidey senses tingling and on high alert.

"Sweets," he begins hesitantly, "this meeting is just about Vincent," he says, not wanting to alarm Brennan unnecessarily. "Isn't it?"

Sweets looks up, suddenly noticing the increase in his own blood pressure and the disturbing silence surrounding the last question uttered in the room. He wishes his skin wasn't so pale and prays his cheeks aren't turning red. He nods solemnly, nervously, feigning nonchalance. "I have been mandated to discuss another issue with the two of you tonight, but it's nothing to be concerned about," he says, mustering a practiced professional tone, and flashing a brief plastic grin.

"That's a lie," says Booth calmly, chin down, eyebrow up, eyes firmly locked on Sweets.

"Only partially," counters Sweets, not too confidently, avoiding eye contact. _The devil made me do it, Dad, I swear. _

"Out with it, Sweets," commands Booth loudly. "What's up?" Booth stares a hole through Sweet's forehead as he waits for the younger man to meet his eyes.

"Agent Booth," says Sweets, much more comfortable with direct confrontation than subtle passive aggression, "I have a process, and despite your attempts to intimidate me, I will not be deterred from it."

"Bones, I think while we were gone Sweets here must have attended _Ass Hole Assertiveness Boot Camp,"_ he says, turning to Brennan and sitting back. He knows if he can rile Sweets enough, Sweets will relent and spill. Sweets' weakness is that he craves Booth's approval. In most circumstances, Sweets is able to keep this in check, but he's obviously under a great deal of strain. Booth is encouraged that he might be able to get Sweets to crack, to spill the beans, maybe even spew the FBI's agenda before he intends to. _Get the opponent on the defensive,_ says Booth to himself.

"It'll only take a couple of minutes," says Sweets. "While I was at camp, I got to eat at the Seeley Booth Memorial Cafeteria, by the way." Looking directly at Booth, Sweets shoots him a broad, toothy smile. In return, he's given a sarcastic one by his adversary.

Booth glances toward Brennan as Sweets once again flips through the pages of notes he'd hastily scribbled onto his notepad while listening to the two talk about their individual and shared post-Vincent Nigel-Murray's death experiences. Catching her eye, Booth jerks his head, almost imperceptibly toward the young psychiatrist, then raises an eyebrow a fraction. Brennan responds with a calm fractional incline of her own eyebrow. His look, she knows, says _'follow my lead.'_ Her look, he knows, says, _'message received.'_

Determined to figure out what this is all about, Booth takes a moment to quickly assess the available information. They arrived separately. Sweets saw the cell photo. They explained it, convincingly, he believes. He and Brennan talked about the Vincent tragedy. Booth not feeling responsible. Brennan describing her emotional breakdown earlier today. Sweets' final question to Brennan had been, _'Did you two discuss Vincent while in Philadelphia?' _There it is. Sweets must not have been satisfied with her answer. Neither she nor he, Booth, said anything about how they dealt with this tragedy _as a team._ That is something the FBI would find interesting – their continued ability to handle crises _as a team_. This has never been a concern in the past. Why is it now? Somehow, Booth has to convince Sweets that he and Brennan are still a team, that they do rely on and support each other. It may not have been true a week ago, but it sure as hell is now.

Then the final two puzzle pieces. First, Sweets has twice suggested that Booth's performance this past year has been less than exemplary. Second, he gave the impression that Booth might feel responsible for Brennan's pain. _What does this all add up to?_ He wonders, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip. Sweets said he has been 'mandated' to discuss something with them. That's FBI speak for being ordered to do something, most likely against Sweets' will, or better judgment. Not good.

Bones waits patiently, watching for the next signal from Booth. She doesn't have to wait long. Booth, who's still leaning on his armrest with one elbow and hanging his other arm over the back of the loveseat, begins to swing his arm up and across the back of the couch several times – almost touching her, but not. He taps casually against the back of the couch with his thumb. Brennan listens. It that Morse code? No, too random. Just as Gordon predicted, she is oblivious to the unspoken conversation transpiring between the two men.

Booth begins to whistle quietly while still tapping occasionally on the back of the couch. He sways his head back and forth as if listening to a tune in his head. He smiles at Brennan. It's a nice, big, wide-open, beautiful Boothy smile. It says, 'I'm awfully fond of you', with a touch of 'I love you' in it. Then he winks playfully. Finally, she gets it. Act relaxed.

Brennan unfolds her arms, lets her shoulders fall, and slouches slightly in her seat. Taking a rubber band from her pocket, she whips her hair up into a high ponytail. She crosses her legs and swings her foot casually. Leaning toward Booth, she asks in a playful sing-song voice, "Hey, Booth, you have any poker chips on you?" She gives him a cock-eyed smile.

"Sure," he says, stretching casually to reach into his pocket, he pulls out three. He holds two out to her with a smile, then pulls them away at the last minute when she reaches for them.

"Booth!" she yelps, grinning. He tosses them into her lap. She picks them up and fakes that she's going to throw them back at Booth. He winces, throwing his hands up.

"Gotcha," she says, chuckling.

He rolls his eyes, then grins back at her. This is working. They are relaxing, or, at least appearing to.

"Sweets," says Booth after two minutes. "There's something else that I wanted to ask you about."

"Is this on topic, Agent Booth?" Sweets looks up from his pad of paper.

"Well, I'll leave that to you to determine. While we were in Philadelphia, Bones woke up in the middle of the night from a nightmare. She was screaming so loudly, I thought she was being attacked, and I busted into her room with my gun loaded."

Bones bites her bottom lip, nods. "It was frightening," she says, her brow knitting together.

* * *

><p>Staring straight forward, her arms across her chest, Brennan speaks in a monotone. She recounts her experience early Saturday morning: The bloody nose, the broken hotel room lamps, and the nightmare about stuffing people into the cells of a hornet's nest.<p>

"I found the last part of the dream quite disturbing," says Brennan with consternation, her chest rising as she fills her lungs to capacity, then falling slowly as she exhales. She stares, transfixed, at the floor, then glances up at Booth with a slight question in her eyes. Booth blinks, nods deeply without hesitation, grimaces. _Go ahead,_ he's saying. _You can do this. _He wants to pull her over to him and wrap his arm around her, kiss the soft skin at her temple, hold her warm hand, breathe in her scent, make sure she feels his love. He tries to impart this through his actions. He adjusts himself in his seat so his back is to the corner and he's facing more toward Brennan than before. He crosses his right leg over his left, do he's also leaning toward her.

"Whenever you're ready, Dr. Brennan," Sweets says, engrossed in the story as well as the unprecedentedly open non-verbal communication Booth is demonstrating. _And were they being … playful … a moment ago? _

"In my dream," she begins, looking at Sweets, then flicking another glance at Booth, who sends her a comforting message with his eyes. Though imperceptible by anyone else, she understands what his look means. _This is a good decision. You can trust Sweets about this. I'm right here._ Swallowing, her brow knitting together again, her lips pursing for a moment, she closes her eyes to remember the shadowy images of that night as she considers her words. When she's ready, she opens her eyes and begins to give their psychiatrist the core of her nightmare.

"Somehow, the edges of these hornet nest cells were sharp. Not all of them, because Angela and Dr. Saroyan weren't having any … difficulty. Neither were the interns … though I never saw any of them. The suggestion of Hodgins was there somehow as well. Ange and Dr. Saroyan were flitting around like two girlfriends, chatting and laughing." She pauses. Here comes the hard part.

Booth slides his arm across the top of the loveseat but doesn't touch her. He's just letting her know he's there. Sweets notices this out of the corner of his eye but doesn't call any attention to it lest Booth continue to guard his affections.

"But Booth," she says, looking up at him, "Booth is standing right in front of me. I'm gently pushing him backward until we get to the cells, the honeycombs, and he goes willingly. But when we reach the nest … and I try to push him inside one … he's too big. He doesn't fit." She stops again, takes a breath. "So I try to move him over in front of another cell. He doesn't resist at all. I push and push. He just smiles at me as if I were trying to arrange him in a group photo. But then I notice he is bleeding." She stops, swallowing dryly. "Dreams are meaningless, I'm sure. Random neurotransmitters firing haphazardly inside a brain frantically consolidating and processing information, forming neural connections, building up new neurotransmitters …"

Sweets sits forward slowly, reaching out his hand as if patting an invisible child on the head. "Dr. Brennan, let me be the doctor here, okay?" She meets his eyes and squints at him for a moment, then nods. Sweets leans back. "Please continue."

"I notice Booth is bleeding and I know he knows he's bleeding. There's bright red blood … but he doesn't mind. It doesn't bother him, but it panics me," she says, her voice raising to a panicked pitch, her shoulders rising as she tenses up. "I realize I have been pushing him into razor blade edged cells, cutting him. _I _am what's making him bleed. Me! And he- he doesn't stop me. He just lets me … like maybe he's numb." She stops, shrugs, swallows, stares to the right of Sweets' face. Her eyes are glossy, but she maintains her composure.

Sweets glances over at Booth who is intently watching Brennan's face, compassion in his entire posture. He notices that Booth is gently dragging his fingertips back and forth on the back of her shoulder without moving his hand. It's subtle. Sweets had almost missed it.

"Then what happened?" Sweets prompts Brennan.

"That's all I remember. The next thing I knew Booth was pounding on my door, screaming for me to open up."

Booth mentions that they, he and Brennan, spent a substantial length of time talking about what had just happened until she relaxed enough to fall sleep. He omits the part about the conversation occurring while they sat on the floor, Booth wrapped around Brennan, neither of them wearing much clothing.

Throughout the discussion of the death and its aftermath, Sweets notes that the wall of tension between Booth and Brennan had dissipated like a mist burned off by pure rays of the morning sun in early June. They allow themselves to exchange furtive glances. Their narrative falls into a companionable cadence as they provide details about what they discussed that night. There are several instances where Sweets makes a suggestion and is informed that Brennan or Booth had said that same thing during their discussion.

"This is clearly PTSD," says Sweets. "The emotional and psychological trauma, stressful events, shattered sense of security –"

"Booth recognized it as PTSD immediately and suggested it may not be just from Mr. Nigel-Murray's death, but perhaps also from my childhood," says Brennan.

"Very good point. Well done, Agent Booth," says Sweets, nodding to the man to his left. "Now, was there something that happened that particular day that may have precipitated such an emotional event, such a breakthrough into the past trauma? Many times a PTS event will occur after something similarly traumatic …"

"It seemed to me," says Booth, "That there wasn't another traumatic event, except Vincent's death, of course. Instead, could it be possible that this came out … this explosion of fear and emotion, as a result of ..." Booth looks for a word, but can't find one.

"Booth speculated that perhaps my subconscious needed to feel safe enough to allow the trauma to make itself felt. That until there was sufficient support, concern, and a … what did you call it?" She turns toward Booth, touching him on the forearm.

"_A soft place to fall._ Someone to catch you, hold you if you need it. Put band aids on your scraped knees …"

"Arrange to have your hotel room cleaned up and the sheets changed …" Brennan adds, nodding an appreciative yet self-conscious smile in Booth's direction, still not wanting to give too much away.

"Terrorize and cuff your shampoo and body wash bottles," says Booth, in guilty amusement.

"Soak a towel in warm water and tease the dried blood from your face and arms -" Brennan says, grimacing, then smiling with quiet appreciation.

"Remind you that you have always been strong, with a generous and tender heart," mumbles Booth, looking sideways at Brennan, "but perhaps now you are less guarded and maybe that is why it feels so unsettling." Having said his piece, Booth looks down with consternation at the one poker chip he has left in his hand. He flips it around expertly between his fingers. This last item he shared is a little more personal than what he's like to be talking about in front of Sweets.

"I concur, Agent Booth. Dr. Brennan, you have always been strong," says Sweets, joining in. "Seeing it as _impervious _was a perspective you adopted to facilitate your own comprehension. The strength has always been there, as have the feelings. You just hadn't let them out or, perhaps, given them much credence in the past."

"That's exactly what Booth said," says Brennan. Remembering another significant revelation of the past couple of days, she continues. "He surmised it was necessary to feel I had someone to tell me it's okay to feel embarrassed by that rush of unaccustomed and overwhelming emotion. Someone to insist that I … or anyone in the same situation … can allow yourself to experience the richness of intimacy without intercourse, between friends who care a great deal for each other." Brennan's voice has gone low and quiet. It sounds to Sweets like it has taken on a wistful and reverent tone. She can feel the poppies beginning to bloom on her cheeks, but she refuses to acknowledge them in anyway, even to herself.

Sweets leans back in his chair smiling at his companions who exchange a warm, appreciative, glance before looking away from each other. _The only thing they are not doing is touching each other. But they are touching each other, aren't they?_ Sweets tells himself. _Even though it may not be physically. And it is clear that Agent Booth has somehow managed to regain access to his affection for Dr. Brennan, an affection that has been dormant for the greater part of a year._

* * *

><p>"Since you had some time … away from the team … were you able to discuss this past year's professional challenges?"<p>

"Meaning what?" It's Booth.

"Can you be a little more specific?" Brennan asks.

"Well. Let' just look at the facts," says Sweets, sitting forward and reaching underneath his chair to pull out a slim FBI folder.

Booth and Brennan glance at each other.

"There's been talk in the bureau that maybe it's time for a break," Sweets says, his eyes on the closed FB fonder n his hands.

"What? What kind of break? Like a hiatus of some sort? How do they propose to impose a break on murder?" Brennan snorts sarcastically. She looks at Booth and shakes her head. "That's absurd."

"Sweets is referring to a professional hiatus," explains Booth dryly. Brennan sits up straight when comprehension dawns on her.

"They can't do that! Can they do that Booth?"

"They can do anything they want," answers Booth, not taking his eyes of Sweets.

"Over the last twelve months your case load has significantly decreased – by 35% to be exact."

"How do they calculate that? Bureaucracies can manipulate numbers to appear to say anything they want you to think they say," says Brennan. "Scientists do it all the time. Except me, of course."

"Your time to closure has increased 26 percent. What used to take you ten business days to resolve, now takes you thirteen says. This all adds up over the course of a year."

"I'd like to see those numbers," blurts Brennan, leaning forward. Sweets makes no move to offer her the folder.

"Sometimes there are just fewer cases –" Booth shakes his head.

"Not true, Agent Booth. While other parts of the country are seeing decreases in violent crime, the Northeastern states have seen an 8.3 per cent increase in murder in 2010 alone. Not so in the case of your partnership, Agent Booth. In the past six years liaising with the Jeffersonian, year over year, your case load and solve rate increased by six percent in your second year, ten percent in the third year, nineteen percent in the fourth, and twenty-three percent in the fifth. Do you have any idea what the sixth year percentage increase was?"

"I have a feeling you're going to tell us," says Booth, with a smirk.

"Negative eight percent. Your case load and close rate have both decreased. And the time to close a case has increased twenty-six percent. It's almost as if you haven't wanted to work together." Sweets tosses that hot bag of poo out there and lets it gurgle for a moment.

Brennan feels the loneliness of the last year as if she were immersed in it all over again. She realizes that what she's been going through has affected more than just her moods.

"Have you been aware of this?" Booth says, turning toward Brennan.

"Everything organic is cyclic as well, has a life cycle, Booth. … I've felt it, yes," she says, looking away from him and Sweets, toward the wall resting her right cheek bone on her upturned left fist so neither of them can see her face. She can feel the tears welling up and she widens her eyes so they don't fall. She pulls on the skin below each eye to allow those tears to fall inside her lids rather than down her cheeks. _Maybe they won't notice,_ she lies to herself, unfooled.

"Sometimes these things happen. Something fabulous and successful runs its course. And then it's time to move on – the magic's gone. Maybe you know each other too well. You need something different," suggests Sweets with a shrug.

"In the last year you both seem to have regressed. You, Booth, at times seem to have lost your sense of humor, your fluid thought process –"

"I know! I know," insists Booth. "I know that now. Bones has explained to me how difficult, unpleasant, sometimes rude, and insensitive I've been. I hadn't realized it was affecting our work." Booth runs his hands through his hair. An uncomfortably cold and steely fear is running down the back of his neck all the way to his tailbone. He can see now that he has screwed up.

"Dr. Brennan, you- sometimes when you're working a case, you seem to have forgotten how to connect with others. You haven't been working together as a team, guys."

"Sweets is right, I've felt it. I've been rigid. And unhappy," she murmurs, her shoulders falling, her head leaning to one side as if it's too heavy to hold itself up. She knows the tricky part is going to come up soon and she's not looking forward to it. If they have to talk about this difficult last year, they'll have to talk about Hannah. They'll have to talk about their separate pain. _Please don't make me tell him how devastating that was for me, Sweets, _she thinks, swallowing dryly, hearing a clicking noise in the back of her throat. _Please don't make me give him one more thing to hate himself for. Hasn't he been through enough? Can't we just admit this past year was a cluster-duck and move forward? But I know you. Sweets, you'll make us pull out all the garbage, sift through it, pass it around the room, talk about it. You'll force us to emote about it before you let us move on. I don't want to do this! This is going to hurt Booth … isn't it enough that it still hurts me? Let me take the hurt. I am good at boxing hurt up, hiding it away. Booth is sensitive. I'd rather keep it inside me, than bring it out and see Booth hurt all over again. _

For the first time Brennan feels regret for going to Sweets for assistance in overcoming her fears so she could have an open heart for Booth. Sweets knows, first hand, how crushed and lost Brennan was when Hannah appeared, how devastated she was when she realized she had lost her chance with Booth, then how she further sank into her own personal hell when she learned of his proposal to Hannah. Sweets possesses all of this information, which now translates into power, the power to send Booth back into his hole. She can't let this happen. But what can she do about it?

"Jesus, Bones, why didn't you tell me you saw this happening?"

She turns toward him and stares into his eyes, her own still glossy. The words don't come.

"You couldn't. I was unapproachable," he chagrins, realization dawning.

"You once told me the greatest unkindness is to kick a man when he's down," she sputters, finally finding something akin to a voice.

There. She said it. Booth was a man down. Down for the count. Down for months. Almost a year. Exactly the amount of time their work had suffered.

A palpable pall falls over the three of them. The only sounds remaining are the humming of Sweets' clock and the buzz of the thermostat. For five minutes, the three sit in silence, letting the last words spoken sink into their skin. Eventually, it's Sweets who breaks the silence.

"The FBI would like to implement a new arrangement. Take Booth out of the field except to train other agents, and we'd like to consider having the Jeffersonian train it's assets to liaise with law enforcement. See if we can duplicate what you two had those first five years."

"But, Sweets, I-, I don't work for the FBI. They can't just-"

"But I do," Booth says, deep in thought, trying very hard not be give in to an overwhelming sense of resignation.

"But he does," concedes Sweets.

"But I won't work with anyone else," she pleads, leaning forward toward Sweets, then turning toward Booth.

"Then the FBI could decide they no longer have need of your services," Says Sweets, frimacing apologetically.

"That's absurd! I am the best forensic anthropologist they could ever find," she almost shrieks.

"Are you sure? When was the last time you checked?"

"_Sweets!"_ Booth erupts threateningly, startling the younger man who winces in response. If, ever in their relationship, Booth were going to hit Sweets, it would have been at this very moment. But he doesn't. This is too important. He needs to maintain control.

Booth feels a panicked sweat seeping down through his shoulders. _We can make this work,_ he's thinking. _If the FBI will allow us to. Or maybe we could go out on our own? _Shaking him out of his thoughts is the voice of his partner beside him.

"It's my fault," she blurts, falling back against the couch cushions, anxiously lifting her index finger toward her mouth, then looking at it and dropping it back in her lap. If she puts that fingernail in her mouth she might bite off the phalanx.

"It's not your fault, Bones. It was never your fault!" _You've loved me and been there for me the whole time. You haven't failed once,_ he thinks. He knows her well enough to suspect what she's thinking.

"No. It's my fault, Booth. I shouldn't have been too afraid to pursue our relationship and I shouldn't have taken that assignment in Maluku. I ruined everything."

Booth looks at Sweets who is watching quietly, seeing how this will unfold. "Sweets, don't let her take responsibility for this. This is not her fault. This is my fault."

Sweets, shrugs with his eyebrows. It's a non–committal response. There is no right or wrong. Booth can see this goes much further than what's being said. Aspects of their partnership this past year have created a labyrinthine mess. There have been more dead ends and false starts to keep count. The challenge with this kind of mess is that those inside it are too close to it to have any perspective, to see any path that leads to open air. In Greek mythology, Theseus had Ariadne who provided him with a piece of string so he could find his way out of the labyrinth after killing the beast. Booth has never known Brennan to run out of string. _She creates string out of thin air. Puzzles frustrate me, but they relax her, she's said so herself. This should be a piece of cake, right? Then why am I sweating profusely? _He thinks.

"Booth," says Brennan, turning to look at him, laying her fingers on his forearm. "Booth, it is going to be fine now. We don't need to worry about it. We will be fine now. Okay? We just have to move forward and work hard. Show the FBI we can do a good job. Come on, we're Bones and Booth!" Brennan forces a smile which falls dead immediately when he doesn't look at her.

"What's done is done, right Sweets?" Booth doesn't touch Brennan's hand on his arm. He stares straight forward at Sweets.

Brennan looks to Sweets. Sweets looks at Booth.

"That's not how the FBI works, Bones," says Booth, in a flat tone. "They've already made a decision, Haven't they Sweets?"

Sweets exhales and grimaces.

"Their process probably started months ago," explains Booth. "There may be nothing we can do about it. That's really why we're here this afternoon, isn't it, Sweets? Sweets has something he needs to tell us. Something we're not going to like."

Brennan looks from her partner to her psychiatrist. "What? What! What are you saying?" She's whispering.

Sweets sighs heavily, opens the flimsy file on his lap, and scans the page.

"_Oh, for Christ's sake, give me that!"_ blurts Booth thrusting his hand in the air toward Sweets. At the same time Sweets holds it out toward him, accidentally smacking Booth's fingers with it. The folder is flimsy. There's only one document inside, but it's official looking. The only thing missing is an inked signature at the bottom of the page. There are actually three blank lines awaiting signatures. The names printed below those lines are "Dr. Lance Sweets, Special Agent Seeley Booth, and Forensic Anthropologist Liaison from the Jeffersonian Institute, Dr. Temperance Brennan.

"Where's the rest of it?" Booth looks at Sweets, accusingly.

"The rest is on my desk. It doesn't matter, Agent Booth. This is the only document that carries any weight, contains any thing of import for this discussion."

"I want a copy of that. On my desk. Before our meeting tomorrow, Sweets. Every sheet, every note, every napkin with a doodle or a coffee stain on it. Everything." He says this more to be intimidating rather than to make sure he gets it all, He's not sure he wants to see everything that's inside that file. He'd rather forget this entire last year existed.

"I'm not signing that," says Brennan defiantly belligerent, tightening her arms around her tense midsection.

"You don't have to agree to it. You just have to sign it. Your signature acknowledges that you've been presented with the information," explains Sweets. "Not that you agree."

"Where does it say that?"

"It's implicit."

Brennan shoots him the 'are you kidding me' stink eye. "That's horse puckies. And I'm not signing it," she hisses.

"And neither am I," says Booth, tossing the offending folder on the coffee table with such force that it slides off the other side and lands on Sweets' shoes.

Sweets feels relieved and encouraged, oddly invigorated, for the first time since they walked through his door an hour ago. Thanks to Chef Gordon, this strategy is working. He didn't manufacture anything he's told them about their situation. It is all true and ugly. However, the FBI has given Sweets a tiny slice of latitude based upon the strength of Sweets' success working with this team.

What Gordon suspected, and Sweets now has confirmed, is that if Dr. Brennan and Booth's relationship was too far gone, they would sign the document, even though it wasn't an admission to anything more than having been delivered the information. But if they refused to sign it, for any 'reason', it meant they were willing to fight. For their careers, and, even more, for each other.

* * *

><p><em>Next is the Risk Exercise. What on earth is going to happen during that? <em>  
><em>Fasten your seat belts, Baby, it's going to be an interesting ride - but for whom?<br>No matter what . . . our B&B can handle it, even when they'd rather not. _

_Till then, click that button down there and give me your reaction to this latest chapter of_  
><em>'The When and the How: A Bone to Pick'<em>  
><em>Then, go read 'The Meaning in the Episode' (It's short!) and<em>  
><em>I Decide, (Even shorter!) if you haven't already.<em>

God bless all of you and your families. Happy New Year!  
>~MoxieGirl<br>~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter


	191. She Deserves Respect

_A/N You knew it had to come up eventually. You complained when they never addressed it on the show  
>(some of us did, at least). Where better to face the emotional roller coaster of this past year's challenges<br>than in Sweets' office? Let's see how it begins to unfold. I hope you enjoy this chapter. ~MoxieGirl _

_~MoxieGirl44 (not changing the name here to match twitter, BTW. It will mess up the URL.)_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 191 She Deserves Respect<strong>

Sweets slowly bends down and picks up the flimsy FBI folder from where it landed on his shoes when Booth tossed it across the coffee table. Jamming the folder between his seat cushion and the arm of his chair, Sweets sits back and rests his arms on the armrests, letting his fingers dangle off the ends. His posture is that of a boxer sitting in the corner of the ring between rounds. All that's missing is the iodine, the water bottle with a squirt spout, the sweaty towel, and the coach rubbing down his biceps and lying to him about how well he's doing.

It's not that Brennan and Booth have beaten him up; Sweets has an adrenaline hangover. He'd been uncharacteristically anxious about imparting that devastating news about the FBI's plan for Booth and Brennan. Now that he's relayed the information as mandated, and, wonder of wonders, he's still alive, he is coming down off that uncomfortable sensation.

Fortunately for the future of Booth and Brennan's partnership, they've both initially refused to sign the official-looking FBI document about their less than stellar productivity as a team this past year. And, surprisingly, things between them appear to be … almost back to normal.

_However,_ Sweets thinks, recalling his thoughts earlier today as he prepared for this meeting, _their relationship right now is like a tent that's been hastily disassembled during a storm and stuffed back in its canvas tote bag for storage. If it's left bundled up in the bag until the next camping trip, it will mildew and eventually disintegrate, becoming a heap of garbage. But if it's taken out on a dry and sunny day, set up in the backyard with all the windows unzipped allowing for a good cross breeze; if the exterior is sprayed free of mud and damp leaves, and the interior is swept clean once dry, then it will live to serve its owners another day. _

_Sometimes we choose to let the tent rot; we were finished with it anyway. And sometimes it's okay not to resurrect a relationship that has outlived its fruitfulness. And, man, that new one is so enticing._

_Sometimes, however, relationships simply lapse for a while before getting back on track. Maybe we'd both gotten busy, or our schedules had changed for a while. Perhaps one of us lost weight or got a boob job and the other feels less attractive. Maybe one of us had a baby or got a boyfriend or a new job or fell into a hole. Whatever. These things happen. _

_When we find each other again, and if we want to pick up where we left off, we first have to get reacquainted. Sometimes we even have to make amends, take responsibility for our part in the neglect of the relationship. _**_The truth is that other things in life became temporarily more important to me than you were, and I got distracted._**_ It sounds nasty, but the truth often does. Fortunately, sounding nasty and being nasty are two very different things. _

_When you were so much more ... of everything ... when you were together, and when life simply doesn't work when you're apart, hopefully amends can be made, and perhaps instead of just rekindling you can catch fire this time. But first, amends. Sometimes we need help getting past this part. This part is the real work, the stuff Sweets lives for. And he's a genius at it._

_This is a great explanation for why Brennan and Booth will need to work through their past issues rather than letting sleeping dogs lie. _

He can hear himself writing it down in his notes, or speaking it into a microphone in a room filled with his contemporaries. He imagines the paper he will one day present: Overcoming the Political and Interpersonal Challenges of Male-Female Partnerships in Law Enforcement Professions.

* * *

><p>"So, what now?" It's Brennan who first breaks the silence.<p>

"Well," says Sweets, pursing his lips, crossing his arms and shrugging with one shoulder, "you have a choice. You can reconsider signing that document and be at the mercy of the suits upstairs …"

"Or?" She looks from Sweets to Booth, waiting for someone to explain how official FBI protocol, and unofficial FBI culture dictate this will go from here forward. She's encouraged that it's Sweets sitting across from them rather than Deputy Director Cullen or Assistant Director Hacker. The higher the authority, the more rigid and diminished the options will be. Thank goodness Sweets is on their side … at least he always has been in the past.

"Or, we chill for a moment," he says pensively, glancing lazily up to meet Brennan's eyes. Gathering his thoughts, he clears his throat, sits up straight, and begins to deliver the few sentences he'd prepared to deliver as a transition from the bad news to an open dialog about how they ended up in this situation. "A successful professional partnership involving two people," he begins holding up both index fingers and joining them lengthwise, side by side, "who are also involved emotionally is complex and volatile. Should the personal aspect of the relationship experience … challenges, all other facets of the partnership are naturally affected." He moves his index fingers apart five inches.

"Okay, yada yada yada," interrupts Booth. "What is our other option, other than signing that piece of excrement in the file?"

"Oh, I assure you, Agent Booth, it's not excrement. This is quite serious. Just so you understand the gravity of the situation, a dossier of potential candidates for your training program has already been approved by both Hacker and Cullen."

"Have the Agents been notified?" Booth is hiding his alarm, but just barely.

"Not officially …"

"Oh, come on! What the hell? Why am I only hearing about this now? This is –"

"We're wasting time, Agent Booth. Shall we move forward?"

"Absolutely, and I'll tell you what we're gonna do. We're going to go back to exactly what we were doing before."

"How do you recommend we do that? We all know the definition of insanity – doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results. We can't just … wave a magic wand … and erase the last year from the books, Agent Booth. Your problems … and believe me, they are considerable … are not going to go away just because you tell them to. And the next time you're up against the FBI on this issue, by the way, the issue of performance, you'll be sitting in an office upstairs with windows that don't look out over the parking lot."

Booth heaves a sigh. He knows Sweets is right. What he's not sure about is whether this meeting with Sweets is a professional courtesy, or if there really is a chance they will be given the opportunity to turn this situation around, get back to the crack crime solving team of Booth and Bones.

"Okay, listen. My point is … My point is, Sweets, that the problems we were having before?" Booth sits forward, confidently laying his case. "They aren't going to be a problem any more. Okay?" Booth looks sideways at Bones, then back to Sweets. He really didn't want to talk about this with Sweets before talking with Bones alone about it, but it looks like he's going to have no choice.

"First order logic. Isn't that what you guys say?" Asserts Booth. "In order to have the power to solve a problem, you have to have power over the cause of the problem, right?"

"Well, it's more complicated than that," says Sweets, tentatively.

"Okay, listen. You've made it quite clear that the FBI … that … the problem here has been my performance, right? My personal issues, my funk, my attitude." He looks at both of them again. Bones looks back at him, unmoving. Sweets grimaces his agreement. "I'm telling you, it's not going to be a problem anymore"

"Uh huh, and why is that, might I ask," says sweets with a circumspect stare.

"I'm over it," says Booth with finality, sitting back, resting an ankle on his knee in an attempt to appear relaxed. "That's all there is to it." He nods confidently at Sweets, looking him straight in the eyes.

"Are you?"

"Yeah."

"Just like that?" Sweets nods, not buying it.

"Just like that." Booth is giving Sweets the cocky 'I'm back' attitude, but without the smile.

"And, exactly what are you _over?"_

"My funk! I've crawled out of my humorless hole of self-loathing, okay? I'm back. _We're_ back!" He thinks if he can sound convincing enough maybe they won't have to delve into the details.

No such luck.

"How can that be? That fast?" Sweets asks, dubious, trying not to smirk. Brennan is also curious about what brought him back, though she recalls he said it had something to do with Hannah.

"It was something Hannah said," says Booth, focusing on the sock covering the ankle perched up on his knee.

"Really?" Sweets says, dubiously, in a flat voice.

"Yes. She told me a lot of things that made sense," he nods, speaking more sincerely now, having made the decision to reveal whatever it takes, for the moment at least. "Things I hadn't realized. And it put a whole new perspective on … my perspective."

Brennan and Sweets exchange a circumspect glance. Finally, Brennan shrugs. Her body language appears to be saying to Sweets, _I was not informed of this __Hannah-inspired re__velation. I do not know what to make of this either. Let's hear what he has to say._

"I'm listening," says Sweets, crossing his legs and arms.

"Me too," says Brennan, furrowing her brow and squirming a bit so she's facing Booth more directly.

Booth returns their gazes, hoping for a final reprieve. Maybe if I stay quiet long enough they won't ask me to divulge anymore than that.

No such luck.

"Still listening. Not hearing anything, Agent Booth," announces Sweets, cocking his head to the side expectantly. "What _profound wisdom_ did Hannah impart that had the power to snap you out of your … previously unproductive perspective?" Sweets raises his eyebrows challengingly.

"You know what? I have really had enough of the sarcasm, okay?" Booth, who was touchy to begin with, doesn't appreciate Sweets' superior tone. "People around here have a hard time accepting that Hannah and I were in a relationship. It may not have been what anyone wanted for me, but I don't appreciate how people treat it like it was nothing! Like it didn't mean anything! Like it was fake or stupid. She's a bright, courageous, person, _Doctor Sweets!" _

Booth realizes he's getting worked up, so he stops to take a deep breath, then lets it all out as he decompresses. The room is as quiet as the morgue.

"Hannah never did anything to anyone, okay?" He continues more calmly. "She gave to me … when I really needed it," he says. "She deserves your respect," he says. He looks from Brennan to Sweets, and then out the window, resting his eyes there for a moment.

"I'm done with my speech," he says, with a resigned, half-hearted shrug.

Brennan grimaces, not sure what to think of what he just said.

"Agent Booth?"

Booth looks back to Sweets.

"You are absolutely correct. I apologize. I was out of line." What impresses Sweets is that he's seeing the old Booth reemerging. The Booth of honor and duty. The Booth who commands respect, defends the righteous.

"Do you still have feelings for her?" It's Sweets asking the question, quietly and calmly. It's a gutsy question, considering present company. _But that's what we're here for, right?_ Thinks Sweets.

Booth pauses, furrowing his brow pensively. He's not offended by the question, or embarrassed.

"No," he says, in a tone that has a hint of a question in it. He looks up at Sweets. "Well, yes, to be honest. I have feelings, but not how I thought, and I understand them better now. Thanks to her," he says, meaning Hannah.

If Booth had responded impulsively or emotionally, Sweets would have understood that Booth is not finished being in his hole, not ready to heal this relationship and move forward. But Booth had responded calmly, introspectively. Sincerely. Booth had made eye contact with Sweets during his final sentence and still holds it now. Sweets, bites his lips between his teeth and nods slowly.

"Okay," he continues nodding. "Okay. So what did she tell you that made a difference for you?"

"Well," says Booth, drumming his fingers on his upturned ankle. "She said my life wasn't aligned with my absolute truth. She said I have been blessed to have had the love of three wonderful and generous women in my life," he says, his voice decreasing in volume as he progresses. He flits a glance at Brennan, wishing he could reach out and touch her right now, let her know none of this is painful news. He pauses, looking down at her hands which lie, unmoving, in her lap, one hand clutching the wrist of the other.

"And?" Sweets prompts, bringing Booth's attention back to his face.

Exhaling slowly, Booth continues. "And that she loved me. Loves me."

"But?" Brennan says, quietly, realizing she's been holding her breath. _This shouldn't bother me,_ she thinks. _I know I have his undivided love. He's given it to me. Why do I sound like I'm trying to convince myself that it doesn't matter that they were together or that they loved each other, and why do I feel anxious hearing this? _She inhales deeply, then exhales audibly through her mouth. Without thinking about it, she does this three more times.

The men can see her reaction, hear her forced exhales, but she seems unaware of how loud they are. She's never taken her eyes off of Booth. She is clearly in distress, though she's holding it together.

"But…?" Presses Brennan. Then nods impatiently toward Booth. "She loves you, but what?" she says, almost chocking.

_"But,"_ he begins again, swallowing, his brow furrowed. "She said I didn't love her, not the way she needed to be loved. Look, this has been dealt with and I'm over it. Can we just move on?" He says, swinging his eyes over to Sweets'.

Brennan and Sweets speak at the same time.

"No!" Blurts Brennan.

"No, we can't just move on," says Sweets calmly, glancing over at Brennan and then back to Booth. "It is important to air these things out. It is important for the health of your … partnership."

"For our partnership," repeats Brennan, meaning, for our relationship. After a pause, she adds, "So that's why, when you asked her … she didn't –"

"Yeah—" answers Booth, slumping a bit. Remembering being turned down still stings a little, even though he doesn't regret it. Booth and Brennan exchange a glance. Brennan slumps a bit in her seat as well. "She also told me to get my head out of my ass and go live my life, basically," he says with a grimace and a shrug, returning his attention to his striped sock.

"Interesting," remarks Sweets, arms crossed, pulling on his lower lip. "What do you suppose she meant by that?"

"The inference, if I understand it correctly," says Brennan before Booth has a chance to say anything, "Is that your happiness requires that your life is in alignment with your absolute truth, which it hasn't been."

Booth nods, puckering his lips in thought.

"And how do you uncover what your absolute truth is?" It's Sweets this time.

"She told me what it is—"

"Of course, she did," mumbles Brennan with a little edge in her tone. Once it's out of her mouth, she closes her eyes and shakes her head. _Did I say that out loud? Copulating donkey turds! _She sighs, wishing she could take it back.

At Brennan's reaction, Booth swallows and looks over at Sweets, a question all over his face. _What do I do?_

Sweets shakes his head back at Booth. He's saying, _You made your bed; you get to lay in it, buddy._

"She said that my absolute truth is that there is only _one_ person for me … and that she's not that person," he says, focusing on the sock again, a half smirk playing on his lips.

No one says anything for a moment, letting that sink in. Brennan sinks further into her seat, further regretting her uncharitable reaction a moment previously. Her anxiety drains out of her like water down a drain.

"Well." It's Sweets that speaks into the pregnant silence. "What do you think about that, Agent Booth. Do you think she is correct in her assumption? About your 'absolute truth'," he says, making air quotation marks.

Now it's Bones staring at Booth's hands on his socks.

"I, uh, I do," he says, rocking his agreement from his shoulders upward. He's staring at the socks too. Everybody is staring at the damn socks.

Brennan feels a tart sensation beginning in the bridge of her nose. Her sinuses are tightening, preparing to dispense a tear or two. Her body relaxes further as she tries to mentally shake the sensation of impending tears.

After a beat, Sweets says, "Well, I'm glad I encouraged you to go, then."

"I knew you were gonna take credit for this," mumbles Booth, eyes closed, dropping his forehead into his palm, rubbing his eyes.

Bones turns, glossy-eyed, and shoots Booth a disapproving look.

"Agent Booth, when Hannah asked to see you, you weren't going to go, remember?"

Booth, stretches his neck and rolls his head from side to side. Sweets is right.

"I laid out the argument that motivated you to see her, right? Hear what she had to say. Get some closure," he says with finality. "And I write the report that goes to Hacker."

"What? There's going to be a report? Oh, I don't think so," chuckles Booth.

"Booth, give him this one. What does it matter?" Brennan says softly and plaintively. "He does deserve the credit."

Booth grimaces, relents, shrugs.

* * *

><p>"Well, I'm glad you're over it, Agent Booth," says Sweets, ready to move on. "But that doesn't mean it won't be a problem."<p>

"You obviously have some reason to think that it will be a problem. So … lay it on us. Say what you mean."

"Both of you have been neglecting someone else whose been in pain over this," says Sweets, donning his sincere, puppy-eyed shrink expression.

"What? Now I don't know what we're talking about," says Booth, puzzled. He sits up straight and readjusts his pants which have grown uncomfortable from all the knee crossing and moving around.

"Sweets, you were friends with Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray too," says Brennan sympathetically, "weren't you? I'm so sorry. I didn't even think …"

"No, not me. I'm fine. Yes, we were friends, but I'm fine. Thanks for acknowledging that though. I'm talking about this whole last year between the two of you, not his death."

Brennan grows uncomfortably silent. She stares at Sweets. _He's talking about me,_ she says to herself. _Here it comes. _She takes several shallow breaths, hoping the room doesn't close in on her like she's afraid it might.

Booth closes his eyes. He knows it's coming, too. He's feeling resistant and uncomfortable. He adjusts himself and readjusts himself on the loveseat, his squirming letting everyone know he is uncomfortable talking about this topic. "Sweets …." It's the eyebrows and the grimace and a smirk and 'do we have to go there' and 'don't upset her' expression.

"Agent Booth, you posture behavior only confirms what I've suggested and implies that you are very much aware of what I'm talking about."

Booth glances at Brennan. She's still staring straight ahead at Sweets. When Booth turns to look at her, her eyes fall to her hands. She's holding her breath again.

"Listen, the idea of delving into everything that happened between the two of you this past year is an intimidating prospect, painful for both of you -" Sweets continues on, but Booth's mind is wandering.

_I don't want to go there. I don't want her to have to go through it again, _he's thinking._ Hasn't she waited long enough to be happy? Can't he just let us be happy? She deserves happiness, finally. I'd rather discuss this when_ _**I'm** ready and we're alone, or better yet, not at all!_

As Booth returns mentally to the conversation in Sweets office, he catches the last of what Sweets is explaining to Brennan.

"Risking is allowing yourself to be exposed to the possibility of danger or something unpleasant happening.

"Risk is a willingness to take a leap, thereby attempting to cross the perceived chasm between ability and achievement or failure. The better equipped you are, the lower the risk of falling, getting hurt. The key is to eliminate as much risk as you have control over. How, you might ask-"

"I wouldn't ask that," interjects Booth nervously. "Would you ask that question, Bones?"

"Not I," she says, glancing at him, then slowly smiling. Brennan wants to scoot over next to him and bury her face in his neck, maybe cry a little. THis is stressful. And she really needs to him to touch her. She needs to feel his assurance that though this conversation may be difficult, he knows that it will be worth it. It feels good to just look in his eyes for a moment. _I love him,_ she thinks, _I hope he knows that, right now, in this moment. I love him for not getting up and leaving, though I know he's dying to. I love him for being willing to discuss his relationship with Hannah, even though he really doesn't want to. I love him._

When he looks back, she's still looking at him. Her close-lipped smile broadens, warms and reaches her eyes. Her look says, _We're in this together._ He blinks with both eyes at her. It's like a double wink, but it includes a nose wrinkle. It's a kiss through the air. She blinks back, smiles again.

THis is confirmation that in the middle of this difficult, complex work they have to do to save their partnership, they are an island. The two of them, together.

They both exhale audibly and return their attention to Sweets, who has continued speaking as if he had their undivided attention.

" - Practice, visualization, research, gaining confidence through previous experiences. That is what equips us and minimizes risk," he says, but he's not finished yet. "Something that may look like a grand risk to you or me, may not be to someone who has minimized the risk to a tolerable level for themselves. They do their research, know the odds, rely on their experience. By the time they move, it's a calculated move … one whose consequences they are not uncomfortable with."

Sweets stops talking. He's grinning. He loves this crap. It's what he studied years for – doing this crap.

"So we are going to do what I like to call the Risk Exercise. It starts out small, with small risks. We begin with self-revelation, then mutual revelation about the uncontrollable. Then we move to self-revelation and mutual revelation about the uncontrollable …" Sweets pauses, seeing the uncertainty in his colleagues' expressions.

"Is this an experiment?" It's Brennan's question.

"No, it's an exercise. In risk. It helps us become more comfortable with sharing sensitive, personal information."

"Oh," she says. "We are going to tell each other things that we would otherwise consider … uncomfortable … to share. Personal things?"

"Exactly."

"So, okay," blurts Booth after a beat. "Tell us how it works and we'll go home and do it. Report back."

"No, Agent Booth," says Sweets patronizingly. "We are going to do it here, now."

"Here? All three of us?"

Sweets nods.

"Uh, no," Booth says, snorting. "I have no interest in airing my, uh, risky uncomfortables with an audience."

"This is how this is done. With a trained facilitator. It is my job to facilitate and to ensure that you have both been trained interpersonal risk-taking."

"You," says Booth.

"Me," says Sweets, nodding a grin.

"No offense to your expertise, Sweets, but no," he says, snorting again.

"Agent Booth, the two of you have some uncomfortable issues to address. This exercise provides experience, vocabulary, and structure that will facilitate that."

"I have no problem sharing uncomfortable things with Bones. She's … " _My mate,_ he thinks. "She's Bones. But, I don't want to do any touchy-feely bare-my-soul with an audience. I'm just not that kind of guy."

"If we have to do it here, perhaps Sweets could tell us how to do it, then leave the room," interjects Brennan.

"You are going to need me … to facilitate, to keep the focus," explains Sweets eagerly. This is not going at all how he's envisioned it would.

"You could leave – go read a book out there," she says, turning and pointing to the outer office. "We'll come get you if we need you."

"This is my office!"

"Fine, we'll go out in the hall, no – we'll go up to my office," says Booth, enthusiastically.

"No, you will not go up to your office, and you will not do this at home. This isn't for my benefit, Agent Booth, it's for you two," he says, beginning to feel agitated.

"Really? This isn't going to show up in your next book or in Shrink Quarterly or the Periodic Table of Shrink Information?" Spars Booth.

Sweets pauses, calming himself.

"It is part of our arrangement that I – You know what? Fine. I'm not the one with a partnership on the line. I shouldn't have to convince you two … people … to do a simple exercise," puffs Sweets, sitting back.

Brennan and Booth look at each other, then roll their eyes.

"Fine," they say in unison. Brennan is beginning to feel anxious again. Anxious, and anxious that she's anxious. She raises her fingers to her cheeks. Her skin is warmer than usual. She sighs heavily.

"Great. Fine. Okay. Where's my—" Sweets looks around the chair and coffee table for something. He rises and goes to his file cabinet where he keeps his exercises in a file folder.

While his back is turned, Booth slides his hand across the seat cushions and captures hers, squeezing it. She swallows nervously.

"You okay?" He asks, looking from one eye to the other.

Brennan leans toward him and opens her mouth to say something, but then Sweets turns, scanning some papers in a file folder. She closes her mouth and leans away from Booth.

"Sweets, could we have just a minute?" Booth calls across the office.

Sweets looks up from his papers. He's ascertaining whether or not he can trust them not to lock him out.

"Could we have the room? Just for a minute, before we start?"

Sweets is considering what the appropriate response might be, considering the recent argument.

"You can leave the door open, if you want. Just – take a powder, man. Just for a minute."

"You better be here when I get back," he says, heading toward the door, closing it quietly behind himself.

* * *

><p>Booth makes sure Sweets is down the hall before scooting over beside Brennan and pulling her into his arms. If feels so good, she almost starts crying, and she hadn't realized how cold her fingers and nose were until they are pressed up against him.<p>

"Booth -!" She croaks. "God, just hold me for a minute." She sinks her nose into his neck and wraps her arms around so they they are wedged between his back and the couch cushions.

"Are you okay? This has been a lot of … unexpected … everything ... "

"I'm- I'm experiencing vasoconstriction in both my bronchi and my alveolar sacs," she says, trying not to sound panicked. "And my cranium feels tender, as if my pony tail is painfully tight."

"Listen, everything is going to be fine, okay? Trust me." After a pause, he adds, "You aren't having second thoughts, are you?" He says, pulling her chin toward him with his knuckle. He means _second thoughts about us,_ and she understands that. "Any regrets?"

"No, why would I? I, we made a decision to move forward. Regret serves no purpose," she says, looking in his concerned eyes, which seem to have grown a shade darker in the last twenty seconds. "Are you? Having regrets, reconsidering?" She looks as him askance, already knowing his answer.

"Is the pope Jewish?" snorts Booth. "No way, un huh." He shakes his head. He's so grateful for her confidence, her stability. He kisses her quickly on the lips and smiles into her China blue eyes, which have also grown darker even just since he took her in his arms. He knows she's nervous about dissecting this year's challenges. He is encouraged at her steadfast loyalty.

"He's right, you know," she says, taking even, intentional breaths.

"Of course he is – Wait, what?" He applies pressure up and down her back, creating friction to warm her.

"We do need to talk about this last year. Hannah –"

"I know, but do we _really_ need to do it … here?" He asks plaintively.

She leans her head on his cheekbone and shrugs. To be honest, she's not sure she can do it without Sweets here to help. She's concerned that she wouldn't know how on her own. Yet, she does not want the painful residue of this year to linger, always be between them. "Sweets says sometimes it's what goes unsaid that does greater harm than what's said out loud," she says, looking up into his eyes. "There is a lot on this subject that we have left unsaid."

Booth nods slowly.

"We need protection, Booth. Protection from disharmony, sabotage by our own past insecurities. I've had enough of that for a lifetime, Booth. I don't want that for us."

He searches her eyes and pulls her close again, holding her tightly. She exhales shakily, and completely, like a balloon slowly expelling the last of its air. She feels a _little_ bit better. He kisses her temple. She lays her head on his shoulder, sliding her hand across his chest and up his neck, just to feel the warmth of his skin, the prickle of his stubble against her fingertips. He leans into her touch. She looks up at him and turns him by his chin to face her, their lips only an inch apart. She looks from one eye to the other, hoping that by the time they leave tonight she will be able to look in these eyes again with no lingering concerns about this last year, or his constancy.

Constancy, the quality of being enduring and unchanging; the quality of being faithful and dependable. Booth is ruled by his heart. Hearts are fickle. She needs to know that he loves her with his mind, as a choice independent of his attraction to, or affection for her. When she somehow fails his heart, or he fails himself, she wants to know that his head will still be in there fighting to win for them. That even when it looks like everything is lost, he will still keep searching. She needs this, but she doesn't know how to tell him without questioning his loyalty, his love, or everything he believes himself to be. She doesn't know how to help him understand that despite the irrationality of it, she has a fierce need for him to understand the difference between love as a feeling and love as a commitment. Love that is constant. Love that doesn't feel like love sometimes; it feels like duty, but it is love. That is how she needs to be loved. And Sweets can help her tell him.

"The past is over, as far as I am concerned," she says. "It's in the past. I'd like to leave it there. And if Sweets says we need to talk about it to make it stay there, I believe him."

"Okay," he whispers, inclining the tiny bit it takes to kiss her gently on the lips, then on the forehead. She lays her head back on his shoulder and drags the back of her fingers up and down his jawline.

"Sweets is a good guy," he says into the hair right under his nose, breathing in her warm familiar scent.

"And he is our friend. He's not … an audience."

"Fine … but there are still some things I would tell you, a lot of things that I will never say in front of him or anyone." He drags his cheek back and forth in her hair and kisses her on the top of her head again.

She smiles weakly, half chuckles. "Go get him."

As he begins to sit up, she moves away, but he takes her face in his hands, gently caressing her cheeks with his thumbs. He looks in those clear eyes and winks at her, smiling forlornly, yet sweetly. _You're so beautiful,_ he thinks. _I am so blessed. I am so sorry. For any pain I have caused you. We can do this! _

She nods back at him, looking in his eyes, reflecting his smile back to him. _Forgive me for making you do this,_ she thinks. _Forgive me for not fighting harder for you these past 6 months. I will never stop, I never stopped loving you, even if I wasn't very good at showing it. I am so sorry. For everything. And you're right, we can do this. We will do this._

He covers her lips with his and holds her, their lips pressed against each other for a long moment, before leaning away. Just a straight kiss, but one filled with meaning. She reaches up to touch him, wraps her fingers around his hand. She furrows her worried brow and kisses him back the same way. She smiles nervously, but not as nervously as before Sweets left the room. She nods again.

"Lets do this thing," he says. Getting up and going down the hall.

* * *

><p><em>Hm. So, what do you think?<em>  
><em>I am half way through the next chapter, and I'd like to get it done before the long weekend. My muse tells me she's not<br>sure she can get that done unless she hears what readers think about this chapter. She's greedy, I know. What can I do about it,  
>I'm just her slave. Click that button down there and make her happy, and she will return the favor!<em>

_Also, this week I posted another one shot called **'The Culture in Club'.** If you haven't already, check it out._  
><em>Early reports say it's laugh-out-loud hysterical. But what do those readers know? You need to see for yourself.<em>  
><em>Booth and Hodgins let their pride drag them out with the ladies for an evening they will never live down.<em>  
><em>But don't read it in public, people will look at you funny because of your laughter.<em>

_Review. Right there. And, thank you for reading!_


	192. Risk Exercises

_A/N First things first. Andy, I miss you. Got your note. Please sign up here so we can correspond or email  
>me. Second of all, thank you to those generous souls who responded and fed my muse this past week.<br>She needed it doubly, considering what she had to contend with. I wish I could tell you my dog ate my  
>homework and that is why I didn't post sooner as I had dreamed of doing. However, I haven't a dog.<br>Instead, I have a son who broke his arm on Thursday, a cancerous father whose birthday we never thought we'd see, a  
>Monday when the kids had no school, and a laptop that went up in smoke two days ago. Can you believe it? Neither can I, bloody hell! Regardless, here is chapter number next for your reading pleasure. Enjoy! ~MoxieGirl ~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 192 Risk Exercises<strong>

"For the first exercise," begins Sweets, retaking his chair and rubbing his hands together like a boy scout starting a fire with a stick, "I want each of you to think about something that you would prefer was different than it is. Something about yourself." He looks across at each of them, searching their eyes for any glimmer of comprehension.

They both nod, warily, their expressions betraying their uncertainty.

"Okay, now," Sweets continues anyway. He has confidence they will catch on as they progress through the exercise. "The caveat is that it has to be something you have no control over."

"What?" Whines Booth. Brennan squints at Sweets, as if trying to decipher a code.

"Okay. Follow me, here. This first exercise is _self-revelation about something you have no control over_. That means something about _yourself_, that you don't like – or you prefer was different." He raises his eyebrows encouragingly. His slightly patronizing voice grates on Booth.

They both stare at him blankly. A moment passes. The thermostat clicks. The lights buzz quietly. Someone's intestines gurgle. No one moves. They look like a still shot of a television show about an anthropologist and an FBI agent meeting with their therapist.

"Let me give you an example," Sweets says, still undeterred.

"Yes! An example," nods Brennan, exhaling in relief. "An example would be good."

"An example would be nice," agrees Booth, thrumming his fingers on his thighs. _This is so stupid,_ he thinks, _I can't believe I've agreed to it. But … Bones wants to do it. So, I'll do it._

Sweets focuses on the ceiling, searching the mental catalog of his own physical deficiencies for one he doesn't mind sharing for the sake of psychology.

"Okay. Here's one." Sweets bites his lip. "I wish I had a greater hand-spread so I could reach more piano keys with one hand."

"A … what?" Booth asks, befuddled.

"It's the measurement from the tip of your pinkie to the tip of your thumb," explains Brennan, leaning toward Booth and showing him on her own hand, fingers spread as far as they can go.

"Oh," answers Booth, nodding. "I thought you were going to say you wish you could grow some manly facial hair."

"No, I wasn't going to say that." Sweets winces, giving him the stink eye. Booth gives him a big-eyed headshake back. It's a little '_Have A little taste of your own stupid medicine, buddy' _expression. "But thanks for that, Agent Booth," he adds with snark. After a beat, he adds, "At least I have chest hair," referring, of course, to Booth's lack thereof. Ouch.

"Hey, pal, grass don't grow on steel!" Booth volleys back with a smirk.

Brennan rolls her eyes and shakes her head. She considers suggesting they drop their trousers and measure their man parts, just to get it over with.

"What unchangeable thing do you wish was different about yourself, Agent Booth?" Sweets challenges.

Booth chews on the inside of his bottom lip, looks over at Brennan, and crosses his arms. He stares up at the ceiling. Apparently, that's how all the best answers are created, by staring at the ceiling. Crud. He whistles a little _doot, doot, doot._

"Uh, I don't think I have any," he says, defiantly smug.

"I could give you some sugg—" stammers Sweets.

"Wait, yes. I do. I have skinny calves," interjects Booth.

"Okay. That's good," Sweets stares blankly at Booth. "Skinny calves. Hm. Not earth-shattering, but it qualifies."

"I'm okay with the rest of me, heh heh," he says, smug as hell. "But I could use some better definition in my calves," he says, resting an ankle on his opposite knee, squeezing his calf muscle.

"You mean your triceps surae," offers Brennan, unimpressed with Booth's example.

"Yes. Both of them. The one for standing and the one that helps you bend your knee."

"The gastrocnemius and the soleus muscles. You can strengthen and enlarge those muscles with a vigorous running and sprinting regimen combined with gradually increasing jump squats and standing calf raises-" offers Brennan. "

"There's also calf augmentation –" suggests Sweets.

"So, technically, that doesn't qualify, Booth. Since you could conceivably change it," says Brennan, looking over at him dismissively.

"I'm not interested in augmenting my calves. My self-worth isn't based on my calves. Okay?"

"Okay – I'm just trying to be helpful. I know how important measurements are to the male ego. Except for the indigenous peoples of—" Brennan says.

"Whatever- " Booth says, cutting her off. "What about you?" He swings his head in her direction.

"What _about_ me?" she responds. "I am satisfied with my calves."

Booth shoots her a smirk, dipping his chin, aiming a expectant eyebrow at her.

"Oh, you mean, my uncontrollable … unchangeable thing. Hm." She pauses, screwing up her mouth to the left. "As a teen I aspired to excel athletically, but my femora are not seated within my innominate such that I could achieve competitive forward velocity. I'm neither dexterous nor speedy, and certainly not built for extended endurance of repetitive inter-femoral inflection."

Both men stare at her for a moment.

"Okay, yeah, I'll buy that," says Booth finally, nodding, neither man willing to admit they have no idea what she just said.

"Okay. Good," murmurs Sweets, referring back to his file. "Now, same exercise, but we say what we wish was different about the other person."

"What? Why do we have to do that? It doesn't sound very … nice," Booth objects.

"It's an exercise about risk. Few experiences are riskier than telling someone something they may not want to hear," explains Sweets. "We can't excuse ourselves from confronting important issues or saying important things simply because they are uncomfortable, or might not be considered _nice,_ Agent Booth."

"I don't see how it's helpful –"

"I think I got this one," interjects Brennan, cutting him off. She had been thinking, rather than listening to Sweets justify this part of the exercise.

"About Agent Booth?" Asks Sweets.

"Yes!" She replies eagerly. "My cousin Margaret, the one who incessantly quotes Benjamin Franklin, says Booth's eyes are too small for him to be truly handsome. I do not share her opinion," she adds, turning toward Booth. He responds with a small grin. He remembers Maggie and couldn't care less about her opinion of his eyes.

"Actually, I find you very pleasing to look at, and I especially enjoy looking at your eyes," Brennan adds unemotionally. Turning to Sweets, she continues, "Of course, no one can really look _into_ another person's eyes without a biomicroscope. Even then, you cannot see _into_ another's _soul_ or _heart _as many erroneously choose to believe. Biomicroscopy allows an optometrist or ophthalmologist a detailed stereoscopic view of the eye structures such as the cornea, aqueous humor, and retina." Turning back to Booth, she lowers her voice and says, "However, I do enjoy engaging in eye contact with you. If it were possible for eyes to emit ambient temperature, as some erroneously believe, yours would emit a great deal of warmth." She twinkles a closed-mouth grin at him.

"Dr. Brennan," interjects Sweets, clearing his throat to bring the attention back to the exercise, "the purpose of this exercise is _risk. _By quoting your cousin, you have removed virtually all risk from the revelation, especially since you contradicted it immediately," explains Sweets.

"Oh," Blurts Brennan. "I do have something of my own," she says, startling Booth who jumps when she blurts.

"Let's hear it, Dr. Brennan," encourages Sweets, smiling as he interlaces his fingers.

She looks at Booth. "The distal and buccal aspects of your central incisors, lateral incisors, and canines are bilaterally curvilinear. That surprised me when we first met."

"My wha- huh?" he says, staring at her quizzically.

"Your teeth. Your front teeth," she says, "Your top six front teeth."

"What's wrong with my teeth?"

"There's nothing _wrong_ with your teeth, Booth, it's just that the corner edges of your incisors, and canines are curved on the –"

"These?" he says, quizzically, turning to Brennan while running a finger along the bottom edge of his upper front teeth. His eyebrows creep together, nearly forming a single brow. "What is wrong with my teeth? I have good teeth!" It's a statement begging validation.

"You have wonderful teeth, Booth. I'm usually attracted to sharply angular incisors and canines," she explains, "like Sweets' teeth. Look at the rectangular formation and the sharp corners. You are most like a very good breeder, Sweets," she says, smiling at the shrink.

"Thanks for pointing that out, Bones," says Booth, mock-snarling at Brennan.

"Booth," says Brennan, assuredly, as if speaking to a panicked child. "There is nothing _wrong _with your teeth! I was simply visually unprepared for their distal curvature. In my experience, distal bilateral curvature is more commonly found in females rather than alpha males."

"My teeth are … _feminine?"_ blurts Booth, alarmed. If he had bangs, he would have completely lost his eyebrows under them.

"I've upset you," she says, dejectedly leaning her head to the side as she says it, a measure of regret in her tone. _Men can be such girls,_ she says to herself. "Booth, you have beautiful teeth. A beautiful smile."

Booth relaxes only slightly. He looks over at Sweets, who delights in displaying his sharply rectangular set of macho pearly whites. Booth looks back at Brennan feigning offense.

"Booth," says Brennan, plaintively. Her look says, _come on, Booth, you know exactly how I feel about your teeth. I love your teeth._ She watches him braille his smile once more. _"You can bite me anytime you want with those teeth,"_ she whispers.

Booth chuckles lightly, flicking a glance at her and then at Sweets.

"Uh, what?" Sweets chuckles, glancing quizzically at Brennan as if he'd just missed the punch line to a joke. "What did you say, Dr. Brennan?"

"Nothing," tosses Booth, dismissively. "I have something now, something to say," he says, moving things right along.

Booth does remember what she had told him about his teeth. They had been in the bar Friday night, attempting to determine the 'rules' of their 'no sex until Tuesday' pact. Her words had been startlingly intimate:

"_These are the eyes I can lose myself in, these are the lips that speak to me, this is the face whose smile affects the speed of the blood flowing through my body … and these are the teeth, the strong teeth, that make your smile uniquely yours." _

"Bones, your jaw is pretty square. It took me a while to get used to that."

"My jaw is square? Hm," she grunts.

"Yeah," says Sweets, taking a good look. "You know, your jaw **_is_** kinda square, Dr. Brennan. And broad," says Sweets.

"Oh," she says, "Okay." She shrugs.

"Good thing we didn't let our first impressions get in the way of working together," Booth says, somewhat relieved.

"Physical attributes are irrelevant in the choosing of a professional alliance," she asserts confidently. "It didn't seem to have deterred you from your goal of pursuing me sexually when we first met."

"As I recall, it was _you_ that deterred me, not my first impression of you," he says soothingly, leaning an elbow over the back of the couch and intertwining his fingers. As a result, he ends up mostly facing her. He dips his chin, smiles, and raises an eyebrow rakishly at her. Recalling her comments about his teeth has warmed him, and he's feeling a little … hm … warm.

"Besides, that jawline grew on me pretty fast. You know, most of the models on _America's Next Top Model_ have strong jaw lines."

"What? Is that a car show?" She asks, confused by the lack of connection between her jawline and an automobile show.

"It's a reality competition show. With Tyra Banks? Anyway—"

"You watch _America's Next Top Model?"_ It's Sweets. He is both stunned and delighted at this revelation from Booth. He's also wondering what this information might be worth outside the walls of his office.

"Well, that or _Jersey House Wives_," Booth answers, waving a dismissive hand at Sweets.

"My God," chortles Sweets. The price on his silence just doubled.

"By the way, Sweets, your hair is too curly," shoots Booth, fixing his gaze on his adversary. "It's always kinda bothered me," he says, teasingly.

"_That's_ why he has such a youthful appearance, Booth," exclaims Brennan, finally able to put her finger on the reason why.

"Your hair is too curly. It's _girly curly_," chuckles Booth, snorting.

"It reminds me of the little curly dark-haired girl on the cover of a book I read when I was a kid. 'Heidi'. That's what it was called. _'Heidis Lehr und Wanderjahre und Haidi Kann Brauchen was es Gelernt Hat' _byJohanna Spyri in German 1880. She was a little girl who lived with her grandfather in the Swiss Alps," reminisces Brennan.

"Wow, now you're getting the hang of this," comments Sweets, unenthusiastically. "Now, the next part of the Risk Exercise is—"

"And your lips are extraordinarily red," interjects Brennan, chuckling. "Angela says most women would die for lips that color and shape. She says you have pouty lips, like Angelina Jolie."

"Yeah," adds Booth, nodding agreement, almost unable to control his laughter.

"Okay," says Sweets, anxious to deflect the conversation from himself and continue with the next part of the exercise.. "Does anyone feel hurt? Has this damaged or heightened your confidence in taking risks with each other?"

"I don't feel hurt," reports Brennan optimistically, shrugging. "These are all characteristics that none of us, except Booth and his calves, have any control over. I'm perfectly comfortable with my own appearance.

"I'm happy with my teeth …" says Booth. "My lovely feminine teeth," he says, aiming a mocking grin at Brennan.

Sweets looks at Booth and blurts, "You're too tall."

Booth stares at Sweets, pauses, then says, "I hate that coconut song. And sometimes you sing off key!"

"Have you listened to yourself sing?" Sweets blurts in a decidedly complaining tone. He considers himself a fairly good judge of musical ability.

"I find Booth's singing pleasingly delightful," demurs Brennan, taking offense.

"Thank you, Bones," answers Booth, wiggling his eyebrows at Sweets.

"You're biased, Dr. Brennan," chuffs Sweets, dismissing her opinion.

"I'm not biased." _Perhaps awash in pheromones, but not biased,_ she thinks. "My mother always said I have a very good ear for pitch."

"Clearly, your affinity for Agent Booth has clouded-"

"Oh, leave her alone, Sweets," objects Booth. "I do rarely sing on key, Bones," he says, turning back to her with a grimace.

"I don't mind. I find it enjoyable listening to you sing." A furtive glance passes between them before they each look away, a hint of a smile at the corner of their mouths.

Both men eventually look back over at Brennan, as if looking for flaws.

"There's really not much to improve on Bones. She's perfect – " says Booth, grinning at her.

"Oh, Agent Booth, you can't really mean that. Nobody's _perfect," _objects Sweets.

"He's correct, Booth. I'm not perfect," she says, though she's slowly learning to accept compliments from him for what they really are, namely, verbal affection. "Perfection is an impossibility in the human form. Statistically improbable, at the very least."

"I know," he shrugs, still smiling at her. You're right, your not." He nods, picking invisible lint of his jeans. "It's just … there's nothing about you I would change," he says, sheepishly, peeking up at her through his lashes in what could be considered a flirtatious manner. It's subtle enough that it feels like a caress. Sweets misses it.

"Really?" She smiles timidly back at him, wondering if perhaps he's just mocking her.

"Really," he says warmly, crossing his arms after a moment, and turning back toward Sweets.

"Thanks, Booth," she says, in a pleased, yet reserved tone, looking away and smiling to herself.

"Your welcome, Bones," he replies, sneaking her a quick Boothy grin before facing Sweets once more.

"Not much I would change about you either," she admits softly, puckering her lips to hide the smile attempting to burst forth from her metaphorical heart.

Sweets looks at both of them smugly satisfied.

"See how this is working, huh? Do you see what's happening here? Sharing these things," he says, deliberately raising his hands and intertwining his fingers horizontally, demonstrating how difficult it is to tug them apart – just like a Chinese finger trap. "Sharing these things_ strengthens_ a relationship. We've begun to foster a … a comfort in taking risks with each other."

"Yeah, yeah. That was really neat," says Booth, rolling his eyes. "Are we done?"

"You really think my jaw is too square?" Asks Brennan, out of nowhere, turning toward Booth.

"Your jaw is beautiful. Your jaw is perfect," replies Booth, assuredly, discretely winking with the eye Sweets cannot see. Brennan feels an abdominal flip flop as her excited capillaries warm her cheeks. Booth doesn't notice this, because he'd returned his attention to Sweets directly after sneaking that twinkling wink at her.

"Pronounced mandibles run in my family," she says, speaking to no one in particular, "though, according to the golden ratio, my proportions are nearly perfect."

Sweets and Booth share an amused glance over Brennan's comments about her measurements.

"Okay, it's time to move on," asserts Sweets. "This next section deals with self-revelation again." He refers to the notes in the folder. "This exercise is slightly more challenging. We're starting to ramp up in intensity. We've practiced with uncontrollable personal attributes, now you will share something you can control, perhaps something you are in the process of working on."

"Oh, this is not difficult," says Brennan. "Shall I go first?"

"Sure," replies Booth, turning to face her.

"Go ahead," nods Sweets, crossing his legs.

Brennan pauses, then takes a deep breath. Raising her eyes to Sweets, she begins in a calm, steady voice.

"The manner in which I process and interact with information is beneficial … crucial, actually … to my work," she begins. "Examining human remains requires a … detachment, an objectivity, that affords me the ability to view my subject in an anthropological context. This allows me to reconstruct who my subject was and how they died … by understanding how they lived," she says, pausing, gathering her thoughts. She peers over at Booth, feeling a little uncertain suddenly. What she's about to say refers to the work she's been doing with Sweets over the last several months. Booth nods at her encouragingly. Sweets does the same when she glances at him before continuing.

"Having perfected this skill, and finding it a much safer lens through which to view and experience the world … I find that there are things, personal things, important things, that perhaps I don't experience in the same way other people do. I fear I exclude myself from a richness in life that I now desire," she says, looking over at Booth and swallowing dryly. Over the last several days, she has been increasingly comfortable with intimacy, but there remains inside her a dark box of unexamined feelings that won't be dislodged until she can face it. That box has to do with Hannah. And with Booth. And with herself, though she's still not fully aware of all this.

"I've come to believe that it is not that I lack the _ability_ to feel, to empathize, to emote," she continues introspectively, "rather it is that I struggle with recognizing what I am feeling, sometimes, and with allowing myself to feel it. It is as if I have insulated myself against such things … to avoid potential pain."

_This is exactly what has been happening regarding her feelings about Booth and Hannah, _Sweets thinks to himself, tapping a finger on his lips as he listens.

"I apologize for my lack of clarity," adds Brennan, disappointed in what she feels in an inept description of her experience.

"No need to apologize. I think you said it very well, Dr. Brennan," says Sweets, nodding. "However, can you provide us with an example?"

"An example?" She looks at Booth, and exhales. The atmosphere in the room has become suddenly subdued. Discussing anything having to do with Hannah creates the sensation of an elephant is standing on her chest, allowing her to only take shallow breaths.

"Yes. A real life incident exemplifying what you've just described." Sweets is calmly excited about the emergence of this issue.

"Well," she says, hesitantly at first, "when Hannah first arrived in D. C., Angela and Hodgins disliked her." She says this without looking at Booth. She focuses on Sweets' face and continues. "They said it was on my behalf, since I was _'unwilling to allow myself to ... feel that way'_ about Hannah," she snorts, shaking her head, indicating how absurd she thought that was.

"They thought we belonged together. Sexually," she says, gesturing toward Booth. She's beginning to allow herself to accept that she's always felt they belonged together as well. Admitting that it created a great deal of anxiety for her to see Booth with Hannah … has been something she hasn't allowed herself to do. "Ange said it should have bothered me." _And it did,_ she thinks to herself, with chagrin. She crawls over to that dark spot, peers at the box inside her brain for a moment, and examines what she sees there. _I have been foolish. Yes, I worked through learning to take risks, opening my heart to others, but I didn't face the impact this past year had on me … emotionally. Bovine feces. _

"That they disliked her on your behalf?" Sweets asks.

"What?" Asks Brennan, looking out from her thoughts.

"You said, 'Angela says it should have bothered you'," and I asked if she was referring to their dislike of Hannah," repeats Sweets.

"No," she says, hesitating, part of her brain still peering into that box containing something she really hasn't wanted to see, something that looks like sooty smoke. Looking down at her fingers, she rubs the two poker chips together causing a _'zing zing'_ sound. Before continuing, she takes another shallow breath, mentally returning to the room where Booth and Sweets await her response.

"Since we … have such a close relationship -" she starts quietly, tilting her head toward Booth, looking at his knees, then forcing herself to follow the line of his body up to his eyes. She sucks in a sharp breath as if coming up for air following a long swim; her chest jutting out, shoulders rising suddenly. She exhales forcefully to compensate for the insufficient level of oxygen in her lungs up till now. The room feels like it is closing in on her.

_Is it possible to close that box? Now that I've seen inside, I am reluctant to crawl in there and clean that box. I would not enjoy getting dirty. It will be uncomfortable, perhaps soil my clothing,_ she thinks. _I have to close that box!_ She cries to herself, disappointed in her own cowardice. Her voice becomes forcedly unemotional, monotone. Strapping on her steel ovaries, she's going to plow through this and let the chips fall where they may.

"Angela said it was unnatural that I became friends with Hannah. Some people interpreted my affection for Hannah as, well, as _proof _that either Booth wasn't that important to me, or that I was in denial … and that it didn't hurt me," she says, understanding now that she was most certainly in denial - or, at the very least, grappling with a severe refusal to face her feelings. "But the opposite was true. I wanted you to be happy, Booth," she says plaintively, her throat tightening despite her attempt to remain unemotional. "And since I didn't believe with sufficient certainty that I could make you happy, I felt I had to acknowledge … to accept … that someone else could provide that for you."

For a moment, the room is silent once again.

"Why would you ever think that?" Booth asks emotionally, his eyes glossy, his expression strained.

He shakes his head. It pains him that she ever thought that. He feels compelled to reach over and pull her into his arms, to somehow retroactively protect her from that whole experience. He moves to reach over, but stops himself and runs his hand through his hair, scratching the back of his head. He peers out the office window – which at this point merely provides a reflection of what's going on inside this room.

"Dr. Brennan, I applaud your welcoming attitude toward Hannah. That was laudable of you," says Sweets gently, letting his comment hang in the air. "But," he begins, speaking in a somber, measured manner, "what was it like watching Booth share a big part of his life with another woman?"

_Holy copulating donkey turds,_ she thinks, as a solid blade of adrenaline shoots through her chest, piercing her immediately below her left clavicle. _There it is. The center of the matter. The greasy, sooty substance from inside that box. What was it like watching Booth share his life with another woman? It was lonely, _she thinks._ It was devastating. Whenever I touched Booth … his arm, his shoulder … I could feel Hannah there, metaphorically, between us. I was the visitor at some else's house. Booth wasn't mine anymore. Before Hannah, there was nothing between Booth and me – when I touched him, or he touched me, nothing got in the way. Nothing separated us. It was just us. I missed that. I missed the touch of his hand on the small of my back, his arm around me, his eyes catching mine as we spoke to each other. I don't know if I can go back there … to those memories … even just to face them and clean out that nasty box!_

"Dr. Sweets, she wasn't _another woman _as they say in the vernacular," she says, forcing calm into her voice, her old self hanging onto as much denial as it can while it still can. "Booth and I were just partners. Look, I just wanted Booth to be happy. He deserved to be happy," she says, hearing how hollow and disingenuous this sounds now. Looking back, she remembers striving to focus on not getting in the way of Booth's happiness. She exercised her skill of dismissing any of her own feelings that may have attempted to make themselves known to her.

"Well, you just said," he looks at his notes, "_'Some people thought … bla bla bla_ …' where was it? Here. _'That it didn't hurt me, but the opposite was true_'." He's read it slightly out of context, but he knows what he's saying is true about her feelings.

"I know what I said, I just-" She pauses. Stops altogether. Stares at her knees, then the poker chips in her now sweaty palm. She thumbs the surface of one of the round plastic disks. Her thumb leaves a trail of moisture, like an exhaled breath on a glass window in winter. She doesn't know how to respond further to Sweets' comment. She's stuck, unsure where to go from here.

Booth looks over at her, watching her carefully. He feels a heaviness in his chest, and a churning in his gut. His instinct to protect her has been sliding into overdrive, but he feels he can't do anything about it. He feels a flash of frustration akin to anger, but directed at whom, he's not sure. This is that anger from the hole he was in. He wants to punch something. He feels agitated and helpless, but he's got to keep it together … for her sake.

Booth inhales deeply through his nose, then pushes it all back out with a hiss. He closes his eyes for a moment, one heal tapping occasionally, one tap, against the carpeting. He doesn't want to upset her further, but she's told him repeatedly that his touch soothes her. For a reckless moment, he considers throwing caution to the wind and grabbing her. It would be just as much for himself as for her. While he's considering this, Sweets' voice breaks into his thoughts.

"Agent Booth, what about you?"

"Hm?" Booth looks up, a pained glossiness in his eyes which are almost completely black at this point.

_Booth looks like an animal caged,_ thinks Sweets._ About to pounce on something, his body tense to the point of almost vibrating, poor guy._

Booth knew the impact of his relationship with Hannah had to be discussed eventually. He had planned to talk about it on _his_ time, in _his own way_, when _he_ is ready.

"Do you have anything you'd like to say?" Though he doesn't spell it out, it is obvious that Sweets is referring to Brennan's feelings about Booth and Hannah.

Booth drops his chin to his chest, raises and drops his eyebrows. He opens his mouth to speak, taps his heal on the floor twice, but no voice issues forth. He closes his mouth, flexing his jaw several times. Fingering his cocky belt buckle for a moment, he grimaces, looking toward Brennan. He places his hand, palm down, on the seat cushion between them. He's pressing hard enough that his fingernails turn white and there will be an impression of his hand left on the nap of the fabric when he removes it. He knows Brennan is aware of his gesture, can see him out of the corner of her eye. She does nothing, sitting in the corner of the loveseat, holding herself together the best she can. She doesn't even look at him. He closes his eyes slowly, knowing she's most likely trying to stave off losing control herself. He's trying, but he can't bring himself to delve into this mess.

"No. Yeah – I've been working on finding a healthy outlet for my frustrations," he says completely ignoring the topic on the table. "That's why I started archery … oh, and I've been restoring Pops' old '57 Dodge Custom Royal. So that's something I'm kinda working on." He looks up at Sweets, over at Brennan's profile, disappointed in himself, but knowing not what else to do.

Brennan exhales slowly, steadily, and silently. She closes her eyes. He's not making this any easier for her. She wants to reach over and rest her hand on top of his, let him know that though this is difficult, it's going to be okay. For some reason she cannot identify, she just … can't do it. She feels Booth looking at her and it's making her uncomfortable.

Sweets, watching what's going on opposite him, allows the pregnant silence to lengthen and grow thin. He sees Brennan trying to get into the heart of their issues, struggling to drag her unwilling nature into the mire so she can get to the other side, leaving it all behind them. He sees Booth hiding behind the excuse that the exercises are stupid and he doesn't want to do them now, or in front of an audience. Three things are clear to Sweets about Booth. First, he'd rather pretend that this last year never happened; second, he knows that he will discuss it, and that he will feel out of control; and third, he doesn't know how to do this on his own, or how it will affect his relationship with Brennan, and that terrifies him.

Seeing all this, knowing all this, Sweets reminds himself to take a step back momentarily and appreciate what he's in the midst of. He's acutely aware of how fortunate he is to have a front row view of the mechanics of this relationship. Brennan's commitment, ambition, and courage impress him regularly, sometimes taking him by surprise. He feels this way in regard to who she is as a person, not only as a professional.

In Booth, Sweets sees the kind of man he aspires to be. Tough on the outside; tender, tender heart on the inside. Booth intuitively knows which side of himself to channel in any given circumstance. He's flawed, and doesn't pretend he's not, but despite the bravado, he will overcome those flaws for the people he loves. He is dedicated and courageous, unafraid to give his heart, even when it's been broken in the past.

Sweets knows it is going to take some finessing on his part to get these two people safely inside a healing conversation about this past year. Patience is important. Rushing either one of them could derail the process, sending them back to square one. What he is confident of, however, is that these two are not going to give up, no matter what.

Sweets decides that this is a good place to move on to the next exercise.

* * *

><p>"Okay!" Sweets announces. "Time to move on." He watches for their reactions to this announcement.<p>

_Brennan looks surprised, maybe annoyed, perhaps even on the verge of tears,_ thinks Sweets. _Booth looks relieved, but still pained and uncomfortable._

"The point of this whole exercise is to emphasize that there are things that we can change and things that we can't; that we can take the risk of discussing uncomfortable issues for the betterment of the relationship, and it will only strengthen the relationship." He pulls his intertwined Chinese-handcuffed fingers in opposite directions again for emphasis.

They both nod, albeit, tentatively. Their expressions after this last exercise are like those of two people waiting for a cancer diagnosis. They are pale and worried, stuck between denial and a hunger to get to the truth. Raw emotion has been flying around the room. He can feel the tide about to turn … somehow. He just doesn't know when or how.

"Now … I'm going to have you each share what you feel is an area for improvement in your partner."

Booth's jaw drops open.

Instinctively, Booth and Brennan turn to each other, eyes big, hearts pounding, anxiety seeping from their pores.

Brennan regains what's left of her composure quickly enough. However, below the surface she feels like her name has just been called to give a presentation she's not at all prepared for.

"Holy Mother of God," gasps Booth. He rolls his eyes, then stretches his neck, almost touching an ear to each shoulder. "Didn't we kinda already address this? I mean, come on." He moans. He reaches into his pocket, takes out his phone, and glances at the display. He looks out the window as his knee starts doing the mining for oil dance.

"I would like to start," asserts Brennan, steeling herself for the task.

"Woah. What?" Booth is surprised. This is all happening too quickly. He can't think straight.

"I have something I'd like to say that qualifies as an improvement I'd appreciate in you," she says, staring at him pointedly. _Might as well rush in,_ she thinks, hoping it will provide her with some semblance of control over the situation. "I didn't recognize this inadequacy until recently—"

His eyes fly wide open. _Recently must mean this past week, right? Oh no._

"I didn't want to cause you discomfort, but I can see now that I will be forced to do so while participating on this inane exercise, so I might as well get it off my chest," she explains, as if she has no choice. This is dragging out way to long as far as she's concerned, and her anxiety is building.

"When has sparing my feelings ever stopped you? Now I gotta get them stomped on in front of Sweets?" He's exasperated.

"Agent Booth, sometimes it's more comfortable to reveal something unpleasant in the protective environment provided by a professional," offers Sweets, acutely aware of Booth's distress.

"Rest assured, you will get your chance to discuss something for her to improve, perhaps it will be that she sometimes doesn't tell you things at an appropriate time or in appropriate company." Sweets gives Booth a placating glance.

Booth sits back, arms folded across his chest. He looks out the window, kicks at the leg of the coffee table. _This is going way too fast,_ he thinks. _I'm not prepared. This is going to backfire. I'm not ready!_

"One thing that annoys me about you, Agent Booth, is that you frequently interrupt and you adopt an attitude that the work we do here is juvenile –" comments Sweets.

"Woah! Is this, uh, gang up on Booth day, what the hell? I don't think it's your turn, pal!"

"I have something to say!" Brennan asserts, suddenly emboldened by her ability to detach. "And it's for both of you." She leans forward and stares each of them in the eyes. Finally, her eyes rest on Booth.

"I would appreciate it if you would abandon this defensive posturing and be with me in these exercises. This is difficult and uncomfortable enough for me without having to contend with your pretense of machismo, or your ego, or whatever is compelling you to behave resistant." She's speaking in clipped phrases. She's being firm, without shaming.

"These exercises appear absurd on their face, I grant you that, Booth, but we agreed to trust Dr. Sweets, who is more than our therapist-"

"So you appreciate my methods?" Interjects Sweets, surprised .

"No. While in theory, I consider them juvenile, in practice I concede that the results are not without merit. Frankly, I expected you to have something a little more academic planned for this," she says. "And I am perplexed and disappointed that you have allowed Booth to bait you, allowed yourself to be taken in by his taunting."

"Sarcasm," she says, looking back and forth between the two of them who have been stunned into silence, "is not helpful. Irreverence is not helpful. Resistance is not helpful," she shot Booth a disapproving glance at the last of her comments.

"What you seem to have forgotten, Dr. Sweets," she says, training her gaze on him, "is that Booth and I are a couple outside of this triad," she says, making a circular motion like a lasso around them all, "A couple of professionals, and a team." She pauses to take a deep breath, her heart about to jump right out of her chest, her face feels red hot. She's more frustrated and anxious than angry. "We have ways of communicating that work for us that, in the past, have needed no assistance from you whatsoever. We were a team long before you came along, Dr. Sweets, and we will be a team long after you move on."

"And Booth," she says, turning to him, almost threateningly. "Booth, Dr. Sweets is not just our shrink, or an audience. I suspect that he has put his neck on the line for us. He deserves your respect. So back off, and loosen up!"

She exhales audibly and sits back, crossing her arms. "Now, if you two … troglodytes … would begin behaving in a manner commensurate with your chronological ages, perhaps we could continue with this exercise and figure out a plan for getting ourselves and our partnership back on track and performing at a level satisfactory to those pants upstairs," she says, tossing her hand up toward the ceiling, then tucking it back in the crook of her opposite elbow.

Neither man dares inform her that the higher-ups are referred to as 'suits', not 'pants'.

After a beat, she continues, shaking slightly having finally expelled some of what has been building up inside her for the last twenty minutes.

"Now, I am sitting here, re-experiencing the physiological sensations that have plagued my person relentlessly ever since … I returned from Maluku … perhaps even before then. I would appreciate it, if the two of you would focus," she says, refusing to acknowledge the two small warm droplets of saltwater creeping straight down her cheeks, cooling as they go. Booth reaches out to her, but she holds up her palm to stop him.

"I would appreciate it if the two of you would focus," she says, more softly now, dropping the shoulders she suddenly realizes were raised in tension, "and help me out here, because," she swallows, and sniffs, "because I don't want to wake up with a bloody nose, surrounded by broken lamps ever again." She slumps slightly in her seat. Neither men say a word.

"Sweets, get me a Kleenex! Booth take your chips back! They are making my palms sweaty," she says, dropping them in his lap. "Now, I will persevere through this, Booth. Sweets," she says, nodding to one, then the other, "but first, I need a breather." With that, she takes the Kleenex from Sweets and leaves the room in the direction of the restroom.

"That's the most commanding I've seen her in … I don't remember how long," says Sweets.

"Maybe she's had an epiphany," agrees Booth, admitting to himself that she never ceases to amaze and impress him. _That's my girl,_ he thinks to himself.

* * *

><p><em>My heartfelt thanks goes out to Diko, my wonderful editor who makes sure I don't post as much crap as I used to, and to these other fine readers who wrote in about Chapter 191:<br>_  
><em>coterie2, miranda55, mef1013, elmasuz, TraciM, DWBBFan, ILoveBonzNDool, eirie76,<em>  
><em>OhSnapItsAmelie, Dyna63, celheartstv, Eryngrace94, Twerp 24, KimburrnI,<em>  
><em>Grandma Bones, Urbanborn, flute1952, fluffybird, dovepage, JazzyProz.<em>

_You guys rock my world! So do the rest of you ... but I may not know your names this time around!_

_~MoxieGirl44_


	193. I Don't Want to Talk About It

_A/N Thanks for your patience, folks. The content intended for this chapter has ended up being in excess of 35  
>pages, so I have split it into two chapters. The second half, I will post on Monday, after NoraDiko/Seraphine96/  
>Goddess of Goodness <em>gives me the go ahead.<em>_

_The song excerpted in this chapter is **'I Don't Wanna Talk About It'**, by Danny Ray Whitten. It was originally recorded and released in 1971 by Crazy Horse, then made popular in 1975 by Rod Stewart. In 1988, 'Everything But The Girl' released a cover on 'Idlewild'. This final version is, by far, my favorite. My children now know it by heart as I played it, literally, hundreds of times while writing this chapter for Brennan. My MoxieGirl44 Twitter followers have also been deluged with my constant links over the last week or so as I've been writing. I encourage you to stop over to You Tube and have a listen before, during, or after, reading this chapter._

_As to the contents of the chapter, they speak for themselves. Just remember, before the sun comes the rain, then the flowers.  
>This chapter is a bit intense, but so is their love. Enjoy!<br>_

_~MoxieGirl  
><em>_~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 193 I Don't Want to Talk About It<strong>

_I don't wanna talk about it  
><em>_How you broke my heart.  
><em>_If I stay here just a little bit longer,  
><em>_If I stay here, won't you listen to my heart?_

_Danny Ray Whitten  
><em>_Recorded by Crazy Horse, 1970  
><em>

Brennan returns to Sweets' office. She's splashed cold water on her face and blown her nose half a dozen times. She looks only slightly refreshed, but very determined. She stops in front of Booth, whose eyes have been on her since she appeared in the window outside Sweets' office. He's been leaning against the back of the couch facing the door, waiting for her. He stands when she crosses the threshold. She stops in front of him, finds his eyes, and holds them. His throat grows tight when he notices how shiny her eyes still are.

With a final step, she closes the gap between them and Booth wraps his arms around her. As she slides her arms around his ribcage, her palms reaching toward his shoulder blades, she releases a sigh of relief against his neck. Hearing her sigh, he silently vows to do better during the second half of this session. He rests his jaw against her smooth, soft, skin, then presses his lips into her temple. They exhale in tandem, relaxing against each other. She breathes in the comforting Boothy scent she loves, and wishes, just for a moment, that they could leave this all behind.

"I'm sorry, Bones," he sighs into her hair, knowing he's disappointed her. He feels her chest fall as she exhales, rise as she inhales, and focuses on the sound of her breathing. It feels so … good … to have her in his arms. He wishes they didn't have to go through this, and even more, that he didn't have to release her.

"I'm okay, Booth," she says quietly against his ear, her breath warm and reassuring against his skin. His heart skips a beat while chills run down the outside of his arms. When she begins to pull away, he tightens his hold on her. She leans back into him without hesitation and remains wrapped in a cocoon of safety with him until he's ready to let go. He exhales a quiet sigh against her hair, pulls her intoxicating essence into his lungs one more time, then nods, releasing her slowly, searching her eyes. She smiles tenderly at him and reaches for his hand, slipping something between his fingers before walking toward her side of the loveseat. It's a piece of paper. A note.

Booth glances at what she's passed him and recognizes the paper. It's from the little pad in the hotel room at the Bryn Mawr Guest Suites in Pennsylvania. There's familiar writing on the outside of the paper. It looks like Booth's own chicken scratch.

Sitting beside Brennan on the loveseat, Booth faces forward, but peeks down nonchalantly at the paper in his hand. Holding his breath, he unfolds the note silently, props an ankle up on the opposite knee, and flattens the piece of paper, spreading it open against his thigh. It _is_ his handwriting:

_"Time: 10:30 AM._  
><em>Meeting Enri in the lobby for about fifteen. Be right back.<em>  
><em>Changed our flight to 1:50 PM out of Philly Intnl.<em>  
><em>You are adorable in your sleep, but you drool like a bulldog. Sigh. ; p<em>

_- B OX_  
><em>P.S. "B OX" means, "From Booth with a hug and a kiss."<em>

_Why did she give this back to me?_ He wonders. He stares at it for a moment, perplexed, then flips the paper over. On the other side he finds her handwriting: a note, written in pencil. _She was carrying this with her! Very sentimental, and not at all Bones-y, _he chuffs to himself. In her decisive hand is written the following:

_Booth~  
>1. Keep your eye on the prize.<br>2. If necessary, look at me and pretend we are alone.  
>3. Eccl 3: 1-11. … <em>_This__ is the season, and __now__ is our time.  
>4. B-OX (From Bones with a hug and a kiss) Multiply that by five million.<em>

_P.S. I'd really like this back when you are finished with it._

These words flood him with relief, confidence, and intense gratitude. He feels like either jumping up and crushing her to his chest, or bolting from the room to go have a good cry on the bathroom floor. _We are going to get through this, _he thinks exhaling some of the stress he's been holding inside since she left the room after her verbal thrashing of both men. _She wants me to do whatever it takes. No matter how much it hurts or how much I'd rather not. _He remembers Gordon Gordon's advice about matters of the heart. _'When plagued with the fight or flight instinct,' Gordon had said, 'the best strategy is to calm down, grow up, and listen carefully instead of preparing a defense'. So that is what I am going to do, _thinks Booth. _System override. Calm down, grow up, focus on Bones._

He glances over at Brennan's silhouette. She's sitting, legs crossed, hands in her lap, listening to Sweets and nodding. He realizes she's been intentionally engaging Sweets so that he, Booth, would have a moment to read and process her note. _Man, she's smart. Scary smart,_ he thinks, smiling to himself.

Booth recalls a prayer by St. Theresa of Avila that his mom used to have taped to side of the refrigerator. The paper was yellowed and the tape had lost most of it's adhesive, but the words have remained in Booth's memory all this time, and sometimes bring him comfort when he's anxious:

"_Let nothing disturb thee, nothing affright thee.  
>All things are passing, God never changes,<br>Patient endurance attains all things.  
>Who God possesses, is wanting in nothing,<br>God alone suffices."_

Booth's favorite lines are the first two, especially the part about all things being passing. Pops used to say with regularity, 'This, too, shall pass'. In other words, quit freaking out, it will all be over soon. And trust in God. So that's what he's going to do.

_Lord, thank you for giving me such a smart woman … one who is patient and forgiving, _he says to his invisible creator._ Thank you for sticking with me, Lord. Thank you for giving me this second chance with her. Thank you for the insight Hannah provided. _He pauses for a moment. _Okay, thank you for Sweets, too,_ he thinks, shrugging begrudgingly. He imagines the Holy Spirit giving him the thumbs up, then taking a seat in the corner of the room to observe the rest of the session. _With Bones, St. Theresa of Avila, Pop, and the Holy Spirit on my side,_ thinks Booth, _how badly could this go?_

Booth glances over at Brennan again, noticing for the one-hundredth time today how beautiful she is. _How is it that people appear even more beautiful after they have done something wonderful for you_, he thinks, still in awe of her note._ I love her lips and her sometimes-crooked smile, and the way she slides her jaw slightly to the side when she pauses. I love her beautiful eyes and her soft hair, her skin and her collarbones. And her 'innominate', as she calls the hips. I love it all. Focus on the prize. Focus on Bones._ He fights the impulse to reach out and run his fingers gently along her jawline. He clenches his jaw against a humble grin, and catches her eye when she looks over. She raises an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. It's a question. _Are we good? Are we ready?_

He puckers his lips, taps the ball of a foot on the carpet once, and nods. _We're good._ _We're ready._ Brennan finishes her conversation with Sweets, turns to Booth again and smiles with her eyes and the upturned corners of her mouth. He feels a rush of adrenaline and has to take a deep breath to relax himself. _All things are passing,_ he reminds himself. _Patient endurance attains all things. Focus on the prize._

The room falls silent with the seriousness of what's on the agenda now.

* * *

><p>Sweets has seen them embrace before, so this is nothing out of the ordinary. He instinctively looks away when it appears to no longer be a simple embrace. In view of the strain Booth and Brennan are under today, Sweets doesn't give much credence to their affectionate exchange, though it has been quite a while since they've seemed this comfortable around each other. <em>Dr. Brennan is right, <em>he thinks. _They do have their own language, which they established long before I appeared, and will continue to share, God willing, after I go. _ He is relieved to see that though they may be heading into rough waters now, and perhaps for months to come, they are clearly in the same canoe and they are both equipped with good strong paddles. _Now,_ he thinks to himself, _let's see if we can get them to move forward instead of around in circles, or, worse yet, straight down a waterfall. _He smiles to himself, amused at his own analogy.

Brennan is the first to speak.

"When we left off, we were about to delve into the third part of the risk exercise: a discussion of something we'd like the other person to change, correct?" She raises her eyebrows questioningly to Sweets.

"Yes, thank you, Dr. Brennan."

"Your welcome," she says, with a stiff nod.

"But, before we get started again," says Sweets, "I'd like to revise the instructions by putting the focus on the speaker, rather than the recipient," he says, looking from Booth to Brennan. "What I want you each to do is think about your _own_ needs. Ask yourself, '_What do I need or want for myself from my partner'._

They both grimace at him, but not unkindly.

He adjusts himself in his seat, looks down for a moment, and continues despite their lack of enthusiasm. "Would it be an accurate assessment to say that this partnership is the primary relationship in each of your lives?" He waits for a response.

Booth and Brennan look at each other for a moment. Their shared glance, accompanied by a shrug, says, _Eh, sure, why the hell not?_ They both nod.

"Okay, well, partnerships are difficult. That's the nature of the beast—" He says, scooting to the edge of his seat. "It is a natural dynamic of interdependent human relationship. Look, you've got two people with two different sets of experiences," Sweets says, holding up his hands, two feet apart from each other, wiggling his fingers toward the ceiling. He looks from one hand to the other and pauses for dramatic affect. "Two different childhoods, two different beliefs about relationship, right? Two truths. Two different truths." He drops hands, leans his elbows on the arm rests.

"There's only one truth—" objects Brennan, shaking her head and squinting at Sweets.

"Truth is an illusion, Dr. Brennan, a story we each tell ourselves. We think ours is the real truth, but it's not, it is _one_ truth in an ocean of many," he says, his voice becoming louder, clearer. He's obviously given this speech many times before. He stares at both of them intently. He flexes his jaw muscles several times in rapid succession, and leans forward. To Brennan, he looks like he's staring into a microscope at something fascinating. To Booth, he looks constipated. However, his intensity intrigues them.

"Example," Sweets blurts confidently, standing up. "I stand up and briskly walk from the room, saying nothing to either of you. From this simple act, you each make up a story about what you saw," he says, pointedly, waving his hands about to emphasize each sentence. "You think I have an urgent need to go to the bathroom, Agent Booth. Dr. Brennan, you think I was disgusted with this conversation, which I'm not, by the way. Three truths, right? Yours, yours, and mine."

"Why _did_ you run from the room?" Brennan asks.

"It's not important, but I can guarantee it wasn't for the reasons either of you told yourselves," he says.

"Yeah, but, when you come back we'll ask you and find out what really happened, see?" Says Booth, smirking, raising his eyebrows cockily. _Ha ha! Gotcha, Sweets,_ he thinks.

"Maybe, maybe not. Let's say you _don't_ find out. Then, you both go about your lives convinced your version is the real truth. Then you look for proof to substantiate your supposition. And, of course, you'll find it, but it's all subject to interpretation based upon an original fallacy. Booth, here, thinks I've got irritable bowel syndrome. Dr. Brennan, you think I'm angry with you. You each tell your stories to other people, and that story becomes anchored more firmly each time you tell it, right?

They both shrug and nod hesitantly. We're with you so far, it means.

"Three truths," he says, sitting back down.

"But why did you run from the room?" Brennan still wants to know.

"You better tell her, or we'll be here all night till she gets an answer," says Booth, chuckling.

"Fine. I saw a pregnant lady fall and ran to help her get up."

"Who in this office is pregnant?" Brennan asks, confused.

"No one, Dr. Brennan," Sweets assures her, chuckling. "It's a completely made up story."

"Oh."

"So you have two people in a partnership, and partnerships are difficult. Now, simple awareness doesn't make them any less difficult – but it does provide an opportunity to establish structures, or vocabulary, that will facilitate more gracefully navigating conflicts that will indubitably arise."

"How do we do that?" Booth is suspicious. _This better not mean more … _he begins thinking, then stops himself_. Focus on the prize._

"This may go against your natures, but instead of protecting each other, you're going to have to be direct … and honest," explains Sweets.

"I'm fairly direct as it is," says Brennan dryly. "Booth says sometimes too direct," she snorts, glancing at Booth sideways.

"That's putting it mildly," chuffs Booth snarkily.

"Sometimes," says Sweets. "Sometimes, you are, Dr. Brennan, but not all of the time. In fact, there are some things neither of you are being completely honest about right now." Sweets lets them sit with that for a moment.

_Way to start out with my balls on the table,_ thinks Booth. He glances at Brennan to see if she's going to refute Sweets' accusation. She's motionless, deep in thought, considering Sweets' comment.

_Why does she do that?_ Wonders Booth, unable to suppress the irritation in the voice of his inner monolog. _If I'd said that she would have jumped all over me! Is it because they've both got pedigrees?_

"Look, I know you both want to protect each other, which is laudable, I grant you, but you've got to let that go in certain circumstances if your partnership is to survive. Honest dialog will deepen the connection between you two."

"Okay, I'll bite. How do we do that?" Booth says, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

"You do this by giving each other permission to speak freely about what you need from the partnership."

Booth's eyes narrow. _There's gotta be a catch somewhere,_ he thinks. He suspects an onslaught of that touchy-feely stuff on the horizon and has to force himself not to roll his eyes. He decides it's a hopeless to try not thinking snarky thoughts, but commits to at least keeping them to himself … as much is humanly possible.

To Brennan, this sounds like a reasonable proposition.

"What makes the most successful partnerships successful is each partner's willingness to forego pride and to make what may appear to others as irrational choices, and to foster a willingness to reveal the deepest desires and the embarrassing emotions, because that's what will make the relationship solid." Sweets sits back in his chair, glancing from one blank face to the other.

"What do you mean by _irrational?"_ Brennan asks.

"Sometimes the choices we make, or the requests we make, may not seem based upon reason, but we make them because they are important to us and they are good for the relationship."

"Hm," they both grunt at the same time, glancing at each other then back to Sweets.

"Now, Dr. Brennan, do you know what Agent Booth wants and needs?"

"What? Do you want a list?" she snorts, looking at Booth sideways, the left side of her mouth turned up in amusement.

_He needs me. _She thinks, her slight smile gradually fading as her thoughts move inward. _He wants this session to be over. He wants it to be Tuesday. He wants this past year to be forgotten. _These are the easy ones to identify, she realizes.

_He needs to explain to me why he came back from Afghanistan with a girlfriend, why he casually asked her to move in with him and then marry him, and why he met with her on Monday. He needs to explain to me why he's been in such a funk and why Hannah was the only one who could get him out of it. _

"Seriously, Dr. Brennan—" Sweets begins, leaning forward, then stops when he notices she's absorbed in processing what he's just said. He gives her a moment, sits back in his chair, and straightens his tie.

_He needs to understand that love is a commitment, _she thinks._ It's not a feeling, or sex, or a ring on your finger. He needs to know that I love him more than anything or anyone I've ever loved, and that I'd do anything for him, even if it ends me. He needs to know that he's already got a commitment from me. _

It takes less than a minute for Brennan to return her attention to Sweets. "Let me assure you, Dr. Brennan, you do not know what Agent Booth needs. That little list you just made in your head?" He says, drawing a little circle in the air around her face as if pointing out a person in a photo. "That list is more about what _you_ need and want, than what Agent Booth does. At the very least, it's what you imagine he needs. What do we do when think we know someone else's needs?"

Brennan opens her mouth to say something, then stops and shrugs, knitting her brows together.

"We behave in certain ways, we make assumptions. That's when conflict usually arises," he says, confidently. "Hence the risk exercises. So, take the risk and be direct and honest about what you need from each other."

_This feels like a Dr. Phil lecture,_ thinks Booth, yawning and crossing one leg over the other. _Jesus!_ But he's not saying a word. He bounces his dangling foot up and down absently. He's focusing on the prize.

Brennan stares at Sweets and shakes her head sliding her jaw to the side. Then her expression relaxes as she considers this possibility. She grimaces. _He may have a point,_ she decides, nodding.

Booth has been alternately listening to Sweets and thinking about his wants and needs. _I want to scoot over closer to my partner. I want tickets to the Flyers-Bruins game. I need food. I need this to be done. I need her to know that she has always been more than enough for me. I want her to understand what was going on in my head this last year, but I don't want to screw things up. I need to touch her. I need to know that we are going to be okay no matter what happens here. I need to stop questioning that. She says no second thoughts, no regrets. So, why do I torture myself? And, I still need a new ankle holster. _

Booth worries because he's used to the impermanence, the unreliability, of human nature. He worries that things will change. In his experience, that's what usually happens. It occurs to him that she's the most constant thing he's ever known. Aside from Maluku, she's never left him, not really. This is an _'ah-hah'_ moment for Booth.

"Agent Booth, do you know what you want?" Sweets breaks into Booth's thoughts.

"What? You want to know what I want? Why?" Booth asks, emerging from his thoughts to look Sweets in the eye. His foot stops bouncing.

"Because," says Sweets, dragging out the word deliberately, dipping his chin to his chest as he relaxes in his seat, "then a discussion can ensue and your needs can become known, resulting in a stronger partnership, a deeper connection.

When it starts moving again, Booth's foot is rotating at the ankle this time.

"So, are we going to do that now – talk about what we each want – as part of the exercise?" Interrupts Brennan, looking expectantly from Booth to Sweets.

"Yes, we are," confirms Sweets.

"Okay then. I want to go first," says Brennan, decisively. She's ready to go. She's got some needs she'd like to get met.

Sweets shrugs, nods, and cedes the floor. "By all means," he says, waving his hand in her direction.

For a moment, no one says anything as Brennan gathers her thoughts.

"Well, to start with, I miss Booth," she tells Sweets. _I need Booth. I want Booth,_ she thinks.

Booth closes his eyes and sighs. _Way to start out small, Bones,_ he chuckles to himself. _What the hell was I worried about? It's never been about her, has it? It's always been about my insecurity. Get with the program before you screw it up, Booth! _He goes completely still. He wishes he could kiss her for what she just said, and for what he assumes she meant.

"Don't tell me, tell him," says Sweets gesturing toward Booth as he crosses his arms. "And put it in the form of a need or want statement."

Turning to Booth, she takes a deep breath and exhales through a nervous smile. "Booth, I- I –' she begins quietly, looking directly in his eyes with her own sparkling intense ones. "I need an increased level of physical contact in our relationship," she says, swallowing and furrowing her brow. "Until recently, I hadn't realized how much I miss it, and I now understand that I need it," She pauses, grimacing apologetically. "In our professional relationship, in the real world, I mean."

He understands she's referring to everything that went before this week, everything that's happened over the last year … their lack of connection with each other.

Her face is growing warm as a result of such an intimate reveal. In a flash she watches in her mind's eye how their bodies used to casually bump against each other; how they'd occasionally link arms while walking somewhere after a case or a visit to the cemetery. She thinks of his hand on the small of her back, directing her; or the way he used to remove her lab coat then slip her trench coat up her arms as they walked toward the door. She remembers how he'd hold her gaze as he said something he wanted her to take seriously. She loved his fearless, protective, steady, warm eyes_. I have a booth shaped-hole in my heart, _she thinks, not caring that it's an illogical, irrational thought. _I have for a long time, _she admits to herself with a smirk.

These memories, juxtaposed against the stiff and disjointed interactions of just weeks ago, tug at her heart. She crosses her arms and hugs herself. She is once again reminded of how far apart they have been this past year. If she fails to clear out that nasty black box in her head, their present relationship will be built on a faulty foundation. _That is unacceptable,_ she tells herself forcefully.

Sweets is surprised at Brennan's admission. Surprised, impressed, and pleased.

Booth is _not _surprised. He has missed their previous connection, too. He hadn't realized how much, either, until this week when they worked together so naturally out in Philadelphia, and since Friday when they've really been connected. If hearts could truly experience a pang, or a tug of disappointment, Booth and Brennan's hearts are being seriously yanked as they both come to grips with this.

After a moment of introspection, Brennan stares off into the air over Booth's head and starts to speak.

"Previously, you and I had shared a great deal. Until this week, I hadn't realized the degree to which this lack has impacted my overall wellbeing." She turns to Sweets to explain. "It wasn't until I saw Booth and Hannah—".

"Tell him," says Sweets, interrupting her and nodding toward Booth, "not me."

"I saw you and Hannah," she begins, knitting her brow together and swallowing hard. "You were holding hands at the diner this past Monday morning, and what I wanted more than anything was to be the one in that diner with you," she says, her heart beating out a syncopated rhythm against her ribcage. Admitting this makes her feel vulnerable. Her capillaries begin to wreak havoc on her cheeks.

"I wanted you to be holding _my_ hand," continues Brennan, "providing comfort to _me_, or sharing a joke with _me,_ and talking with me without heads close together." _Agh, this sounds so pathetic,_ she chastises herself. "That's when I realized how much I miss that connection we used to have," she says, pausing pensively. "I think we grew apart so gradually, over a long period of time, starting when I turned you down, that I didn't even realize it was happening. When I returned from Maluku after nine months, I was accustomed to not having much physical contact with anyone … so I didn't realize it then either. You were so busy with Hannah. Your appetite for physical contact was being sated, so you most likely didn't notice the lack between us either. But then I saw the two of you in the diner on Monday, and it all came flooding back to me. _That's_ what we used to have. The fact that you were sharing it with Hannah was rather disturbing to me." After a moment, she adds, "I apologize for being so irrational …"

The room goes suddenly very, very quiet. Even the thermostat and the fluorescent lighting seem to have paused mid-tick.

Booth's blood begins a slow exodus from his face. She saw _Hanna and me at the diner! _He's undergoing the fight or flight impulse from hell. _All things are passing. Focus on the prize. Patient endurance… what does patient endurance do? Crap, I can't remember! _

Brennan glances at Booth who has been leaning on the couch's armrest, examining his fingernails, lost in his own thoughts. He's putting the pieces together and reviewing what he remembers having said to Brennan about Hannah this past week. _ Almost nothing, _he realizes, guiltily._ Has Bones been concerned this whole week, even while she was kissing me? No, I would have been able to tell, wouldn't I? _He glances over at Brennan at this thought._ Why haven't I said anything to her about meeting with Hannah? Why haven't I told her what Hannah said about the things Bones did for me out of her genuine desire for me to be happy? Because, _he admits to himself,_ I wanted to leave all mention of Hannah in the past; I wanted nothing more than to move on as soon as possible._

On Monday, he hadn't been ready, and there was so much going on: travel, dinner with Enri, and Parker and Brennan at his apartment making Bananas Foster and spending the night. Tuesday he wasn't ready, either. Then the case took over. Before he knew it, it was Friday. He didn't want anything messing up Friday, or Saturday. So, here they are on Sunday, and she beat him to it. _Excrement! Screeching feces-flinging monkeys! _He says, cursing himself.

He's beginning to understand why Sweets is adamant that they have this conversation about being direct and honest, not protecting each other.

"So, you saw us? Hannah and me at the diner? Why didn't you say anything?" Booth asks, sounding a heck of a lot calmer than he feels. His question comes out sounding more accusatory than he'd intended. He bites his lip and tries to look contrite.

"Yes," she says, avoiding his other question for now. "When I saw you, I began to experience fairly significant respiratory distress, followed by increased heart rate, and xerostomia, or, dry mouth, in lay terms. I also experienced a sudden impulse to evacuate my bowels and regurgitate my morning granola and yogurt." She sucks in a loud breath as if it's her first one in minutes, and hugs herself once again. "I'm finding right now that recalling that experience is quite disconcerting as well," she says, taking a deep breath. With her middle and index fingers, she presses into the carotid artery just below her jaw and begins to calculate her heart rate. "Only slightly elevated," she says, sighing.

Both men wince at her unabashed clinical description of the intensity of her distress upon finding Booth and Hannah together, though Booth recognizes what she's describing, because he's experiencing some of those effects right now.

"Bones, what you saw between me and Hannah? That was when she told me about my absolute truth. That's all that was," he explains, desperate for her to believe him. _Surely she couldn't think it was anything else, especially not after what's developed between us over the last couple of days_, he thinks, concerned. In his experience, women are funny about this kind of thing, and not in a good way. "Well, there was more to it than that," he admits sheepishly, recalling the insights Hannah provided about Brennan's love for him. "But it was purely platonic, Bones. God's honest truth."

_Look at what she's gone through! _Chagrins Booth._ That whole bit about standing outside the diner, watching us. Oh, God! I could have avoided this whole clusterduck by telling her earlier what Hannah told me. I wanted to several times. Why didn't I? Agh! Way to go, Booth, _he says to himself with as much sarcasm as his internal monolog can muster.

"Why do I still find this somewhat disturbing almost a whole week later, Dr. Sweets?" Asks Brennan, _I am losing my ability to keep my emotions in their proper place, _she silently chastises herself.

"Because it isn't gone," he explains. "If you want to be free of it, you have to understand it, you have to move through it. And you can't do that alone. Stepped-over pain festers, healed pain becomes a strength . . . and something you can add as a value to the world, to your relationships. Understanding can provide that which denial cannot," says Sweets.

"Hm," she grunts, not sure she understands or likes what she heard him say.

"You want to know that he's not inconstant, Dr. Brennan?" Asks Sweets, leaning forward, propping his elbows on his knees, and pressing his hands together as if in prayer, shaking them toward Brennan. "If you want to know if he is inconstant, capricious, if you will, find out what happened that made him appear so to you. Ask him about it. Give him a chance to help you understand. At the same time, he will learn what concerns you and be able to take measures to ensure the lines of communication regarding those specific issues remain open. If you learn to do this, you two can work through just about anything together."

_What? Did Sweets just call me incontinent? No, I must have heard that wrong,_ thinks Booth.

Brennan listens to Sweets' words carefully now. He's referring to a previous conversation they'd had months ago. The ease with which Booth moves from one relationship to another is a concern for her. Granted, she's had her share of brief entanglements, but she's no longer interested in that kind of relationship. It has taken her a very long time to get to a place where she desires something much more substantial. Granted, she knows Booth well, and trusts him with her life, but she can't help being concerned about this one thing.

Sweets, very much aware that Brennan simply wasn't picking up on a multitude of clues from Booth's behavior, assured her that Booth finds it very difficult to emotionally disentangle himself from romantic involvements. Sweets had assured her that she would see things differently if she were to express her concerns, giving Booth the opportunity to explain himself. Brennan remained circumspect, unable to see past Booth's involvement with Hannah so soon after Brennan and Booth went their separate ways; he to Afghanistan, she to the Maluku Islands.

"My point is that you can't just ignore this last year and move forward leaving so many questions unasked, answers untendered … expecting everything to go back to the way it was before," says Sweets, looking from Booth to Brennan. "You both have been suffering separately … when you could have been supporting each other. You need to see the potentially devastating consequences if you don't get over your … current ways of dealing with things. Dr. Brennan, you detach. Agent Booth, you self-flagellate. So, let me just ask, how's that working for you?" Sweets raises a curious eyebrow.

"Well, we're here in a shrinks office on a Sunday afternoon, aren't we?" Chuffs Booth. _Oh my God. Sweets __is__ channeling Dr. Phil! _He thinks_._

"So, seeing Hannah and Agent Booth at the diner holding hands was upsetting for you, Dr. Brennan."

"It caused quite a disturbance in the force," she says, focusing on her fingernails now. "That means there was an increase in the level of evil in the ethos – it's a metaphor for the highly held belief in the existence of palpable forces of good and evil."

"I am familiar with the terminology," nods Sweets, shooting a mildly surprised look at Booth, who shrugs in response.

"When I told Angela about it, she said she felt she was standing next to her doppelgänger, her identical twin."

"She was 'beside herself'," says Booth to Sweets, chewing on his bottom lip, then exhaling through puckered lips. Brennan nods without looking up.

"But you—?" begins Sweets.

"I was fine," she interrupts, convincing no one, not even herself. "Except for the physiological effects I experienced." She shrugs.

"Woah!" says Booth, in a low concerned tone, his eyes wide with surprise. Turning toward her, he rests his arm across the back of the couch, an action that suggests, but doesn't involve, physical contact between the two. He knows Brennan well enough to understand that she's detaching right now. "You were clearly freaking out, Bones, and understandably so," he says, running his hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. "It's all my fault, Bones. I should have told you earlier. My God, I wish-, I -. Why didn't you just come over to the diner?" He pleads at the exact moment he realizes that it wasn't that simple for her. She had been stunned. She had a significantly traumatic reaction upon seeing them together. That makes complete sense now, he realizes.

_She was just as in love with me on Monday as she has been these past three days, _he thinks,_ but on Monday, she hadn't known I felt the same way about her, and she thought she was about to lose me again! Wow. No wonder she was freaking out. How would I have felt if Sully showed up on Monday and I thought she was going off in his boat with him for a year? Oh Jesus! Crap, crap, crap! Somebody shoot me. Please._

Brennan had done the only thing she knows how to do when faced with intense emotion, she had detached then, as she is now. It was either that, or fall apart. _She's a prisoner in her own mind,_ he thinks. _And I'm an ass. I didn't realize … Excrement! What else has she been boxing up and not telling me? _

Booth abruptly stands and walks over to the window, hands on hips, shaking his head. "Ohhhhhhh, excrement, Bones! I-, I am so, sooo sorry you went through that." He shakes his head several times. After a moment, he looks up at Brennan and Sweets as if he's made an important decision. "It's my fault," he says, decidedly, tossing his hands up in the air and letting them fall back, slapping against his thighs. "It's all my fault. I didn't want to mention Hannah. We were enjoying ourselves in Philly, just like the old Booth and Bones, and I didn't want to ruin it." Returning a hand to his hip, he covers his mouth with the other and turns toward Brennan, shaking his head. "Bones, I had no idea you saw us, and I certainly wasn't hiding anything. I apologize for this whole thing," he says, smirking at his own folly.

Booth sits back down, swallowing dryly, still shaking his head, disgusted with himself for not realizing the impact this would have on her. Chalk this one up to ginormously bad luck.

"I guess I _was _freaking out," sighs Brennan, closing her eyes and dropping her shoulders. It is getting easier to admit these things to Booth. The last couple of days have been an education in self-revelation for them both.

"Seeing Agent Booth and Hannah together was disturbing for you, Dr. Brennan, because you thought it meant something."

"But, I didn't think it meant anything, Dr. Sweets. Experience has taught me that things are rarely what they seem," she says, a tremor in her voice betraying her uncertainty. Again, not even _she_ is convinced by her own story.

"No. I'm sorry. Not buying it. No one is that unaffected," says Sweets, shaking his head decisively and frowning. "After the year you've had, and Hannah finally being gone, or so you thought, to see them together must have been devastating. You're barely holding it together right now, are you?" He asks.

His accusation catches her off guard. _I'm not that bad off, am I? _She wonders. _You just felt your carotid artery for your pulse! Something is going on here,_ she chides herself. In her mind's eye, she sees that filthy box of emotional excrement hop and jiggle trying to gain her attention. She clenches her jaw. _Be like the opossum,_ she thinks. _Play dead, maybe the stinky box will lose interest and leave in search of other entertainment. _

Brennan looks down at her lap, examines her fingernails, stretches her fingers over her thighs, and rotates her mother's ring which she wears on her right hand. She intertwines her fingers. She looks back at Sweets with a concentrated expression and is surprised to find that she has to will herself not to burst into tears. He's scratching at the surface of that nasty black box, poking it to see how easy it would be to get it to pop open. _Oh, bovine feces! _She thinks.

"I'd be so bold as to say that you were very concerned about this the whole time you were in Philadelphia, but you rationalized it – things aren't what they seem, right? - and you compartmentalized it."

She looks away again. She had been hoping to skate around the perimeter of the box, hoping not to discuss what she has truly been thinking and feeling. Those thoughts are private, painful, and ... uncomfortable. _Can't we clean out this box without getting emotional? Can't we just grab the garbage and toss it over our heads without looking too closely at it? _She wonders this, but knows it would be fruitless to even ask since he's already kicking the metaphorical hornets nest. She chuffs at the irony of her metaphor, as it refers back to her nightmare about making Booth bleed.

"It got me through," she insists, "didn't it? And it turned out okay. See? She's gone and we're getting back on track—"

"Woah, woah! You shouldn't have to just _get through_, Bones. Not with me!" Booth sits forward, concern in his eyes, his heart pounding in his ears. He can see that she's more affected that she realizes, and he's trying to figure out if he can just head it off at the pass. He wants to grab her and crush her to his chest, make this hot bag of excrement go away. Sweets shoots him a look. It says, _calm down and hang tight._

"So you denied it, suppressed it, and until now, haven't talked about it," says Sweets. "You must have some questions, Dr. Brennan." When she doesn't respond, he provides some. "How long were they at the diner? What did they talk about?" Sweets watches Brennan closely. She's not looking very good. Her cheeks are flushed; her eyes glossy. "Why were they holding hands?" Ouch. "Is this the first time they've gotten together since they broke up?" He asks. Double ouch.

"I'm sure there's a rational explanation," she murmurs, looking at her mother's ring, refusing to acknowledge the nasty, filthy box.

"Then why the severe physiological reaction – which is the direct result of a significant emotional reaction, by the way," he asks pointedly, adopting an exaggerated innocent tone. "And why didn't you ask him about it?"

She stares blankly ahead, clearly struggling to maintain her slowly cracking composure.

"Sweets! Why are you torturing her like this? Back off!" Booth snaps at Sweets.

Sweets ignores Booth. "You haven't asked because the possibilities could be devastating, Dr. Brennan."

Poke, poke, poke at that nasty sooty box. Poke, stab.

"And you know this," Sweets continues, "because you have already experienced that kind of devastation in regard to Hannah and Agent Booth, haven't you?"

Jab, jab. Poke. Punch. The top flaps of the ugly box, fly off, and blow away.

"No," Brennan objects, stilted at first. "No! I was fine with the—" It comes out sounding more like a confused question to herself.

"You weren't fine, Bones! You were a mess!" chokes Booth. "And it's my fucking fault!" Booth slumps back against his seat, panicked, concerned.

Brennan stares blankly forward, preternaturally silent, knowing the top of the box has been blown away.

Sweets catches Booth's eye. He sends him a look, a message. _Steady! Trust me, I know what I'm doing._

Booth shakes his head. Once again he's helpless. He sits, waiting for … whatever is going to happen next. He looks over at Brennan who is staring off into space with a concentrated expression on her face. Brows and lips pinched, posture straight, no part of her touching the back of the couch.

Sweets begins in hushed tones. His voice is strikingly gentle and provocative.

"Dr. Brennan, I would venture that what you have been missing goes much deeper than physical contact."

"I-, I'm starting to understand that now," she says with a heavy, shaky sigh, staring intently at her mother's ring on her finger, "but it doesn't make it any easier."

"You have been missing _everything,"_ says Sweets, pausing for dramatic affect, "especially the emotional connection, a very large part of which is the chemistry you shared." Sweets crosses his arms and cocks his head to the side.

Brennan's face is getting increasingly rosier. Acknowledging what she has been missing means acknowledging how lost she had felt, and how lonely, abandoned, and devastated she had been … how broken and empty she had become. _These are the precious secrets she's been hiding inside that greasy, sooty box ... that hard, angry, resentful, anguished box full of excrement_. She feels the tears building up inside her bottom eyelid. She's concerned she might become visibly emotional any moment. She exhales shakily, looking away from both men, opening her eyes as wide as possible toward the wall on her left. She forcefully blows some hair away from her eyes.

She feels exposed, naked. She'd like to crawl behind Booth and hide. _This is absurd! _She thinks, cursing her stubborn nature, which is fighting tooth and nail to maintain emotional control. Inside her head, she is screaming. _It's not that I am unaware of the emotions! It's that I choose not to look at them, name them, and let them control me!_ She knows her eyes are blazing, and her nostrils are flaring, her jaw clenching. In her mind's eye, she sees burnt pieces of paper gracefully floating up out of the box and mingling with the soot. Just a few scraps of paper, floating up and away. A juicy tear breaks free from her left eye. She drags her finger from the bridge of her nose to the far corner of her eye, wiping away the tear, but more follow it.

_Any other person would be able to speak about these things without falling apart, right? Any other person would never have hidden this junk away in a damn box in the first place! _She can't stop her internal self-flagellation._ An ordinary person would have wept and raged, allowed themselves to be consumed with spite and disgust, would have lashed out._ _But not Temperance Brennan. No, I swallowed it, wouldn't even say its name, stuffed it in a tiny black box, and sat on it with such forcefulness that it should have been transformed into a diamond by now. _

Booth can see that she is standing on the precipice. She is so close to taking that jump, to letting herself look at what she's been hiding, but she's got a white knuckle grip on the side of the pool. Despite her brave exterior, she's concerned that the unleashing of the boxed contents could unravel her ... and possibly hurt him in the process. He's learned that she's fiercely protective of him and would sacrifice herself to spare him if she could. That is part of what is holding her back. Booth squeezes her shoulder sympathetically until she looks at him. He tries to send her a telepathic message. _It's okay to let go! I am right here with you. I won't let you get lost._

"Perhaps—" begins Sweets, but Booth stops him short by abruptly holding up his hand.

"Shh!" Booth commands, an intense eye on Brennan.

Brennan gasps when she hears Booth shush Sweets. "I am experiencing abdominal discomfort and some respiratory distress," she says, holding her breath as she speaks. She begins chewing on her fingernail. "Uhhhhm!" She grunts, feeling her capillaries popping blotches all over her cheeks and neck. She crosses her arms in front of her chest again and digs her fingers into her armpits, looking over at Booth and locking eyes with him. Cleansing breath in, purifying breath out. And again. _Focus on the prize,_ she tells herself. _Pretend we are alone, and I am safe._ It is clear to Booth that she's panicked. Controlled, perhaps, but panicked.

"What's going on?" Sweets peers over at Booth who is intently watching Brennan, making sure the breathing technique is working.

"She's embarrassed, and upset," he says, quietly, in a strained voice, without looking away from her. He immediately switches to caretaker mode. She's still doing her breathing routine.

"Embarrassed? This is new," whispers Sweets. It's a statement and a question.

"Yep," says Booth, leaning toward Brennan to assure himself she's recovering, regaining her composure. He knows how uncomfortable this makes her. To his knowledge this has never happened in front of anyone other than himself. Apparently, Sweets is seeing this for the first time.

"A good sign of vulnerability," Sweets comments.

"It's been going on since we left D.C. last week. Happened a lot in Pennsylvania," he says, still regarding her intently, thinking about how he can help her if at all. Not caring anymore if Sweets is watching.

Brennan glances over at Sweets then back to Booth. The ruddiness of her cheeks has persisted, but she's getting her breathing under control. Her arms are still across her chest. She nods and closes her eyes for a moment, shaking her head; she blows out each breath instead of simply exhaling it.

Booth scoots closer to Brennan.

The black box slides ten inches across the cement floor of Brennan's mind. She can still see it, but it no longer burns her eyes … for now.

Booth reaches toward Brennan. Sliding his hand from her shoulder down to the cook of her elbow, he follows her forearm to her wrist and curls his fingers slowly around her right wrist. Insistently, but gently, he pulls her hand out from where it is neatly tucked. She doesn't resist. Firmly intertwining his fingers with hers, he rests their joined hands on the seat cushion between them.

She stares at their joined hands; they fit perfectly together. She pulls her fingers out from between his, curls the into a fist and burrows her hand back into Booth's palm. He closes his fingers completely around her fist, and gently caresses the back of her hand with his thumb. She feels protected, and relaxes further.

The dirty, nasty box begins to vibrate, as if it contains a living thing. More charred slips of paper float up into the air and are carried away by an invisible force. If Booth could see this image, he'd say that force is God. Brennan sees it as the simple force of nature. Carmen night call is simply, 'the Force'.

Brennan smiles, wanly, without opening her eyes, her brow still knit together in concentration. _Whew, I love this man_. _Thank you, Booth._ She takes a couple of deep breaths, opens her eyes and looks at Booth sideways through her lashes. He smiles back compassionately. She snuggles her fist further into his hand, releasing her thumb to press it against his curled index finger. Then, she begins to relax, her pained expression beginning to soften. Safe in this harbor, she allows the tears to silently and freely fall.

She allows herself to finally think about how frightened she felt standing on the sidewalk a block away from the diner on Monday morning. She recalls how anguished she was when she told him of her feelings; of how he asked her if there was anyone to call to be with her that night; and how desperately she wanted to scream, _You! You are the one I call so I don't have to be alone!_

She thinks of all the empty cases they've recently worked, cases during which they've moved around each other like two foreigners, speaking different languages, neither truly communicating with the other, or even really seeing each other. She remembers how difficult it was to look at Hannah, knowing that Booth was kissing those lips, touching that skin, waking up with that blond hair sprawled across his chest. Ohhhhh. That broke her every … single … time. But she wouldn't let it show, because she wanted Booth to be happy … and Hannah seemed to be what made him that way.

She thinks about the thinly-veiled slice of anger he ignited inside her the night he pushed her before she was ready to take the next step. She feels again how frustrating it was that their dynamic started changing soon after, and how disappointed she was in herself for being too afraid to trust Booth and herself to take that leap.

She remembers how she forbade herself to cry when she learned that Booth had asked Hannah to marry him. She remembers the two weeks after Hannah left. She remembers yelling at Hodgins, being rude to Angela, ignoring the interns, avoiding Max's phone calls, and refusing Camille's insistence that she take some sick days. She thinks about the night she mourned the death of a dream, a dream she hadn't allowed herself to admit until it was too late, the dream that someday she and Booth would be together and she could finally let her walls down and relax with another person. She remembers several nights later, breaking down and sobbing into her pillow until four o'clock in the morning, giving herself a migraine that lasted three days. She recalls the intense and persistent regret she experienced over losing something that at one time had been freely offered to her – Booth's love. She revisits her defeatist fear that she would spend the rest of her life alone, because after this, after him, there would be no one else. All of these thoughts and memories ride out of her body on the tears silently surfing down her cheeks, one on top of the other, ten on top of twenty.

The whole time, Booth sits beside her, squeezing her hand, rubbing her skin with his thumb, massaging her wrist with the fingers of his other hand, and sighing through a face pinched with empathy and shared pain.

No one says anything until her tears subside.

The stinky black box is bottom heavy, which is why it scoots when it's kicked, rather than tipping over. There's still a good deal of excrement in there, but it's quieted itself for now.

"Please continue," she quietly, "as if … just, please continue." _Booth is such a good man,_ she muses. _I am fortunate to have him as my mate._

The men exchange a glance. Sweets nods at Booth. Booth nods back. Sweets notices how simply and naturally Booth reestablished their physical and emotional connection by taking Brennan's hand. He also noticed that not only did she not resist, she actually reciprocated, and it calmed her considerably.

Booth recognizes the expression of comprehension in the other man. _Oh, Sweets, if you only knew_ … he thinks to himself before returning his attention to Brennan.

* * *

><p>While Brennan was having her cry, Booth was very much present, but he was multi-tasking. He'd mentally packed himself a little knapsack and headed off to Planet Booth to have a moment to himself. Watching the love of his life in such anguish, and not being able to pull her into his arms and shush it all away, was difficult, to say the least. Knowing it had a lot to do with him, was torture. Well-deserved torture, he felt … because that's the way Booth thinks. Watching her go through this again weakened his exterior, threatening to pull down his own walls of self-preservation. Now that the topic of Hannah is on the table, Booth knows that anything could happen. And that means talking about … everything else, beginning with Brennan's initial rejection of his request to give their relationship a chance.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Here it is—Hannah. No turning back now. Buckle your seatbelts, people,<em> thinks Booth. _Am I ready for this? I don't have a choice. I don't really want a choice. I want this over and gone. Kaput. But it may suck the big one … and, whew, I just don't know … _

He begins to sweat. A cold, jagged piercing sensation, like fingernails on a chalkboard, screeches down his neck, climbs down his arms to the tips of his fingers, which are decidedly clammy at this point, and seeps down his spinal column. He feels a churning in his abdomen, and realizes, again, this is how it felt like for Bones when she saw them holding hands at the 's both cold and hot all at once. _Get a grip! Focus on Bones, right? That's what she said in her note. Look at her and pretend that we are alone. Focus on the prize._

_Okay. I can do this. I can focus, _he tells himself, despite the pounding between his ears._ Keep my eye on the prize. The prize is right next to me on this couch. Focus. Breathe. Remember your sniper training. __Be still. Stop time with your mind. Focus on the details. Isolate each one and catalog it. Listen to the beating of your own heart, slowing it with your mind and long, deep breaths. Distinguish the sound of the wind against your coat from that in the leaves of the trees above and behind you. Identify the direction and force of the breeze._

_Move outward in concentric circles … miss nothing; a clang of metal on glass; a bird's scratchy hop and peck; the distant call of one person to another in a guttural foreign language; the muted sound of a television sitting by an open window; the rustling of scattered trash in the alley below; the scent of sulfur, tamales, perspiration, smoke and asphalt; the position of the moon in the sky. Focus. Run through this loop of observations every 60 seconds. Miss nothing. Leave nothing behind._

_Now, inside Sweets' office. The environment is different than a crouch on a rooftop in Kabul, but the atmosphere is similar enough. And, like Kabul, everything is at stake._

_Today, the prize is clean air and freedom. Life and love. Bones and me, together, healthy, safe. Listen to the radiator, the lights, three pairs of shoes against the carpet, the rustle of the paper in Sweets' folder, the temperature in the room, the occasional light flashing across the window, the distant ding of the elevator, followed by the jangle of a night guard's keys hanging from his belt, the whine of Sweets' seat cushion as he sits forward or leans back. Catalog them all, including Sweets, and fade them to gray. Make them part of the background. They are inconsequential._

_Now, listen for Bones, _he tells himself, imagining his own voice in a whisper.

Cutting everything else out, he focuses only on her face. He takes their joined hands and rests them on his thigh. She looks at him, though her image lands on his corneas as if in slow motion. She vibrates in luminous Technicolor, like a red, red rose in the center of an old black and white photo. He focuses on the dark brown fringe of her lashes against her whipping cream-colored skin as she looks at their joined hands. Then, slowly, like a flag billowing in the gentle breeze, they slowly rise, as she looks at him, revealing her crystalline green-blue irises, her inky black pupils. Her smile grows, hesitantly, slowly, then gradually full and enveloping. This is Booth's target. Partially only in his imagination, because in reality, she is not smiling, she is in distress. And she needs him.

Then, he listens, his focus on her is so intense that her breathing sounds like the underwater breaths of a child lying only partially immersed in a shallow bathtub; magnified, soothing._ Listen for the tip of her ponytail scratching against her collar, fabric against fabric whenever she moves. Watch for the beat of her heart at her throat and on her temple. Count the beats and watch the rise and fall of her chest. Notice the pink of her lips, the ivory of her skin, the timbre of her voice and how it drops when she looks at him. The scent of her hair, her lip-gloss, her hand lotion, her laundry detergent. Sense the temperature of her skin and the air immediately surrounding her. Notice the cool brightness of her eyes when she smiles at me, her pupils dilating when she catches my eye, contracting slightly when she looks away. Fade everything, except her. This is the prize. This is all that matters today. Right now. This is our season; this is our time. Bones._

* * *

><p><em>I'd like to give a very warm and grateful THANK YOU to my biggest supporters.<br>These are the wonderful people who took a moment to share their thoughts about the last one or two chapters._

So, **THANK YOU,** to fluffybird, eire76, UrbanBorn, grandma bones, KimberrnI, flute1952, Twerp24, Eryngrace94,  
>celheartstv, Dyna63, OhSnapItzAmelie, ILuvBonesNDool, DWBBFan, TraciM, elmasuz, mef1013, miranda55,<br>coterie2, CrayonClown, spicysftblplayer, caracoleta07, yenyen76, DWBBFan, crys82, sarahlizlangas,  
>Stati, jbcrace14, Danzjaron, Becksbones amazin-grace88 manicpixiedreamgurl, jazzyproz, kimrn,<br>CrayonClown, Michelle, JP,Irisrose37 alexindigo, and Olive!

_Thank you to the additional 60 Tweeps who follow my progress daily (sometimes hourly!).  
>You guys keep me going.<em>

__~MoxieGirl ~MoxieGirl44__

_**P.S. To JP** - I would LOVE to be able to write back to you! Your questions have been interesting,  
>and I have answers for all of them. Yes, I have set the bar for Tuesday. LOL. When we get there,<br>I will look forward to hearing from you about whether or not I poll vaulted over it successfully!_

_If you haven't already, make sure you read The Culture in the Club, and The Meaning in the Episode series._


	194. Bent

_A/N Well folks, I tried. I tried to get this puppy out three days ago, but this dog just wouldn't hunt - it decided to toy with me instead! However, sometimes the most interesting twists reveal themselves once you THINK you're pretty much finished writing. The quote at the beginning of the chapter is from a song by Rob Thomas of Matchbox Twenty fame. I felt it went well with this chapter, which is mostly about Booth. I apologize for the length - this one may take a while to read ... so grab a snack and hunker down, people!_

_**Chapter 193, I Don't Want to Talk About It**, passed two milestones for **The When and the How: A Bone to Pick**. It received the most reviews for a single chapter in this story. It also reached brought us to the milestone of a total of 1000 reviews in aggregate. WOW! Thank you to **every single one of you** who take the time to reward me with your feedback. Your words bring me joy and encourage me to believe in my ability to put words on the page every day, and then to offer them up for the entertainment of other Bones fans like myself._

_I look forward to hearing your thoughts on this chapter as well! Enjoy!  
><em>

_~ MoxieGirl  
><em>_~ MoxieGirl44 on Twitter  
><em>

_P.S. Someone told me that "pie" can refer to a body part. In TWATH:ABYP refers to ... well ... the consummation of romantic love, shall we say?_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 194 Bent<strong>

_'If I fall along the way_, _pick me up and dust me off,  
><em>And if I get too tired to make it<em>_, __be my breath so I can walk.  
><em>_If I need some other loving__, __give me more than I can stand,  
><em>_And when my smile gets old and faded__,  
><em>_wait around I'll smile again.'  
><em>_~  
><em>_'Shouldn't be so complicated__, __just touch me and then__, (last verse version)  
><em>_Well, just touch me again.'  
><em>_Can you help me, I'm bent. I'm so scared  
><em>_I'll never get put back together.'____

_~ 'Bent', by Rob Thomas_

* * *

><p>"Booth," says Brennan quietly. She's still sitting beside him, their fingers intertwined. Their attention focused only on each other. "I need to have us back. Like we were before. The physical contact … and emotional connectedness. Everything works the most … efficiently … for us when we have that. I need that … for me," she says, her last sentence delivered in a self-conscious, reserved tone. "You are both intuitive and adept at providing that," she says, shrugging apologetically, her head leaning to the side in supplication, "and since we spend a significant amount of time together, you are the perfect person to provide, or at least initiate, that for me … for us."<p>

Of course, he is. They both know it. They both know, also, that it's _not_ simply a matter of convenience. It defines the interdependency of their relationship; the connection they've rekindled, the chemistry they share, even the heat they generate when they argue. Touching him is the only thing that calms her, she'd said. It is the same for him, though he hasn't actually said as much. It's also more than a simple need for affirmation. She's recognized that she wants, needs, relief from the strain of this past year. He's the only one she can get that with, share that with. She wants safety and security. For some reason that still baffles Booth, she finds these things only in him. This knowledge humbles him.

"Bones," he says, "I'm ready, you know, to talk about Hannah … and this last year. If you want." He looks intently into her eyes, with a shrug of the eyebrows and a sheepish half-grimace.

She nods, chewing on her bottom lip. "I think I'm ready for that, too," she says. They stare at each other speechless for an intense moment. Four ears and four cheeks on fire, two mouths dry, two heartbeats running rampant. Humble pie. Crow. Unflattering words, individual truths. And they both get to eat their share. No cake. You can't have your cake and eat it, too. Promisingly, the desert menu boasts another kind of pie, one they will exuberantly partake of when the time comes.

"If I may," begins Sweets in a low warm voice, not wanting to disturb the flow passing between his colleagues, but compelled to lay a couple of ground rules. He scoots to the end of his seat so he doesn't have to speak any louder than necessary. "The events of this past 18 months belong to both of you. You each did things, said things, permitted things that allowed your relationship to falter—"

Booth is reminded of several lines from the 'Confiteor', a prayer he recites during mass every Sunday as part of the Penitential Rite:

'_I have sinned, through my own fault_, _in my thoughts and in my words;  
><em>_in what I have done,_ _and in what I have failed to do'.  
><em>

The Roman Catholic Church has recently added a self-flagellating breast strike to the heart when reciting part of the prayer. Never before has that gesture made more sense to him.

"No one here is a victim," continues Sweets. "No one is a bully. You both reacted according to your own life experiences to which you've attached your own meanings." Sweets looks from Brennan to Booth. Neither of them look at him, they are still watching each other. He can tell that they are listening by the attentive way they lean, ever so slightly, toward him, each of them with an ear cocked in his direction. Their eyes may be trained on each other, but their ears are focused on the sound of his voice.

"Those meanings occur as truth to you, but are simply interpretations masquerading as truth," Sweets says, pausing to let that sink in for a moment. "Remember, none of it is real. There is no real."

Booth looks over at Sweets for a moment, then back to Brennan, with a shadow of a sheepish smile for her.

"When we acknowledge that," continues Sweets, still speaking in gentle tones, "we gain the power to make our experience of life whatever we want it to be. We can choose an interpretation that _serves_ us instead of one we must serve. Taking responsibility – that's what we do first."

"Jesus Christ, Sweets," says Booth, matching the younger man's tone, while slowly turning to look "Could you please. Stop. Lecturing us?" He shoots Sweets a reproachfully cocked eyebrow raise. "I do have a gun. Remember?" He adds in a near whisper.

Turning back to Brennan, Booth rolls his eyes, and is rewarded with a guilty smirk from Brennan.

"Ask me anything," Booth says, taking a deep breath and returning his sniper-like focus to his mate. He traces little circles on the top of her hand with his thumb, receives a responding squeeze. Her response initiates a wave of gratitude-laced adrenaline inside Booth. Gratitude perhaps mixed with a trace of trepidation.

She looks at him as if she and he are the only ones in the room. She's regained her composure almost completely from her emotional outpouring. Her cheeks are more blush than red. Brace _yourself._ _Here it comes,_ she thinks. She tries to focus on where they are joined, his thumb still caressing her hand. Before she arranges her thoughts into meaningful words, Booth beats her to it.

"We were alone in Philly for how many days?" He reaches over with his opposite hand to lift her chin with the side of his right index finger.

"Three and a half," she admits. "We were there for three and a half days and four nights."

"You never said anything," he gently whispers, his voice a caress of the back of his fingers against her jaw.

"I asked you about it," she whispers back, her own voice, a virtual leaning into his touch, her eyes closing.

Sweets looks upon the two, mesmerized. He is stunned by the tenderness in Booth's voice. He's never heard him speak like this before. The two of them are exchanging words quietly and calmly … and freely. Sweets finds this fascinating.

_There's no way these two aren't doing it, _he thinks. _Wonder what Daisy's doing later tonight …_

"You did? Why don't I remember that? When?" Booth asks, his face grimacing in consternation.

"On the way to the airport," she says, raising and dropping one shoulder and looking away for a moment, then back up into his eyes. "You said it was private," she insists, gently. "So, I analyzed it, I looked for clues to what it might have meant," she says, flicking a glance at Sweets who had called her on this very behavior only a moment ago, "but I noticed a positive change in you. You seemed happy, like your old self – though I wasn't sure why. I thought it might have to do with Hannah; that maybe you were going to get back together," she says, the memory of that possibility sending a palpable shiver down her back and threatening to tighten her throat. "But … I swallowed my concerns and kept telling myself that you would tell me when you were ready to, or I would be able to figure it out. But, then we were getting along so well—" She shrugs, apologetically.

"And you worried alone," Booth concludes, closing his eyes. "I let you worry all alone," he mumbles, grimacing.

"When you did say something, it was about a feeling. '_I feel I am ready to go on',_ you said. When you made that statement, I thought perhaps you meant _with Hannah_ because you hadn't given me any indication otherwise," she says guiltily, her voice cracking. She looks apologetically from one eye to the other.

"What day was that?" Booth asks, searching his brain while letting his eyes travel around her face. He can't remember what he'd said, but if he said it before Friday, surely those concerns were alleviated by … what happened between them. _Right?_ He wonders.

"Wednesday," she says, whispering, looking down at his lips and chin, wishing she could touch him there, telling herself she will as soon as this is behind them.

"What significance does the day hold for you, Agent Booth?" It's Sweets, leaning forward and whispering.

"It doesn't," Booth tosses toward Sweets without taking his eyes off Brennan.

"It does, or you wouldn't have asked," Sweets objects flatly, but quietly. No response from Booth. He sits back. He can't figure these two out. _There's no way they weren't being truthful when they said they weren't having sex; I would have known. That's my superpower. So—what the hell is going on here?_

"It is inconsequential what day it was," says Brennan, clearly for Sweets' benefit, but she doesn't take her eyes off Booth.

"Did you still feel that way on Friday?" Booth asks, concerned, trying to put together all the pieces.

"What happened Friday?" It's Sweets again, the fly on the wall, his voice an unintelligible buzzing in their ears.

Neither of them responds to his question. As far as they are concerned, he _is_ no longer there.

"Okay," mumbles Sweets, "Something happened on Friday." Neither of them pay any attention to him.

"I-, I didn't know what to think until … until we, uh, had dinner," she says, mumbling that last part out of the corner of her mouth.

Booth can't help chuckling at that. She grins shyly back at him.

"Shouldn't we be fighting about this?" She says in that throaty Bones-y whisper soft voice.

"Do you feel like fighting?" He says, with a hint of amusement in his tone. "We could fight if you want, I suppose," he says shrugging. Flicking a glance at Sweets, he adds, trying not to move his lips or let Sweets hear. "Of course, you know what comes after a fight …" he says, cocking an eyebrow and winking at her with the eye Sweets can't see.

"Booth, stop," she drawls, chuckling weakly. It feels good to laugh even just a little after having bawled her eyes out. Their shared humor breaking the tension, even if only for a moment.

"Do you want all the details?" He asks Brennan, seriously. "About Monday morning at the diner with Hannah?" He reaches out and tucks a couple of stray hairs behind her ear.

"I'd like the details," interjects Sweets at full volume, hoping Booth hears him this time. He's given up understanding what's going on between them. They are finally talking about the big fat elephant that's been following them room to room for over a year, standing right between them, unacknowledged.

"No one asked you, Sweets," says Booth absently. "I'm asking _you._" He says, nodding once at Brennan. "Do _you_ want the details?" He softly asks her, searching her eyes.

She waits, then says, "I do. I want all the details, about everything," she nods. "How's that for direct and honest?" She snorts.

"Okay," he says, surprised that he actually feels relief at her answer. "Uh, Hannah called me last week and asked to get together," he says, still speaking quietly.

Brennan opens her fist and slides her fingers between his, high-jacking his concentration for a moment. Booth can't suppress a little self-satisfied grin that they can do this now. He loves holding hands with her. It makes him feel so—connected.

"Continue," she says, after taking a huge breath and pulling him back from his thoughts.

"So, I met with her Monday morning, as you now know. She's leaving for Afghanistan this coming week and wanted to see before she left. She didn't want to leave thinking I hated her," he says.

"Do you?"

"Of course, I don't hate her. I was hurt, before, but I don't hate her. Actually, I'm grateful to her, to be honest," he says, looking off to the side in acknowledgment to himself of all he learned from her.

"Because she told you about your absolute truth," she says. It's not a question.

"Yep, among other things," he says, glancing at her lips, and then back up into her eyes. "She said that _you_ are my absolute truth," he says, sheepishly, looking down at their joined hands. "She said I never loved her completely; that my heart was divided. She said that having lost you, I reached for the next best thing, which just happened to be her." He stops and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, shaking his head side to side, remembering Hannah's words. It still disturbs him that she felt like a consolation prize. "She said she knew that she and I weren't meant for 'happily ever after'; she was genuinely stunned when I proposed."

"Why _did_ you ask her to marry you, Booth?" Brennan imagines stepping, tentatively, closer to the filthy box of her nastiness, crossing her arms, and standing on her tiptoes to peek inside. She is confident that if it weren't for Booth's grip on her hand, she would get sucked into that box like a crumb into a vacuum hose.

She vividly remembers the phone call she'd received from Hannah that night with news that felt like a slap to her face. When Hannah told her Booth had offered her a diamond ring and his heart on a platter, she had gotten dizzy and had to sit down, almost fell down, on the floor in the middle of her living room. It was then that she had to admit she had always considered Hannah and Booth's coupling to be temporary. After all, he and Hannah's relationship didn't have near the depth or scope that his and Brennan's had. That was a physically painful call to receive. So, she stuffed it in the filthy box.

A wisp of imaginary soot rises in curls out of the center of Brennan's black, sooty box and floats up into the nothingness above. It is one long, curing, wisp of filthy, sooty, greasy … shunned emotion. Anguish? Despair? Fury? Perhaps all three at once. Brennan blinks hard to dislodge the image as her throat threatens to tighten again. But … she's holding it together for now.

"To tell you the truth, looking back, I can't believe I proposed to her," he chagrins. "There are a lot of things I'm not ... proud of from this past year, Bones. I'm not ashamed of being with Hannah, or loving her, but proposing to her was stupid," he says, shaking his head, with a chagrined grimace.

"Why'd you do it?" She asks, knitting her eyebrows together in genuine curiosity, searching his well-formed features for the answer.

Booth says nothing at first, thinking about how that whole cluster-duck unfolded. He had felt like the conductor of a run-away freight train who, instead of standing at the wheel, was running after the train, arm outstretched, fingers grasping empty air, trying to catch it before it crashed. He looks down at their hands and covers them with his other hand.

"I'm not real proud of myself," he says, finally. "I wasn't at my best this last year." He plays with her fingers a little, pressing the pad of his ring finger against the sharp edge of one of her fingernails.

When he doesn't say anything more, Brennan can tell he's struggling. She realizes he's choked up, trying to remain in control of his emotions, and waiting until his throat relaxes enough so he can speak without giving away how much revisiting this topic bothers him.

Booth is intensely concerned that what he tells her could derail both their relationship and their partnership. In view of what he has learned over the course of this week, he finds the manner in which he conducted himself this last year reprehensible. He had resented Brennan, judged her unfairly, and hurt her; all things he would never, _ever _have done if he hadn't been so … screwed up … by his own insecurity.

Booth feels a prickly sensation behind his eyes. _Oh, no. Not here in front of Sweets. Imagine Sweets isn't here. It's just me and Bones, right? _He tries to convince himself, silently breathing in and out like a Zen Buddhist. Brennan puts her other hand on top of his, making a four-hand sandwich on Booth's lap. She waits.

_How do you explain to the woman who loves you why you proposed to someone else? _He asks himself. _How do you tell her that you made a mistake because you couldn't see the truth; were too afraid to admit the truth, even to yourself? How do you tell her that you let your resentment of her refusal drag you away from her, judge her, even if only temporarily, as __not__ the one you loved the most? How do you tell her that despite all of that you came so close to leaving that other woman ... but then didn't, because your logic was faulty, your truth weak, your interpretations tainted by a blinding hurt? How do you do that? I just don't know, _he thinks, throwing his mental hands in the air in frustration. _Focus on the prize?_ Somehow, that doesn't help. Then he remembers a favorite verse from Philippians, and smiles, giving a mental nod to the Holy Spirit in the corner who responds with a not and a simple lift of his finger.

_'I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.'_

Philippians 4:13

Brennan's voice breaks through his thoughts, saying the final words he needs to hear to get him through this.

"It's all over, Booth. It's history, and it can't hurt you. Sweets says we make our own truth, right? My truth is that your past, my past, our past, they do not change how I feel about you today. So, you can tell me, now, Booth," she says, tenderly, barely above a whisper. When he looks up, she sees how glossy his eyes are and it pierces her like a hot dagger through her breast. She squeezes his hand and waits.

"It was stupid," he says, chuckling tearfully at how ridiculous it all seems now. "I mean, not completely stupid. I did propose to her. I was convinced I loved her, Bones," he says. "I did love her."

"So what happened?"

Booth stares at their joined hands, wishing he could make it all go away. "The truth is ugly, Bones," he chokes, closing his eyes, shivering involuntarily. "You will hate me. If I tell you." He swallows. He shakes his head. _Breathe._ _I can do all things through Christ. _

"That is absurd, Booth. I could never hate you. You know me better than that," she whispers; ready to hear whatever he wants to tell her. "I Promise. I promise you, Booth."

"Cross your heart," he says, wiping his eyes with the back of his wrist. "Heh," he says, sniffing noisily. Brennan hands him a Kleenex.

"Cross my heart, or, at least, my left 4ththru 6th true ribs and costal cartilage which cover where my heart rests. I pinky swear, both literally, as well as in the air," she says, linking her pinkie finger with his briefly. "I'll even swear on the pope being Catholic, if it will make you more comfortable," she says resolutely, shaking her head for emphasis. "Whatever you have to tell me, I can take it. And I won't hate you. If it's heinously repugnant, I may require some time by myself to process—"

"I can't go another six _months,_ Bones—" Booth is shaking his head.

"I was thinking more like … fifteen—"

"I could maybe handle fifteen days—"

"I was thinking, more like fifteen minutes," she says. "Any longer would be a waste of time."

He looks at her, smiling weakly, and sends her a telepathic message. _I love you._

She lifts one eyebrow a micro-millimeter, a return a message. _You better,_ the tilt of her head and her expression say, _I've invested a lot of time and energy trying to figure this relationship out__._ And she means it. She peers into his eyes, and gives him a sympathetic wink. Lifting his hand, she softly kisses it back of it. Lowering their hands back onto the top of the pile, she rubs the spot she just kissed as if doing so will make it permanent. This was something he had done to her last night, so she knows it means something to him.

It does mean something to him, and for a moment, he can't breathe. However, her gesture makes his head throb with anxiety about potentially losing her if what he tells her … makes her hate him. He jams his eyes shut in a _dammit_ gesture, puckers his lips into a straight line, and then shakes his head.

If he's going to explain everything, Booth knows he has to start from the beginning. In choosing to propose to Hannah, he'd foolishly made a list comparing the two women. The list reflected the whole of his relationship with Brennan, as well as his relationship with Hannah. That should have been a clue—the fact that he and Brennan knew each other for much longer and on a much deeper level than he and Hannah did. If he ever did consider this, he shrugged it of as an unfair comparison since Hannah was clearly at a disadvantage through no fault of her own. The problem was that he interpreted everything else wrong as well, but didn't realize it until it was too late.

The second clue should have been that once he laid it all out, the deck was stacked in one direction only. Brennan would have told him that in almost any situation, the definitiveness of a split like this was highly unlikely, and therefore, implausible. Booth wouldn't have cared anyway. He just wanted an answer. The comparisons went a bit like this:

Hannah had moved from Afghanistan to D.C. just to be with him; Brennan had run to the Maluku Islands of Indonesia to get as far away from him as possible. Hannah was willing to fight for Booth; Brennan wouldn't even step into the ring. Hannah received Booth's kisses and returned them one thousand fold; Brennan had shoved him away the last time he tried to kiss her. Hannah loved Booth openly and freely: Brennan never knew for sure _what _she wanted. The kicker, for Booth, was the final argument: Hannah had _never_ hurt him; Brennan had broken his heart, and then asked to remain partners, breaking his heart every single day they worked together from then forward. That's a lot of hurt, which, over time, grew into a thick layer of resentment inside Booth's heart. Reflecting on all of this now, Booth swallows and attempts to ignore the cold sweat beginning to bead at his hairline.

It wasn't until weeks after Hannah left that Booth remembered those comparisons and came face to face with the realization that he'd gotten it all wrong. The knowledge that he'd made a very serious decision based upon those comparisons made him nauseous. Upon later reflection, he found that a more accurate comparison showed, without a doubt, that he had made the wrong choice.

Hannah thought she could possess Booth's heart by beating out the competition; Brennan protected his heart by accepting his new girlfriend with open arms so as not to create conflict. Brennan knew that neither time nor thousands of miles between them could sever her connection with Booth; Hannah didn't think her and Booth's relationship would survive if they were oceans apart. Brennan took her relationship with Booth so seriously that she grappled with it for months, perhaps years, overcoming many obstacles and stepping way outside her comfort zone. Hannah moved in with Booth without thinking about it for more than five minutes. Brennan is committed to uncovering the truth at all costs; Hannah makes a living swaying public opinion by publicizing an interpretation of the facts through her writing. Brennan always spoke her mind; Hannah chose her words carefully and rarely challenged anything he said, unless it had to do with her career. Brennan loved him, the real him; the gambler, the killer, the father, the person. Hannah did not even know him, at least not all of him. Hannah loved the person she thought Booth was, but not the person he truly was.

Now, before telling Brennan about why he did some of the things he did, he decides to say a quick prayer.

"Let nothing disturb me nothing afright me all things are passing God never changes patient endurance attains all things God alone suffices," he spits out in one fervent string, then takes a deep breath.

Then, for good measure, he adds, _"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."_

Brennan is accustomed to hearing an occasional prayer issuing from Booth's lips, so this doesn't phase her. It's actually comforting to her to know that he has mechanisms in place to calm himself, boost his confidence. She likens it to meditation, a practice she herself uses with regularity.

Hearing Booth's impassioned prayer, the Holy Spirit appears suddenly, standing behind the loveseat between Brennan and Booth. Soundlessly, he puts his own much larger hand on top of theirs. This, of course, is all in Booth's mind, but it gives him a boost of confidence, a shot of courage, and a great deal of peace to know that he is truly not alone, physically or spiritually, at this moment.

Having pumped himself up, Booth ventures forward, asking the Holy Spirit to put the right words into his mouth.

"You probably think I hit rock bottom when Hannah turned down my proposal," he begins, "but it was way before that. It was shortly after the night of … you and me … on the steps right outside here," he says, nodding in the direction of where those steps are in relation to where they now sit. "It was after telling Sweets about our very first case together. Remember?" For the first time, it occurs to Booth that he and Brennan have never, in almost two years since that night, talked about this with each other.

Brennan's shoulders drop. It still pains her to think about that night. She had spent many an evening, for the first time in her life, second-guessing a decision she'd made. She heaves a heavy sigh.

Clearing his throat, he opens his eyes. "It killed me that you wanted to remain partners." He shakes his head and smirks. "It would have been so much easier to make a clean break, get you a different partner, maybe transfer to Chicago, or … anywhere but here." He sighs. "But I couldn't have stayed away from you if I'd tried, even if it ended me," he says, swallowing noisily. "But, I was supposed to be moving on, right? And, I wasn't thinking clearly. I was so lost, Bones," he says, chuffing dejectedly, then releasing another sigh. "I'd been lost ever since that night."

He's stopped by the tightness in his chest, the strain in his vocal chords**. **His whole face adopting a pinched expression, he swallows, and focuses on their joined hands, keeping his eyes as wide open as possible so his eyes don't spill over. If he can do that long enough, he believes his yet-to-fall tears will subside or reabsorb. He wonders what Brennan would have to say about that. Hm.

"I felt—" he presses his fingertips into his chest, "broken, Bones. I wanted the world to stop spinning so I could get off. Just … I wanted off. I would have done anything to turn back the clock, make that night not happen so we could go back to normal. After that night, things started to change between us. A touch wasn't just a touch anymore. It started to feel awkward around you. I thought twice or three times before showing up at your place unannounced. I questioned my motivations for everything. Sometimes I called instead of dropping by the Jeffersonian."

Sweets recalls Brennan's calculated list of Booth's altered behavior, the list she used to convince Sweets that Booth may no longer have loved her.

"I found myself angry and resentful that the best part of my life, other than Parker, was turning to crap," he says, pausing for a moment. "I wanted to scream. I ranted at you in my head," he says, watching her closely to see if she's offended or upset. "Sorry, Bones," he says.

"Nothing to apologize for, Booth. I find your honesty refreshing," she says, smirking empathetically. "Believe me, I've had many an impassioned and colorful argument with you in my mind over the last year," she says soberly. "Of course, I won most of those arguments."

Booth smiles nervously at her comment, but her face remains serious.

"At first, I had been sad and depressed; a puppy hit on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. I was disgusted with myself for pushing you when I knew, _I knew,_ you weren't ready. But, no, I had to jump right in there, be the risk taker, the gambler."

Booth, screws up the side of his mouth and turns toward Sweets.

"Sweets, you bastard," he says, out of the blue.

"What? It's not my fault you weren't equipped at that time!"

"No," says Booth, jutting out his jaw and shooting Sweets the stink eye across the coffee table. "But you were the one who encouraged me, actually goaded me, to gamble that night. That's why I asked her," Booth's words are accusatorial, but his tone is only weakly irritated.

"Oh," says Sweets, a blank look on his face. "My bad." He sinks into his seat with an expression that says, _rookie screw-up!_ "Look, I didn't realize how ill equipped you two were at the time. I was all caught up in my theory about the dam breaking if you ever kissed. I really thought you were ready. I underestimated the degree—"

"It's okay, Sweets," says Booth, shrugging it off. "We did a fine job of screwing things up all by ourselves.

"Booth, look at me," she says after a minute, dipping her head to catch his eyes. "I wasn't strong enough when you first asked me to give our relationship a chance," she says, with a catch in her throat. "I … underestimated the physiological and psychological impact it would have on both of us, but I just couldn't lose you," she insists. "I thought I would lose you if we tried and failed, or worse, that I would crush your heart. And I couldn't do that," she finishes, her own eyes glossy, a few tears threatening to make a run for freedom.

"Well, I kept thinking that you would change your mind, Bones. I hoped. I dated a couple of other people, but none of them held a candle to you – I mean, they weren't you. I tried to make it appear like I was moving on, hoping you would realize it was a mistake, us not being together. But when you said you needed to go to Maluku, I thought – this is it! Oh, my God, it … is really over! It didn't matter that we'd be seeing each other in a year. A year was a long time. A lot could happen in a year … I was so lost. Bones, I was lost without you. I'm still lost without you," now he's the one with the catch in his throat.

"I'm here, Booth. And I'm not going anywhere. I swear to you, I'm not going anywhere," she says, fervently, squeezing his hands even more tightly.

"So, when we went our separate ways, I swore I was giving up women. Who needs more heartache? I thought, hey, I'll be in Afghanistan … working all the time, how hard could it be?" Booth pauses for a moment. He wants her to understand how devastated he was, how rock- bottom he felt, but he doesn't want to rub Hannah in her face. "Then, like a knight in shining camouflage, in walks Hannah Burley," he says, pausing. _Good job not rubbing Bones' face in it,_ he thinks, chastising himself. _Well, it is what it is …_ he thinks, continuing. "She saw me as a hero. Then I kissed her – but I was only going to kiss her, and then—"

"Accidental pie," supplies Brennan, with a sigh and a grimace. "I'm noticing a pattern here, Booth," she says, carefully.

He stops. He smirks at her, chewing on his bottom lip. "You may have a point," he murmurs. He knows exactly what she's referring to. Truthfully, he's had a lot of accidental pie since he and Rebecca split up. Rebecca several times, then Camille, now Hannah. Even his first very first sexual experience was accidental pie. Hm. Interesting. _Will Bones be my first truly intentional pie?_ He wonders, tucking these random thoughts in the back of his mind to share with Brennan later. _Maybe._

"So," he says, getting back on point, "I thought, why not? I'm supposed to be moving on, right? As broken as I was, Hannah seemed like the perfect antidote. So I let myself fall for her. And it was ... nice. For the first time in a really long time, I started to feel good again."

Brennan wants to cry. She can picture him there, on the other side of the world. He was there only because she made him go. Maybe not directly, but she was the reason he left. She can see him lost, alone, and miserable. She feels that elephant stepping on her chest again. _I am as much to blame for that as … _she thinks, her mind wandering. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end when sparks sputter out of the top of her nasty, stinky imaginary box of greasy sludge. _What is that all about?_ She wonders, disturbed. _Am I … responsible? She shakes her head, unwilling to look closely at the box_. As she looks away, the miserable box begins jiggling again to regain her attention. It hops up and down, sparks popping out the top each time it lands._ Screw that, _she thinks._ I'm not going near that alone_. She mentally turns her back on the box_._

Booth sucks in a full breath through his nose and blows it back out through his mouth. Then, he does it again, looking straight at Brennan the whole time. She's the focus point keeping him anchored, keeping him from flying apart. Brennan nods at him, a tear resting on her cheek just below her eye. She tilts her head, in doing so, that tear makes a run for it, landing on her shirt.

Brennan hadn't expected him to be celibate while they were apart. _We didn't have any agreement other than to meet at the coffee cart in exactly one year_, she remembers. She had returned from Maluku ready to tell him that she wanted to give their relationship a chance. She'd decided to tell him that she loved him, and wanted more for them together. When she learned how serious he was about this new girlfriend, Hannah, she stuffed any romantic inklings she'd harbored into that little black box.

When Booth doesn't say anything for a while, Brennan jumps in with some of her own memories from that difficult time.

"I was angry and miserable when you came back and told me you had met some one. I could have gotten over it if your relationship had been over, but then Hannah moved here. I was devastated. I was crushed." _I do feel responsible. Irrationally, perhaps, but I do feel responsible for him finding Hannah_, she thinks, turning back toward the box without advancing. _Then, I supported their relationship. How irrational is that? Verifiably. Unequivocally. _

Her cheeks are on fire and her sinuses are getting that pre-cry tart sensation. When she'd finally had her epiphany about not wanting to have regrets, she had decided she had to go against every instinct she possessed, and tell him about it. She had to do it, even though she was almost certain it would lead to disaster.

"I was angry that I didn't get the message from the universe that I would regret never giving us a chance to be together … I didn't get that message until it was too late and I'd missed my chance."

Remembering that night, Booth sighs, and begins again. "When I was starting to feel like I was _somewhat _getting my life back together … you came and told me you'd changed your mind. Bones, I was … so … _frustrated,_" he says, looking in her eyes, his chin quivering slightly. "I was … standing next to my own doppelgänger. I was devastated, Bones," he says, just now realizing that he and Brennan have never, in the almost two years since that night, talked about this together. He pauses, thinking about this for a moment. Sighing heavily, he abruptly stands and walks toward the windows. _Here comes the nasty part._

"For weeks I walked around in turmoil. How could I be in this position? How could I get myself in this stinking hot mess? What kind of cosmic joke was being played on me?" He sputters, his back to his colleagues. Scratching his head vigorously, he exhales a hiss of frustration. Turning back to Brennan and Sweets, he stands, his fists clenched, his body rigid, his frustration palpable.

"What did you expect me to do when you told me how you felt, Bones? Drop everything? Leave Hannah?"

Her look says, _Yes!_ But her lips say, "That would have been completely irrational, Booth."

"But, is that what you were thinking?" He presses her.

"Wanting and expecting are two different things, Booth," she pleads, it's a slippery, noncommittal answer, and she knows it. "It would have been irrational. And selfish," she says, feeling caught.

"Did you want me to just drop her on her ass, a woman who loved me, to go be with someone else?"

The irony of that statement as it hangs in the stale air of Sweet's office, still vibrating off the walls, makes everyone in the room want to throw up.

Booth turns back toward the windows, hand over his mouth. He shakes his head.

"Every. Damn. Day. I vacillated," he says. "One day, I was ready to break up with Hannah and come find you. The next day, you and I would get in an argument and all the anger and resentment flooded back. The day after that, you'd do something … amazing … and I missed you so badly I couldn't even eat." He had lost eleven and a half pounds over a two-week period, and he'd barely slept for over a month as he grappled with what to do. "I missed the hope of us being together, Bones," he says, looking over at her with a hard, pained expression on his face. Brennan can see that he is working very hard to keep it together.

Brennan gasps, her mouth falling open. She had never known that he considered, even for a minute, leaving Hannah for her. She puts her fist in front of her mouth, bites the side of her index finger. And she's never seen him quite this upset.

Finally, Brennan finds her voice. "I would _never_ have asked that of you, Booth," she knows she had no right to expect that. She'd had her chance, and she'd lost it. Telling him of her feelings was irrational … she didn't know _what_she expected.

He turns back and stares at her, both hands on his hips. He sighs heavily and closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes. He hadn't expected to get this … affected … by these memories. "That was the most _awful _period of my life, my adult life, at least," he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. He shakes his head. He keeps shaking his head, as if arguing with himself or regretting something.

"I wish you would have—" he replies, finally.

"What? Why, Booth? Why?" Chokes Brennan, closing her eyes, against the insanity of that whole situation.

"I don't know! Maybe I wanted proof that you were willing to be irrational and selfish … when it comes to … me."

"Don't you know that you make me irrational and selfish already?" She argues.

"You know what? You're not the only one who needs a little … tangible … proof every once in a while," says Booth semi-defensively.

"I knew in my heart you wouldn't leave her, Booth—even if I—"

"What, Bones? _What did you want?" _He says when she can't finish her sentence.

"What does it matter what I wanted?" She says, with a despairing shrug as she falls back against the couch cushions.

"It mattered, it matters to me!" He says.

"It would have been the most selfish thing I'd ever have done," she chokes, her face bearing a stony expression. A painful-sounding noise between a groan and a sob starts to erupt from her throat, but she catches and swallows it. This upsets the imaginary sooty box. In her mind, she's walked right up to that box with her hands on her hips. _I've had just about enough of you,_ she thinks, as she prepares to give it a swift kick. She stops short when a glass globe containing a mass of swirling soot rises out of the box and hovers, humming, in front of her. She holds her breath, unsure what to do. There are several pieces of ripped newspaper swirling around inside the globe. She looks closer, squints and catches the words as they float by several times.

**_Speak your truth. You have a legitimate truth. Speak it, and validate your mate._**

Holding her breath as best she can, she speaks, her words emerging clipped and emotional. "Yes, Booth. _Yes, of course, I wanted you to choose me over her!_" She gasps, taking a deep breath before continuing. _I hate that box, _she thinks.

"I thought, if there was even the slightest chance … that you still loved me … even in science there are anomalies, outliers, to every scenario … inexplicable … if there was the slightest chance … I know it was exceptionally irrational … I shouldn't have even thought—" She finally allows several overdue, juicy tears to stream down her cheek. "It was selfish of me to even tell you of my epiphany," she says, clenching her jaw, trying to control the urge to completely break down.

"I'm sorry. I am sorry," chokes Booth. Before he knows what he's doing, he takes one long stride toward her, grabs her right hand, pulls her off the couch, and crushes her to his chest. "I'm sorry for all of it," he breathes into the hair behind her ear. "What scares me is that if you had asked-" he pauses, unable to finish the sentence. He closes his eyes, rocking his head against hers. It scares him because it would have verified what he'd been trying to deny: that he was with the wrong woman.

"What, Booth?" she says, her voice muffled against his tee shirt.

"I-, I probably would have—" He exhales, for the first time allowing himself to verbalize a truth he hasn't until this moment, allowed himself to admit. Fortunately, Sweets can't see Booth's face, he can only see Brennan's, so Booth sighs heavily, sinks his nose into her neck and hair, and releases his own quiet tears.

It feels amazing to have her in his arms after all they've been going through this afternoon. Neither of them wants to let go. It is such a relief to have their bodies up against each other; it's a challenge not to let their lips do the same, which is what they are burning to do. Brennan wants to rub her cheek against Booth's, but that would not appear at all platonic.

Booth is fighting the urge to drag his chin slowly from under her chin back to that soft spot behind her ear that makes her crazy. That thought alone brings him to the conclusion that an emotionally fraught release like this would make for powerful foreplay for some amazingly awesome sex. Brennan is having the exact same thought. But they are in Sweets office, and they are not alone.

Sweets, of course, is watching this entire display and finding it quite fascinating. For a moment, he wonders if he should leave them alone, but decides against it. _This is my office, and this is a session. Not a make-out session, a therapy session. I'm not leaving. And I can't wait to hear what they have to say about this … whatever this interaction here is called._ _They are obviously more than just partners and friends. That much is abundantly clear. A blind man could figure that much out. Fascinating_, he thinks, grinning ear to ear. Neither of them notices him observing them with rapt attention.

Coming to her senses, Brennan pulls away from Booth, self-consciously, and pats Booth on the shoulder companionably, then sits back down in her corner of the couch.

"That must have been very difficult for you, Booth," she says, clearing her throat. Her capillaries are having a party on her face and neck, and her hair is damp and messy behind her right ear. When Sweets eyes meet Brennan's, he notices that her pupils are huge. _Definitely a sign of sexual interest, _he thinks. She meets his gaze with a penetrating gaze of her own. She's decided to play poker. What she doesn't realize, however, is that she's holding her hand with the faces showing.

Booth, on the other hand, is rubbing his ruddy neck, trying to suppress a slightly self-satisfied yet sheepish grin. He's failing miserably, and completely aware of it. As a result, he doesn't dare make eye contact with Sweets, and he's suddenly uncharacteristically fascinated with the color of Sweets' office carpeting.

_Nice try_, thinks Sweets. _I may have been born during the day, but not yesterday. They are most definitely already a couple. Why they are not having sex is a mystery to me. If that were Daisy and I, we'd already be naked and horizontal right there on the couch, and you'd be able to make smiley faces in the condensation covering the windows. Interesting. Hm._

* * *

><p>Once back on the love seat, Brennan and Booth sit in their respective corners; each leaning an elbow on an armrest, their temples resting on their respective upraised fists. Both sets of legs are crossed, facing in the opposite direction of the other person. If you'd just walked into the room, you might think these two either didn't know each other or have recently had an argument; such is the distance they have created between themselves.<p>

If they could have taken seats across the room from each other to dilute Sweets' impression of the embrace he just witnessed, they would have. Booth is now able to look Sweets in the eye, and gives nothing away. He is an expert poker player. However, he knows the jig is up. He's not sure if the same goes for Brennan, so he's committed to following her lead. She is, after all, the instigator of the kibosh on publicizing their relationship.

Sweets considers the options: acknowledge what he suspects is going on, or wait for them to do it. Surely there is a rational explanation for why they haven't admitted it to him. He just hasn't figured it out yet. However, throughout this conversation, the two have all but said, _'You know I love you; let's get busy'._ Sweets stands by his earlier assessment about their lack of consummation, and finds this particular aspect of the puzzle very interesting.

Recalling Brennan's earlier assertion that her sex life is no longer open for discussion, Sweets comes to a conclusion. _Ah hah, she's the one who wants to keep this quiet,_ thinks Sweets. _Now I get it. Okay. I can respect that. Follow her lead._

While Brennan muses pensively about feeling responsible for Booth going off to Afghanistan and falling for Hannah, Sweets and Booth have a bit of a stare down. Booth is still giving nothing away. In his mind, Booth hears the theme song from '_The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly'_, and imagines dusty tumbleweeds rolling through the office. He looks away for a moment, taking a mental inventory of his firearms. _I feel naked without my gun,_ he thinks. _Man, I'd love to be a cowboy. That would be awesome,_ he thinks_. I actually am a cowboy, in a way. _He can't help smiling to himself. Yes, his thoughts are a little distracted and loopy right now, but give the guy a break, he's emotionally drained and more than a little high on endorphins.

"What are you looking at, Sweets?" Booth challenges Sweets,adopting an air of irritation, when he notices the younger man unabashedly starring at him. "Are you interested in buying a tee shirt?" Says Booth, pulling on the collar of his shirt, letting it fall with a _thwap!_ "You can have this one if you like it that much," he says, with more than a tinge of snark.

At first, Sweets is caught off guard. _What the hell …?_ He thinks, squinting, confused, at the other man. Then he gets it. It's a warning. _Don't put your nose where it doesn't belong. _Sweets purses his lips and nods slowly_. Clever_, he thinks. Tonight is lady's choice. Keep your mouth shut.

Booth watches Sweets figuring it out. He knows exactly how to interpret the pinched, uncertain expression, which slowly relaxes as comprehension dawns. Reading people is one of Booth's super powers. To him, it's almost as if Sweets is thinking out loud.

Sweets looks up and finds Booth watching him intently. Booth's eyebrows are raised, his face tilted up, as if he's asking a question. When Sweets grins, Booth relaxes his questioning glare and nods once, confirming what Sweets had been thinking.

Finally, in an unprecedented move, Booth, despite his healthy portion of machismo and his alpha male status, winks and smiles smugly at Sweets. He looks like the cat that ate the canary. Sweets imagines a delicate yellow feather stuck to Booth's chin – then imagines it turns the color of Brennan's hair. Sweets gasps, then clears his throat to cover it up. Then, he can't help giggling to himself, and shaking his head. Message received. _The eagle has landed,_ thinks Sweets, straightening his tie. _Well, I'll be damned. _

When Sweets looks back at Booth, he's met with a stern, warning look. In response, Sweets grimaces back and nods, acknowledging that he understands and will respect Brennan's wishes.

* * *

><p>Brennan, oblivious to what has been transpiring all around her, brings the mood in the room back to serious. Her arms across her chest once more, her lips set in a tight grimace.<p>

"Booth, I've made so many mistakes. And so many of them hurt you. I've failed you ever since—"

She stops, not wanting to mention that night on the steps in front of the Hoover Building one more time. "At every fork in the road, I chose the wrong path," she says, dropping her forehead into her left hand, and laying her other hand flat upon the couch cushion between them. She shakes her head, frustrated with herself.

"What are you talking about? I am the one who has failed you, all on my own, it's all on me, Bones." He turns toward her and he won't let her take responsibility for his choices. He was the one who made them; he will own up to them. Besides, she doesn't know that half of it. She doesn't know about the stupid comparisons he made … or his skewed rationality that had him convinced making a definite choice between the two women would make things easier on him. No, that was all his own mess.

He covers her hand with his, wrapping his fingers around hers, and in an impassioned voice, he says, "Bones, you have to know that you have always… _always_ … been enough for me. More than enough. Way more than enough. And you have not failed me. You did what you had to do," he sighs. It's an acceptance that all is well that ends well, regardless of the broken road along the way.

"Despite how much it hurt at the time, I have to say that I shouldn't have expected you to do anything else," he says, leaning toward her sideways and searching her eyes. "You always remained true to yourself." He says, smiling warmly at her, looking from one eye to the other and back. _Which is more than I can say for myself,_ he thinks, though he's not entirely sure he's figured out the extent of it.

_I love it when you look at me that way,_ thinks Brennan, relaxing and returning a timid smile.

"There's still a lot you don't know—" Booth says then, straightening up in his seat and loosening his grip on her hand. She pulls her hand out from underneath his, with a self-conscious glance toward Sweets, and pats Booth's hand. She squeezes it, and then crosses her arms again, tucking both hands behind her arms. Booth drums his abandoned fingers on the couch cushion for a beat. _It's time to tell her about the rest of what Hannah told me,_ he decides. He finally glances over and into her eyes. She's not convinced that he believes this, that she is enough for him.

He swallows. "There's still a lot you don't know. I'm the one who's—" he starts, then pauses. "I'm the one who should be worried about not being enough," he says, then shrugs sheepishly. "I'm finding out this week that there's a lot I really don't get about women."

"You are very intuitive about all people, Booth."

"Apparently not about the women who are important to me. I seem to walk around in a bubble of idiocy where they are concerned."

Booth doesn't see Sweets' slow grin and nod at this revelation. Sweets muses that most men are clueless … and misunderstood; not a good combination. "Men have a difficult time expressing their emotions, much less interpreting others' emotions, Agent Booth. Contrary to popular belief, men are actually very delicate creatures; misunderstood the majority of the time. We, many of us, don't learn how to express ourselves until much later in life, if at all." Neither Booth nor Brennan look at Sweets while he speaks, but he knows they hear him by their pensive expressions.

Booth turns to Sweets and shoots him a glance that says, _did you __have__ to call us delicate creatures? I need to get you a dictionary of manly words. Geez._

"Well, I had no idea that Hannah knew she and I didn't have a future together, or how she knew I still loved you in a way that kept part of me from her. I had absolutely no clue about all the things you did for me while I was with her," says Booth, finding her eyes.

"What are you talking about?" Brennan's brows knit together.

"Oh, Hannah clued me in on a number of things I was completely oblivious to," he says. Brennan's face grows even more pinched in confusion. Booth nods. "Yeah, like how you told her about the antique telephone I'd been searching for…"

"But, you knew she got that idea from me. That was no secret. Anyone would have done that," she says, shrugging it off.

"No, they wouldn't," he says, chuckling, slowly shaking his head.

She grimaces. _That's absurd,_ her expression says.

"How you made sure her surgeon fixed that thing in her leg so she wouldn't die—"

"That was clearly due to the incompetence of the medical staff. Most medical professionals don't possess the interdisciplinary expertise that would have uncovered the obvious –," she wanders off into her head, then stops. "Anyway, anyone who knew what I knew would have discovered the error and alerted the appropriate medical professional."

Booth grimaces, remembering how Hannah had commented that Brennan could have literally let her die – but chose to save her, Hannah's, life. The life of the woman who stood between her and the man she loved.

"How you … told her to be sure that she loved me before moving in with me," continues Booth, speaking in a low voice, "because I would give her my whole heart—"

"But— that just makes sense—"

Booth shrugs off her dismissal, and continues.

"How you told her to be careful out on the street because I would be devastated if anything happened to her—"

"Booth, I—" Brennan starts, blushing.

Booth reaches over and pulls her hand back to the center of the couch once more. She resists, but only superficially.

"Booth—" she objects, flicking a look over at Sweets. With an amused grin, Booth slowly shakes his head at her and slides his fingers between hers, refusing to let her pull away when she tries half-heartedly. _Sorry, but this is how it's going to be,_ his look tells her.

Brennan looks to Sweets and rolls her eyes. Her expression says, _Booth is such a baby, sheesh!_ She rationalizes that when they were holding hands earlier, it was because she was distressed and required comforting. No one is stressed right now, so— holding hands isn't really necessary. However, this doesn't stop her from shooting Booth a slow, grateful smile when she returns her attention to him, or from giving his hand a quick, almost imperceptible squeeze.

"How you offered your friendship," continues Booth, with an appreciative smile, "when what she had been expecting – and looking for - was a catfight."

"What does that mean?"

"She came here to compete with you for my affections."

"What? How archaic and a waste of time," she says, disgustedly. She wonders if she should be offended somehow. "That's absurd. In antiquity, cultures may have chosen mates based on competitive prowess or the proffering of chattel, but no longer. If that were the case, she would have had no chance. I'm quite wealthy and could have easily out bid her –" she states, confidently.

"Well, that's what she expected when she came here – and you never fought," says Booth, shrugging.

"She probably thought I didn't love you," says Brennan. "Why did everyone think I didn't love you? I find that intensely frustrating," she says, swallowing hard. "People unjustly label me a ice maiden, but it isn't true at all and it never was."

"I know that," says Booth, with a gentle grin, his eyes twinkling for her. _How wrong they are,_ he thinks.

"I wanted you to be happy, Booth. Why doesn't anyone understand that?" Brennan looks over at Sweets as if the shrink should have an answer. Sweets shrugs and grimaces. He, himself, may not have always agreed with her tactics, but he had always understood Brennan's behavior regarding Hannah.

"Campaigning against Hannah would be counterproductive to the certainty of your happiness," she says.

"She also told me that you let her spend the night at your apartment the night I kicked her out," says Booth, his eyebrows high, his lips pressed together between his teeth. He's looking at her like she had been keeping a secret with this one.

Brennan exhales carefully. This had felt like a betrayal to Booth somehow: harboring the fugitive on the eve of her expulsion. That whole evening was an emotional disaster for Brennan. She didn't know how Booth would take it if he knew Hannah was at her place. And she had no intention of telling him about that. Why would she?

"Booth, are you angry with me for that?" She asks, swallowing dryly. "It was late at night. She was under a great deal of stress. It was the least I could do. Most people in my position would have done the same. Please don't be angry, Booth."

"I'm not angry," he says, turning his head side to side, "It was a perfectly Bones-y thing to do. Perfectly in character." _God, I love you,_ he thinks, looking down at her lips, then back up to her eyes. "But most people aren't like you, Bones." He says, smiling wanly, holding her gaze for a moment before continuing. _You are extraordinary,_ he thinks. "Hannah could see that. She understood that I loved you … she figured out that she could never win against that kind of artillery."

"I never would have fought her. I would have just shot her," offers Brennan. Then cracks a smile. It was a joke. She can't help snorting. Booth rolls his eyes.

"You," he says, shaking his head. "Can't take you _anywhere …"_ Booth rolls his eyes, then twinkles a smile at her.

"And yet you continue to," she says back, as she always does when he says that. "Why did she tell you … about those things?" Brennan is genuinely curious.

"Because you didn't. Maybe she thought it would make a difference for me."

"I didn't do it to gain your approval, Booth."

"I know," he admits.

"Or to win your affection, or gain Boy Scout points," she adds, weary of people erroneously interpreting her behavior. "I just. Wanted. You. _To be happy!_ Why can no one accept that?" She drops her shoulders in resignation that human behavior does not make much sense to her most of the time.

"You were loving me, Bones, even when I was …" he shakes his head, chews on his bottom lip, shrugs.

"Even when you were … what?" She asks, quizzically.

"Living a lie," he finishes, pensively.

"What?' Asks Brennan.

"I was lying to myself. I may not have been conscious of it, exactly, at the time. Well, part of me was—"

"That's why you were so conflicted, Agent Booth," says Sweets sagely, in a non-obtrusive tone. "You had waged an internal battle against yourself. It's one of the most challenging human experiences. So you were struggling against yourself—"

"The Native American and First Nations tribes believe in berdaches, which is an outdated term meaning _two-spirits._ It most commonly refers to a person of bisexual nature who believes they are indwelt by both a male and a female spirit. However, North American Aboriginals used the term two-spirits more abstractly, to indicate presence of two contrasting human spirits such as Warrior and Clan Mother, or two contrasting animal spirits. It's actually not an impossibility that you, temporarily, felt the presence of two warring spirits within you. You were under a great deal of stress."

"You were inconstant, Agent Booth, within yourself," offers Sweets.

Booth shoots him a befuddled look.

"It means 'unfaithful, unreliable'," he says, hoping, for the second time this evening he doesn't get hit by the older man.

Booth is stopped short by that little piece of trivia. He's fixating on the word 'unfaithful', and can't get past it. His eyes get big and he rears back against the couch. He's looking at Sweets like he's not sure he heard him correctly. He shakes his head as if to clear it, and squints at Sweets expectantly.

"What did you just say?" Booth asks Sweets.

"You had said, _'You were loving me, Bones, even when I was being',_ and then you said, '_living a lie', _which psychologically points toward inconstancy, unfaithfulness," supplies Sweets, sitting up and scooting his chair a bit further back toward his desk. He stares at Booth, unflinching. Booth has to be the first to look away, because Sweets is adamant on this point. He's been aware of Booth's struggle with his own inconstancy for quite a while. He couldn't tell Booth, though; Booth had to figure it out himself.

Booth grapples with this information. The possibility that unfaithful is exactly what he has been. _Is this the truth that has been kicking my ass for the last almost two years?_ He wonders.

"When have I ever been … unfaithful?" He says, speaking to no one in particular, and puckering on the word 'unfaithful' as if he's sucking on a lemon while doing it. He's thinking out loud, staring off into space. He feels like Alice in Wonderland. _Have I just fallen into an alternate universe?_ He wonders. _I have never been a cheater. Never. Maybe unreliable this past year, but never a—_

He snaps a look over at Brennan. Surely she knows this is horse puckey. _She knows me. She knows I've never been unfaithful!_

"Bones, you know I am not an unfaithful person. You know I have never cheated in my life, right?"

"Agent Booth—" starts Sweets, before he's shushed by Booth's palm being shoved in Sweets' direction.

"Bones," he starts, supplication in his entire posture and voice, "You gotta tell me … I was never with you when I was with Hannah, or with her when I was with you, or with Cam or Rebecca when I was with anyone else. How can this make any sense?" He slides back against the couch, his knee pumping like crazy. "I have never cheated on anyone. So why did I feel like I was cheating the entire time Hannah was here in D.C. with me?" Letting go of Brennan's hand, he leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, and drops his head into his hands. He takes several deep breaths.

_Why isn't she saying anything? What is going on here? Copulating donkey turds! Could this be true? Have I missed something? Why isn't she saying anything? _He feels a gurgling sensation in his gut, a cold chill washes over his exterior. _This isn't happening. This is bovine feces._

In the midst of his silent befuddlement, with his face still planted in his hands, Booth becomes aware of a tentative gentle finger pressing into him between his fifth and sixth vertebra. Vertically, this is half way between his shoulder and his hip. Then, he senses two or three fingers steadily pressing gently into him, on either side of the first finger. His eyes still closed, he focuses on the warming sensation in the middle of his back. He doesn't want to accept her attempt to sooth him, because he's shocked; irritated with himself, maybe even disgusted right now. But he can't help it, he can't not be soothed by her touch, so he relents, relaxing slightly. He breathes a jagged shallow breath, and he feels like crying. _Who am I?_ He wonders. _Who have I become? _His mind goes blank._ And why is she still with me? _

Slowly, all five warm fingers of Brennan's hand, Booth's mate's hand, rest on the middle of Booth's back, followed by her soft palm. Booth takes a deep breath, nodding. Brennan's hand rises and falls with his rib cage. Slowly pushing her palm closer to his spinal column, she stops just short of it. She stops exactly here, pressing into his latissimus dorsi, because it is the largest muscle in the back. Her intent is to radiate as much comfort as possible, with as little contact as possible, because she knows anything more would overwhelm him; it would feel like an attempt to control him.

Booth takes several deep breaths. He knows that if it were anyone else touching him right now, he would have shrugged them off and stormed from the room. Headed straight for the firing range. _I have never been— unfaithful, _he thinks.

"I have never been unfaithful," he says, still to no one but himself. He's stunned, flooded with so many emotions at once that he couldn't identify them if he wanted to. He turns his head to the left to look in Bones' eyes. _Have I? _Is the question in his expression_. _Her face is empathetically twisted into an expression of serious anguish.

Booth hears her voice. It's so faint, and he thinks he's imagining it. Then, he hears it again.

"Focus on the prize. Focus on the prize, Booth." She is saying it so quietly, that it's no louder than a breath. "Look at me," she whispers, equally as quietly. He can't. He can't look at her. He doesn't want to look at her. He has been unfaithful. "Look at me, Booth," she breathes. He still can't. He doesn't have the energy. He leans slightly toward her and lets the laws of physics take over until he's fully leaning sideways against her breast, her arm stretches across his back, her hand gently pulsing his shoulder. He realizes he's shaking slightly. _Low blood sugar,_ he thinks. _It's just low blood sugar._

"Agent Booth, if I may?" It's Sweets, speaking very gently so as not to jar either of his colleagues. "Betrayal comes in many forms. It does not define a person, nor is it insurmountable. However, putting a name to it is helpful in that process," explains Sweets in a near whisper. He glances at Brennan, who has been looking at him since he began speaking.

Brennan grimaces appreciation at Sweets, pauses, holds his gaze, then nods once. He knows he can continue.

"Dr. Brennan, would it be fair to say that you felt betrayed, _either justifiably or not_, when Agent Booth returned from Afghanistan involved in a relationship with someone else, a relationship that he categorized as 'serious as a heart attack'?"

She says nothing. She has stopped breathing. Please don't hate me for this, she thinks, jamming her eyes shut momentarily. "I really had no right to... " she stammers.

Booth lifts his head, and looks at her. He's still leaning on his knees. He doesn't want to hear this, that she felt betrayed. _I can't win! _He thinks.

"We weren't—" She can't go further.

"Dr. Brennan, I did not ask you if you made a rational choice. I asked you—"

"Yes," she says, admitting the ugly truth. The tiny black, sooty box in her mind coughs up a slice of newspaper print with burnt edges. The headline reads, 'I felt betrayed'. The long curl of paper lingers over the smoky box like a ping pong ball being held in the air by a hair dryer.

"I felt betrayed … a bit," she says, guiltily looking in Booth's eyes. "I didn't want to. I tried not to. It wasn't fair of me. It wasn't rational. I'd dug my own hole. I couldn't blame you. I had no hold on you. We didn't promise anything. We had no agreement—" She's being going on as if on automatic pilot.

"It's okay, Bones. I get it now," says Booth. "You felt betrayed," he says, surrendered to Brennan's truth. "I can see that. I understand that," he says, calmly, shaking his head. "Just let me get my head around this for a minute before I say something stupid," he says, sitting back, his cheeks puffing out when he blows the contents of his lungs into the atmosphere.

"I had no right to, Booth. You weren't mine," she says, apologetically, a sick feeling in her abdomen just from uttering those words.

"Hannah probably felt the same way," sighs Booth, dejectedly.

"She had no right to either, Agent Booth." Offers Sweets, trying to get Booth to the next conclusion by presenting arguments that Booth will most likely not allow himself to believe. Sweets hopes they will direct him to the root of his problem. "Did both women feel betrayed? Perhaps. But, by all accounts, you didn't date, kiss, or behave inappropriately with anyone you were not in an established romantic relationship with," Says Sweets, giving Booth just enough rope to hang himself on the tree of self-revelation.

"Maybe not by the books, but in here," he says, pressing his fingers into his chest, "In here I did."

After a moment, Booth exhales forcefully with an, "Uuuuunnnnnnnnnggghhhhhhhhhhhh!" Resting his neck on the back of the couch, he closes his eyes, and lays a forearm over his eyes.

_Bingo, Baby,_ thinks Sweets. "So then, who were you unfaithful to, Agent Booth?"

Booth doesn't reply. He stares up at the ceiling.

Brennan watches him, not moving for a minute. She's not sure what to do. She glances at Sweets, and starts to turn back to Booth, but Sweets catches her eye.

Sweets gives her a thumbs-up, a double blink, and a nod. _He's going to be fine,_ his look says.

Booth is lost in his own fog of a myriad of emotions and thoughts. _She did all those things for me. She just wanted me to be happy. And in appreciation, what did I do when she finally confessed her love? I turned away and proposed to Hannah despite what everyone knew, including Hannah and even me on some level. I proposed to Hannah despite still being in love with Bones_. Realizing this, Booth slips another piece into the puzzle and comes to an ugly conclusion. He _had_ been unfaithful. Maybe not as far as anyone else was concerned, but he had been unfaithful to himself.

* * *

><p>"I loved two women. I loved you more, much more, but I had been suppressing those feelings for so long, I wasn't sure about it anymore," he says, pausing. He stands up and walks over to the window, his back to Brennan and Sweets.<p>

He doesn't tell Sweets and Brennan about the dreams that tormented him in which he was making love to Brennan, and at the very end, how his heart sank, every time, when he realized in the dream that it was actually Hannah in his arms. Or the other dream where he goes back to his coma universe and they are married, expecting their baby. He doesn't tell her about the nights he couldn't sleep, but instead of wrapping himself around Hannah's slumbering body, he got up and went to the living room, took down the photo album Brennan had made for him, and read it from cover to cover before falling asleep in the couch.

"I was so lost. I was so confused. You … had hurt me. Hannah had never hurt me. Hannah loved me, freely, openly, without hesitation. And she'd never hurt me. Christ! She moved back from Afghanistan to fight for me! How could I hurt her?" Booth pauses, a beseeching expression on his face. "What could I do?" He pleads. "It was killing me. I had to do something! I had to make a damn decision and stick to it or it was going to destroy me. But what decision? Which choice?"

"I had no idea …" gasps Brennan.

Booth makes a fist and holds it out toward the window, touches it to his own dark reflection. The cool of the glass chills his knuckles. It feels good. He opens his hand and presses his palm to the window, and sighs. "Frickin' Gordon Gordon was on vacation," he mumbles. He swipes his handprint off the window, and continues.

Brennan stands, then sits back down. Hesitantly, she stands again and walks over to Booth's side of the room. She doesn't touch him, or even stand particularly close to him. She's just there on his side.

"I was taught that you always go to Sadie Hawkins with the first girl who asks you," says Booth, unemotionally. "You always dance, at least one time, with anyone brave enough to give you that honor. And, you always leave a party with the same girl you brought. That is what you do."

"So … I thought making a definite choice would help me get past this … hell … I was living in," he says, turning to face Brennan and Sweets. "So I made … a choice," he says, clenching his jaw. "That's when I decided to tell Hannah that you had told me you had regrets about us not getting together. I figured, if I told her … it would make my choice real, right? Then I could relax. Then I could look to that decision whenever I was uncertain. I could commit to one thing," he stops, shrugs. "It helped a little, maybe. I don't know," he says, jamming his hands into his pockets and shrugging. "I wasn't relaxed at all. I was more tense than before. I thought I'd be able to move on, having stated a choice." He shrugs, swiveling to face Brennan who stands quietly, seven feet away, her arms across her chest, her expression grave and sympathetic.

"So, I assumed I wasn't trying hard enough. So, I decided to asked her to marry me, you know, put those old dreams of us to rest. Close the door on them permanently.

Booth hangs his head. He shrugs. Exhales. Shakes his head. Steps forward and slumps down onto the arm of the love seat. "I told you it was stupid. I was lost. I was desperate. It was irrational," he says, laughing at the irony of him caring whether something is rational or not. "Remember when you said your whole life went upside-down for three days, Bones?" He asks, looking up toward her. "For me it was like my life turned up side-down for more than a year … and I wasn't myself! I-, I have no other excuse."

"Wow," she says, speechless. "Wow. That's the most irrational reason for asking someone else to get married," she mumbles. Walking past Booth to her side of the couch, she sits quietly, leaning back against the couch, chewing on a fingernail. No one says anything for several long minutes. _We all make mistakes; we are all but flesh and blood. Sometimes, as in science, mistakes lead us to the greatest discoveries. A commitment is a commitment. And I choose Booth,_ she thinks.

'I don't know what I would have done if she'd agreed to marry me," Booth says, eyes wide, shaking his head.

"You wouldn't have gone through with it, Booth," Brennan says confidently.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because in the end, you always do the right thing, Booth. That's who you are," she tosses off, casually. Sitting up straight, she adds, "Listen, that's the past. Lets live in the present. It is, literally, the only time we physiologically and scientifically _can_ live in, with the possible exception of Schrodinger's cat. I know you don't get that, but you can stop looking at me funny now. It doesn't matter. All that matters to me is that you have always loved me, and that you love me still," she says gently, giving him a tender, sweet smile.

"Like a rock," he says. "You're the only person I know who would listen to the awfulness of what I just told you, and take from it that I loved you. You're an amazing woman, Temperance Brennan." He imagines grabbing her by the wrist again, pulling her over into his lap. He exhales forcefully and controls himself.

"I am. And you can call me Bones," she says, winking at him. "While it is ridiculous and irrational, Sweets would probably tell you that it's human nature to feel how you felt, Booth. No one can blame you for that. I've experienced several forceful and irrational feelings during this past year. Even hate."

"What do you mean?"

"I hated Hannah. I couldn't tell anyone, but I did."

"What?" His surprise evident in his voice and the wrinkling of his forehead.

"Well, I didn't hate her _personally._ How could I ever hate someone that you love if I love you? I hated the idea of her. I hated that she was in the way, though I had no right to … I was in a mess of my own creation. Then I _really _hated that she hurt you, because that's what made you angry at all of us and sent you into that dark hole and affixed that chip to your shoulder."

"She had help … with the chip," he reminds her.

"Yes, well, in my story of cause and effect, she's the one who made you inaccessible to me." _And almost did again,_ she thinks once more. _This week felt like such a close call. Too close, razor's edge close. On Monday, I thought I'd lost him. By Wednesday I thought Hannah might have been the reason for his improved demeanor. Friday-. Friday was a surprise, a delicious relief and a surprise. _She still has to pinch herself to make sure she hasn't been dreaming all the good stuff up. She looks at Booth, reminding herself that nothing that happened this past year can change the fact that he belongs to her. He chose her. She chose him. _Hannah is the past._

* * *

><p><em><strong> R<strong>_**__**emi**nder of what Hannah's note said:  
><em>___  
><em>_**__Temperance, by now you know I am returning to____  
><em>__Afghanistan. I wanted to return your sunglasses.  
><em>___Although I enjoyed wearing them, I had a feeling  
><em>___they were never really mine. Besides, they look  
><em>___much better on you. I wish you a life filled with  
><em>___happiness and peace and love.___

__~ Hannah__

_Thank you to an Anonymous Reader who generously made the recommendation to repeat this!_

* * *

><p>"That note Hannah gave me?" Brennan says. "I have an I.Q. of— it doesn't matter. My point is that I knew what her note meant, what it said 'between the words,' as you say—"<p>

"It's 'between the lines', Bones," Booth says, correcting her, an amused smile on his face. Booth stands up and sits back down on the couch beside her, not touching … physically, at least. He crosses his right leg over his left, lays his elbow over the back of the couch, rests his temple on his fist, and leans toward her. Looking up into her eyes through his lashes, he lobs a heart-melting Boothy smile right at her. Of course, Brennan's capillaries are just_ loving_ that smile of his. Yowsa! _Can't wait to get you alone,_ he's thinking.

She shrugs, flustered, and concentrates so she can continue. "I asked you about it because I wanted you to know that despite the Monday morning meeting, she had made her concession speech and wouldn't be coming back. I wanted you to know that, and I wanted you to know that I knew that – that she had told me herself – through her note." She shrugs and looks down at her mother's ring.

"You were laying claim by telling me about it," he says, reaching over and touching her chin briefly, turning her face toward him.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," she says, nodding. "It's very anthropological." She pauses. "I'd rather be given claim, but, if I have to take it, I will," she says with a slight smile.

"Well," he chuckles, "I know how you like to be in control, so think of it however you want," he says, with a lopsided grin that broadens when she smiles back at him.

Sweets' one eyebrow silently shoots up while the other takes a dive toward his nose at Brennan's last comment. _So, there is definitely an understanding here – a solid understanding – and it is not new news to either of them. It's not, 'can I lay claim' or 'will you give me claim to' … it's 'do I need to lay claim on something that is already mine'_. Sweets concludes that this is indeed wickedly fascinating, and begins to ponder the title of his next book …

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading!<strong>

Special shout out to these people: devoted follower, Mare bear, Irisrose37, Donna, OhSnapItzAmelie, Becksbones, Olive, JP, and Michelle!  
>I don't get to send you notes because of your ff settings, but I want you to know I appreciate your kind words and your wonderful comments!<br>Also - you FaceBook lurkers, you know who you are - thank you for tagging along!

**And an especially juicy kiss to the devoted Twitter followers!  
><strong>Over the next couple of days 1,000 people will be seeing you listed here.  
>If you're following on Twitter, and not listed here - make sure you let me know!<p>

Cysvital, mickeyBoggs, flute1952, Officialyneil, purpleFlurry031, DianeWesley, imarielle, sarahlangworthy, cheysma2000, njacob86, dharmamonkey, Dyna63, ErynGrace, nannygs, MaliBearsBuddy, Alissita, RayleenW, andreuuchis, dovepage, wellsbones, aveburygirl, mef1013, KatieW1129, tinkmygirl, SouthunLady, BabyBones_S7, beckaboo4, Farrerosa, marce_lucia, Eva_Anderson, Kimber3333, clausalami, tokyofish, Boneslvr38, Seraphine96, DeyKathleen, 2minds1ride, Liz_chang, Bonesfan12, LizDebelzen, Boneslover17, merry_traci, lizziesplaace, amazin_grace88 , samnickmike , smonosky , ILuvDooINBones , caracoleta07 , OhSnapItzAmelie , BrennanNBoth , AndreaMaramara9 , Beth_winter, weeceline, peacelovebones, some1tookmename, rynogeny, crayon_Clown, smoovew, dbGrannyfan, AvaniHeath, adrisousac, n_bjorklund17, chtyagi, MeganHalvonik, baileyjane13.

* * *

><p><strong>Have we got some of Booth's issues explained? What other issues between the two have we not yet covered?<br>**Brennan is still dealing with that nasty black box, but that will be a work in progress for her for a while.  
>What did you lovehate/not buy into from this chapter? I wanna know!  
><strong>**

**Have a wonderful day!**

**~MoxieGirl  
>~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter <strong>


	195. Valentine's Day Sneak Preview

_A/N Happy Valentine's Day, TWATH:AB2P Readers! Chapter 195 is still in the works, and it's another L-O-N-G one, but as a special treat on Valentine's Day, here are the first 1,000 words as a token of my appreciation for your dedicated readership. Besides, it's good to have a little sweetness between the heavy stuff, don't you think?_

_When the full chapter is posted, (very soon!) it will be done separately so all the proper notices go out ... and no one misses anything. ~MoxieGirl ~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter_

* * *

><p><strong>Preview of Chapter 195 - As of yet, Untitled.<strong>

"Dr. Brennan, what exactly did the sunglasses note from Hannah say?" Asks Sweets, leaning forward.

Booth and Brennan turn to look at Sweets. Neither says anything.

"I have the note with me," Brennan says, looking back at Booth. "Would you like to see it?"

"I'd like to see it," says Sweets, though he doesn't expect it will matter.

She reaches into her pocket, pulls out several small pieces of paper, and stuffs all but one back into the same pocket.

Booth recognizes the paper again and smiles ever so slightly. One is the other note Booth had written to her back at the hotel and signed 'B-OX, From Booth with a hug and a kiss'. The other looks like one of Angela's designs. And she's got them in her pocket. _She had intentionally put all of those notes in her pocket, _muses Booth to himself, with a mild grin behind his eyes.

He instinctively touches his own pocket where he has her note tucked away. He smiles to himself.

She hands the note to Booth. He recognizes the words. She'd already told him what it says last night. When she had, however, he hadn't really responded. There was no discussion. _I was afraid to go there,_ he remembers. He admits to himself that he's begrudgingly relieved that several of these heavy issues have been surfacing here, in Sweets' office, rather then just between he and Brennan alone. _There's no way I would have known how to do this on my own, _he admits to himself, humbly. He looks over at Sweets who has been intently watching Brennan empty her pocket and choose the note, which she passed to Booth. Booth has gained a lot of respect for Sweets during the last couple of hours, even though the man annoys him a great deal of the time. _But, it's a guy thing, so that's okay, right?_ He thinks, grinning to himself again.

"What's it say? What does the note say?" Sweets asks, his question directed at Booth. Booth purses his lips and peers over the paper at Sweets, and pauses, enjoying being in control for once today. Booth glances back at the words on the paper, making Sweets wait, an amused, sly grin playing at the corner of his lips.

"It says," recites Brennan from memory as she watches Booth read it to himself … _or is he just toying with Sweets?_ She wonders.

_"Temperance, by now you know I am returning to Afghanistan.  
><em>_I wanted to return your sunglasses. Although I enjoyed wearing  
><em>_them, I had a feeling they were never really mine. Besides, they  
><em>_look much better on you. I wish you a life filled with happiness  
><em>_and peace and love. ~ Hannah_

Brennan pauses. All pretense dropping away, Booth ponders the meaning behind these fifty words from his old girlfriend to the woman he's loved for nearly seven years. The room is silent. Booth reads through it again, his lips moving as he does so, his brow furrowed in concentration. Sweets is chewing on his bottom lip, also lost in his own thoughts. Clearly this note is full of meaning beyond the syntax.

_Hannah was a passerby. She was a blip on radar directing Booth back to Bones, never has that been more clear. Man, I was screwed up,_ he chagrins, shaking his head silently, thankfully.

"I told Booth about this earlier," Brennan says to the top of Booth's head, which is bowed over the note in concentration. He's turned the slip of paper over and reads the words written on the back in Brennan's own hand. "But we didn't talk about it, did we Booth?"

Booth looks up biting his lips between his teeth.

"No," he says finally, whispering, blinking, then sighing on the exhale, grimacing and shaking his head at the weight of his own thoughts. "What's this?" He asks, still looking at the writing on the opposite side of Hannah's note. He looks up at Brennan, his face a question mark.

"Oh," she says, shaking her head and shrugging dismissively. "I was trying to figure out what to write back to her. I thought it was appropriate to acknowledge the return of my glasses."

Booth nods, impressed at her guileless generosity toward this other woman who stood, both literally and figuratively, between Brennan and Booth for the better part of a year. He looks at her, astounded and a bit overwhelmed actually, having finished silently reading the return note.

"What does it say?" Sweets asks anxiously, scooting toward the end of his seat.

Booth glances down at the note, then back up to Brennan. _What should I do?_ His expression queries her.

She nods her permission. _Go ahead._

His return expression says, _Are you sure? This is kinda …_

"It's okay," she encourages him, innocently knitting her brow together.

Booth clears his throat. Twice. Sweets leans forward, his elbows on his knees.

Booth exhales audibly, glances at the note, swallows despite the tightness in his throat, and prepares to read the note. He reads so quietly that Sweets has to scoot even further forward to make out the words, his knees almost landing on the edge of the coffee table.

_"Hannah, Thank you for returning my sunglasses.  
><em>_Coincidentally, I never replaced them; they were the only  
><em>_pair I ever felt comfortable with—"_

Booth pauses to swallow half way through reading the note, feeling a pounding in his chest, and a tightness in his throat. Sometimes Brennan can be evasive … or just, challenging to understand. Other times, like in this note, she can be startlingly candid and surprisingly provocative. When she is, it takes his breath away and sends his blood coursing through his circulatory system at an increased rate, palpably raising his body temperature. They've had many such moments over the last couple of days. And she continues to amaze him. Life has become … different, more precious and humbling, for this man who thought he knew a lot more about life and the capacity of the human heart—even the socially awkward heart—than he truly does. _Man, was I wrong, on so many levels, _he thinks. He clears his throat and continues reading, starting at the beginning.

_""Hannah, Thank you for returning my sunglasses.  
><em>_Coincidentally, I never replaced them; they were the only pair  
><em>_I ever felt comfortable with. Though they have always been very  
><em>_important to me, I don't think I appreciated them properly  
><em>_when I had them. I will not make that mistake twice. I wish  
><em>_you safety in Afghanistan, and hope that you find whatever  
><em>_you are looking for. ~ Temperance"_

Booth's eyes remain on the small piece of paper after reading it. He feels that tangy sensation at the bridge of his nose, and holds his breath for a moment. Finally, reluctantly, he releases it, his throat making the sound of air escaping a balloon. He takes three deeps breaths and blows them out, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders.

"Can I keep this?" He asks, without looking up at its author. Waiting for her answer, he sniffs juicily, and clears his throat. When Sweets sniffs as well, Booth doesn't even look over at him. If he had, he would have seen that the note's contents had moved Sweets as well.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Happy Valentine's Day, My Lovelies!<br>I apologize for any disappointment that this was not a full chapter. : ( _**

**_Please review anyway, as your Valentine to me! *grins sheepishly*_**


	196. Crazy Love

**AN- YOU ARE IN THE RIGHT PLACE!**

This chapter begins with the first 1,200 words of the previous chapter, which was posted early as a Valentine's Day Gift to my most ardent readers. So, read the first bit again (torture, I know), and then read the rest.

WARNING: Some readers may not enjoy this chapter as much as the previous ones as Booth takes responsibility for more than he probably should ... so I apologize to y'all looking for light-hearted fluff and fun ... we are still getting at Brennan's damn black box! If it feels like a lot of chapters in the heavy business, just remind yourself that HH spent a whole year screwing with us ... but you _KNOW_ the good stuff is going to happen in this fic in just a couple fanfic days! Hope this chapter makes sense to you.

~ MoxieGirl ~ MoxieGirl44 on Twitter.

P.S. The title song of this chapter is very well performed by Van Morrison on YouTube. I love this song - and as the chapter is mostly about love, I felt it appropriate. Go listen ... and get in the mood!

* * *

><p><strong>Crazy Love<strong>

_I can hear her heartbeat for a thousand miles_  
><em>And the heavens open every time she smiles<em>  
><em>and when I come to her that's where I belong<em>  
><em>Yet I'm running to her like a river's song.<em>  
><em>She gives me love, love, love, love crazy love. <em>

_And when I'm returning from so far away_  
><em>She gives me some sweet lovin brighten up my day<em>  
><em>Yes, it makes me righteous, yes it makes me feel whole<em>  
><em>Yes, it makes me mellow, down to my soul<em>  
><em>She gives me love, love, love, love crazy love.<em>

~ Van Morrison, Circa 1070

* * *

><p>"Dr. Brennan, what exactly did the sunglasses note from Hannah say?" Asks Sweets, leaning forward.<p>

Booth and Brennan turn to look at Sweets. Neither says anything.

"I have the note with me," Brennan says, looking back at Booth. "Would you like to see it?"

"I'd like to see it," says Sweets, though he doesn't expect it will matter.

She reaches into her pocket, pulls out several small pieces of paper, and stuffs all but one back into the same pocket.

Booth recognizes the paper again and smiles ever so slightly. One is the other note Booth had written to her back at the hotel and signed 'B-OX, From Booth with a hug and a kiss'. The other looks like one of Angela's designs. And she's got them in her pocket. _She had intentionally put all of those notes in her pocket, _muses Booth to himself, with a mild grin behind his eyes.

He instinctively touches his own pocket where he has her note tucked away. He smiles to himself.

She hands the note to Booth. He recognizes the words. She'd already told him what it says last night. When she had, however, he hadn't really responded. There was no discussion. _I was afraid to go there,_ he remembers. He admits to himself that he's begrudgingly relieved that several of these heavy issues have been surfacing here, in Sweets' office, rather than just between he and Brennan alone. _There's no way I would have known how to do this on my own, _he admits to himself, humbly. He looks over at Sweets who has been intently watching Brennan empty her pocket and choose the note, which she passed to Booth. Booth has gained a lot of respect for Sweets during the last couple of hours, even though the man annoys him a great deal of the time. _But, it's a guy thing, so that's okay, right?_ He thinks, grinning to himself again.

"What's it say? What does the note say?" Sweets asks, his question directed at Booth. Booth purses his lips and peers over the paper at Sweets, and pauses, enjoying being in control for once today. Booth glances back at the words on the paper, making Sweets wait, an amused, sly grin playing at the corner of his lips.

"It says," recites Brennan from memory as she watches Booth read it to himself … _or is he just toying with Sweets?_ She wonders.

_"Temperance, by now you know I am returning to Afghanistan.  
>I wanted to return your sunglasses. Although I enjoyed wearing<br>them, I had a feeling they were never really mine. Besides, they  
>look much better on you. I wish you a life filled with happiness<br>and peace and love. ~ Hannah_

All pretense dropping away, Booth ponders the meaning behind these fifty words from his old girlfriend to the woman he's loved for nearly seven years. The room is silent. Booth reads through it again, his lips moving as he does so, his brow furrowed in concentration. Sweets is chewing on his bottom lip, also lost in his own thoughts. Clearly this note is full of meaning beyond the syntax.

_Hannah was a passerby. The fact that she was a blip on the radar directing me back to Bones has never been more clear. Man, I was screwed up,_ Booth chagrins, shaking his head silently, thankfully.

"I told Booth about this earlier," Brennan says to the top of Booth's head, which is bowed over the note in concentration. He's turned the slip of paper over and reads the words written on the back in Brennan's own hand. "But we didn't talk about it, did we Booth?"

Booth looks up biting his lips between his teeth.

"No," he says finally, whispering, blinking, then sighing on the exhale, grimacing and shaking his head at the weight of his own thoughts. "What's this?" He asks, still looking at the writing on the opposite side of Hannah's note. He looks up at Brennan, his face a question mark.

"Oh," she says, shaking her head and shrugging dismissively. "I was trying to figure out what to write back to her. I thought it was appropriate to acknowledge the return of my glasses."

Booth nods, impressed at her guileless generosity toward this other woman who stood, both literally and figuratively, between Brennan and Booth for the better part of a year. He looks at her, astounded and a bit overwhelmed actually, having finished silently reading the return note.

"What does it say?" Sweets asks anxiously, scooting toward the end of his seat.

Booth glances down at the note, then back up to Brennan. _What should I do?_ His expression queries her.

She nods her permission. _Go ahead._

His return expression says, _Are you sure? This is kinda …_

"It's okay," she encourages him, innocently knitting her brow together.

Booth clears his throat. Twice. Sweets leans forward, his elbows on his knees.

Booth exhales audibly, glances at the note, swallows despite the tightness in his throat, and prepares to read it out loud. He reads so quietly that Sweets has to scoot even further forward to make out the words, his knees almost landing on the edge of the coffee table.

_"Hannah, Thank you for returning my sunglasses.  
>Coincidentally, I never replaced them; they were the only<br>pair I ever felt comfortable with—"_

Booth pauses to swallow half way through reading the note, feeling a pounding in his chest, and a tightness in his throat. Sometimes Brennan can be evasive … or just, challenging to understand. Other times, like in this note, she can be startlingly candid and surprisingly provocative. When she is, it takes his breath away and sends his blood coursing through his circulatory system at an increased rate, palpably raising his body temperature. They've had many such moments over the last couple of days. And she continues to amaze him. Life has become … different, more precious and humbling, for this man who thought he knew a lot more about life and the capacity of the human heart—even the socially awkward heart—than he truly does. _Man, was I wrong, on so many levels, _he thinks. He clears his throat and continues reading, starting at the beginning.

_"Hannah, Thank you for returning my sunglasses.  
>Coincidentally, I never replaced them; they were the only pair<br>I ever felt comfortable with. Though they have always been very  
>important to me, I don't think I appreciated them properly<br>when I had them. I will not make that mistake twice. I wish  
>you safety in Afghanistan, and hope that you find whatever<br>you are looking for. ~ Temperance"_

Booth's eyes remain on the small piece of paper after reading it. He feels that tangy sensation at the bridge of his nose, and holds his breath for a moment. Finally, reluctantly, he releases it, his throat making the sound of air escaping a balloon. He takes three deeps breaths and blows them out, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders.

"Can I keep this?" He asks, without looking up at its author. Waiting for her answer, he sniffs juicily, and clears his throat. When Sweets sniffs as well, Booth doesn't even look over at him. If he had, he would have seen that the note's contents had moved Sweets as well.

Brennan nods, sighing, and leans back against the cushions. She's not one hundred percent sure, but all signs point to the fact that the note brought about an emotional response in Booth. _Why isn't he looking at me?_ _Surely he understands the meaning behind the … between the lines? What now? Can we go? Did I make it through without having to clear out that detestable box? _She turns and looks at it in her mind. It sits, waiting… to devour her, she senses._ Oh, no. I'm not finished with you, yet, _it seems to be saying_. Temperance Brennan, you have a legitimate truth that needs to be heard. That needs to be spoken. Not just for you, but for him also. He needs to be forgiven, and you need to forgive … yourself._

Booth carefully folds her note in half, then in half again, takes out his wallet, and slides this note in next to the footie note she'd given him for the flight from D.C. to Philadelphia almost a week ago. Booth doesn't have to look at that note anymore to remember what it says because its message, sketched in tiny human bones, is etched into his memory:

_"I Do Love You, Booth. With All My Metaphorical Heart."_  
><em>"KJV: Eccl 3:1-11."<em>

Sliding his wallet back into one pocket, he reaches into another and pulls out several small pieces of paper. Choosing one, he hands it to Brennan. It's the note she gave him earlier when she returned from the restroom. Back into his pocket go several receipts and the note Brennan had written for him in Spanish – the one he'd had Enri translate for him into English: _'__One day, we will shower together. And on that day, when we are finally alone, I will show you how much I love you'._

Reflecting on these notes she has written him, Booth feels his neck getting warmer. The heat emanates down his shoulders and through his chest. He ponders everything Hannah told him about what Brennan did for him, things he has finally been able to tell her that he knows about. This whole last year, despite his doubt of her, his resentment of her, and his lack of compassion toward her, Brennan had chosen to continue loving him. She was constant, steady, enduring, always there for him. And here he thought _he_ was the soft-hearted, big-hearted one.

He thinks about the long talks they have recently had, how many risks she has taken, how courageously she has ventured to face emotional intimacy unflinchingly. He remembers her sitting between his legs on a pile of pillows on the floor of her hotel room, vehemently insisting that she could not have come this far without him. He had said, _Even if I hadn't been in your life, you would have eventually been able to process the trauma of being abandoned when you were fifteen. _Of course, at the time, they _thought_ they were dealing with the reemergence of her childhood trauma. Now he's not so sure.

When he told her that if she couldn't have done it alone, that there would have been someone else who would have helped her if he hadn't come along, she disagreed vehemently. Amid a shower of tears, she had responded, _It couldn't have been anyone else but you … I've never known anyone who had the patience, the stamina, and the—sheer determination to love me enough to provide that soft place, that safety net for me!_

_I love her more than anything I've ever known, aside from Parker, _he thinks, sighing as he returns to the present._ I don't deserve her, yet she has never given up on me. _He finally understands and accepts that her refusal to take a chance on their relationship before she was ready was in protection of both him and their relationship. She could see, maybe subconsciously, that he viewed their coming together as a gamble.

_She must think my concept of love is based upon a feeling, _he thinks to himself. _Love as an inconsistent, unreliable, whimsical feeling. Love as something you gamble on. Is that what I want her to think I'm offering? Well, how would she know any differently – after how she's seen me behave? _

_What she has given me … whether or not she would view it this way … is something that wasn't adversely affected by my inability to return it. How else would you explain all the things she did, asking nothing in return … and most assuredly not getting much in return. She mocks me when I say that love conquers all, yet she is living proof that it does._

He remembers how Pops always warned him not to look a gift horse in the mouth. _'Don't question your good fortune when it comes to you honestly and without strings attached, Shrimp. Someone is going to offer that kind of love to you, and you won't know why. But, trust me, just take it, respect it, and say thank you. And then don't let go of whomever gave it to you, son. If I had asked questions when it came to me, your dad never would have been born … and neither would you. Just take it, son', Pops had said._

_Okay, Pops, _thinks Booth,_ If she's willing to love me despite the year we just had, then I'm going to accept her love. I will __love her through this. I will listen to whatever she has to say, no matter how ugly it is, and I will say, 'thank you, can I please have some more?' __I will be strong for her, like she has been for me._

Emboldened by his silent declaration, he glances over at her profile and can't help smiling to himself. He loves her, every single part of her. He can't help thinking about getting her into the elevator where he can pull her into his arms and kiss away all the hurt, all the stupidity, all the wasted time. He wants to take her home and show her how sorry he is for getting lost this last year, and how grateful he is that she held on and never lost faith in him, even when he was undeserving.

As he's thinking these thoughts, his heart filled with determination, she turns and smiles at him.

* * *

><p>For a moment after Booth's reading of Brennan's cryptic words in response to Hannah's note, the words <em>'I will not make that mistake twice'<em> hang in the air like a suspended pink ribbon. The partners avoid eye contact. Booth is fairly certain that if Brennan looks at him, he might lunge at her, and that will be all she wrote, privacy or not. Brennan, upon hearing her words read in his emotion-laden voice, and so sweetly, has gone all mushy inside as well, metaphorically speaking. She can feel Booth's presence beside her, calling to her like a siren to a sailor. She's trying not to think about scooting over next to him, nestling under his arm, laying her ear on his shoulder, and burrowing her nose into his neck. She's trying, but it's not working. She recognizes that familiar heady sensation, that swoon-ready feeling he inspires in her, the one that has her feeling like she will cry if he doesn't kiss her soon.

_Sometimes love just doesn't want to hide anymore,_ thinks Booth, making a decision. _Sometimes it's all a body can do to keep its fingerprints to itself. Sometimes the longing makes the loving sweeter; sometimes it just makes a body ache. _

When their eyes eventually find each other and exchange an affectionate glance, his expression is humble yet determined: hers, forthright and grateful. Breaking eye contact after a moment, Booth slowly slides his arm along the back of the couch and scoots over to sit next to her, _right _next to her. To him it just feels stupid not to. There's nothing between them but ninety-eight point five degrees … and climbing. He lowers his arm and rests it on her shoulders. He curls his fingers around her bicep, squeezing it firmly. He feels her muscles tighten and her posture straighten in alarm, but he ignores it because he's not letting go of her. Gradually, she relaxes, her weight shifting as she leans against his rib cage in a full-body sigh. A barely audible falsetto hum floats out of her throat before she can stop it. Only she and Booth can hear it, which he does with satisfied amusement. He's getting used to that sound, and he loves it.

Squeezing her again sideways briefly, he finally looks at her with a twinkly grin and is met with a sheepish smile. He presses his lips to her temple, breathing in the scent of her warm hair while doing so, and planting a kiss that makes a smooching sound when his lips break from her skin. He has no idea what expression he's wearing, but he prays it's not as goofy as it feels. _I'm high,_ he thinks, facing forward again. _Certifiably. And it looks like I'm not alone,_ he tells himself glancing at Brennan out of the corner of his eye.

Brennan's neck, face and ears are engulfed in flames. Her pulse pounds at her temples. _Probably a side-effect of the localized blood flow_, she surmises. She glances at Sweets hoping to discern if he is able to hear her tell-tale heartbeat. _That's absurd, _she tells herself. _Of course he can't hear it. If I can't hear Booth's, surely the man across the room cannot hear mine._

She looks down at her fingers, which lay in her lap, absently rotating her mother's ring. Her anxiety had been palpable when Booth first slid his arm behind her and sidled up beside her; but it subsided just as quickly as his warmth both literally, and figuratively, seeped into her body. As she mentioned to Booth on Friday, her body is smarter than she is and knows that she needs him; it delights in contact with him, allowing that contact to sooth and relaxes her. And there's nothing she can do about it. _This is a good thing,_ she has decided_. Accept it. Go with it._

Booth chooses that moment to lean over and whisper in her ear, resting the edge of his hand against her cheek to shield their communication.

"I love you," he whispers, his warm breath on her ear sending an involuntary shiver down her spine.

Brennan blushes and grins, focusing on her mother's ring which is making it's 365th rotation around her finger. "Thank you, Booth," she says, blushing to high heaven, looking nowhere else except at that sweaty, sore ring finger. "And you are welcome for the note."

His breath on her neck is giving her trouble, circulation trouble – and not in her face, but other places as of yet unexplored by present company. _What are you trying to do to me?_ She thinks, whimpering to herself. She leans away a bit and stares at him questioningly. "You're tickling me, Booth!" She complains, fanning her ear distractedly. He's grinning stupidly at her.

Brennan glances at Sweets with an expression that says, _Help! _She truly doesn't know how to handle this.

He cups his mouth to her ear again. "Will you marry me?" He whispers. _That was such a sweet note, _he thinks_. All of the notes have been sweet. And this is just a game, this flirtatious little question, right? Our little game._

"Ohh, hoh, hoh, Booth," she says, gently pushing him away from her ear by raising her shoulder. She sticks her finger in her ear to relieve the tickle. "You know full well you can't afford … that!" She says, but without her usual Audrey Hepburn impression since they have an audience.

"Ah, what's that?" Sweets asks, grinning, wanting to be part of whatever the cool kids are discussing at the popular table in the school cafeteria.

Turning toward her colleague, Brennan says by way of explanation, "1789 Restaurant recently won the bid for Chef Anthony Lombardo as Executive Chef. He was most recently the executive sous chef at Casa Nonna. Booth has been lusting after the forty-nine dollar tenderloin with Yukon potato puree, Swiss chard, pearl onions, and roasted hedgehog mushrooms and bordelaise." Turning toward her mate, she says, "I'm telling you, Booth, I don't care if their livestock is humanely farmed and sold through the Virginia Cattle Co-op. As a proponent of non-anthropocentric personhood ethics, I will not be eating anything that can express affinity for the sentient being who birthed it."

"Bones, I never said you had to have the tenderloin. I will have the tenderloin … seared and served rare – just spank it and slide it onto a platter, baby," chuffs Booth with a toothy grin in response. "You said we could go the next time Mallory Stanley features her chocolate donuts with the whipped chocolate filling and cream cheese frosting …" he continues, adopting a complaining tone.

"Booth, I only said that to get you to stop pestering me about it," she chuckles.

Sweets clears his throat. They both look at him, and stop their banter. For a moment, no one says anything. At the same time, Booth and Brennan become acutely aware that they are sitting on Sweets' loveseat snuggled against each other. Neither of them dares look at the other for a moment as they separately consider how to handle this potentially awkward situation.

"Well," tosses out Booth with finality, "Like I said, thanks for letting me read that note, Bones." He glances sideways at her silhouette and grins exaggeratingly. Brennan is focusing on her hands again, not daring to touch her irritated ring finger. She clenches her jaw so she doesn't grin like a fool again.

Finally, she looks up into his eyes gratefully and gently smiles, her brow furrowed in sincere gratitude. Her look tells him the gratitude is for everything: the affection, the kiss, the proposal, going along with her gastronomical farce, and simply for being Boothy in general. He slowly smiles back at her and watches as her face relaxes. She shrugs. He squeezes her to him sideways again, and kisses her on the forehead, a longer kiss than the one at her temple, but just as noisy_. Oh. My. God. You. Smell. Good._ He thinks, taking a deep breath.

"I'll just … go back over here to my corner," he says finally, as he gently releases her and drags his palm back along her shoulders as he scoots back to his side of the couch.

For a moment, Brennan is dazed_. Don't leave!_ She whimpers to herself, an imploring expression fluttering over her face before she regains her composure. She clears her throat, and sits back up straight after having almost fallen over toward him as he drew away. _Now that was simply evil. Evil and torturous_, she thinks. _You'd think I'd be used to the rush of oxytocin, norepinephrine, and dopamine from all the contact we've had this past week. Why does it still catch me off guard and cause vasodilation of my poor fatigued arterioles and capillaries? _

Booth clears his throat, and regards Sweets expectantly.

Brennan turns to look at Sweets as well. She feels the urge to explain. "I've found myself on the receiving end of several of Booth's expressions of appreciation this weekend," she says, shrugging resignedly. The gesture says, _And there's nothing I can do about it._

Sweets, who's been sitting in his chair trying to figure out exactly what he's been seeing here, has dipped his chin to his chest and looks at her through his lashes. His one eyebrow is raised inquisitively. "Hm. And … have you been kissing him back?" He cajoles. That raised eyebrow hangs in the air, awaiting her response, daring her to deny it.

"Wouldn't you like to know," says Booth, snarkily, leveling a self-satisfied glare Sweets.

_There he goes again, the cat that ate the canary, _thinks Sweets. _And I don't have a single drop of alcohol in this office! Stinking hot monkey turds!_

In response to Booth's bravado, Brennan feels a slice of adrenaline shoot, like a lightening bolt, straight into the top of her head and down her chest, dissipating before it hits her legs. If she could turn a deeper shade of crimson, she would, but that's just not possible_. I could use an oscillating fan right now,_ she thinks, forcing herself not to wave her hand in front of her face to create her own breeze. She flicks a glance at Booth, then down to her lap and hands. Even her ears are hot at this point.

Watching everything that has just transpired, Sweets is befuddled, but knows he doesn't have time tonight to delve into whatever the hell is going on. _Besides, Dr. Brennan's made the topic of her 'sex life', if in deed that is what this is, off limits. Her body language suggests that she is a little uncomfortable yet pleased at Booth's behavior. I've never seen her turn that shade of pink. Should I offer her a glass of water? Or perhaps a bucket of water to pour over her head? No. If I ask her if she's okay, it will only make matters worse. What the hell is going on here?_ Thinks Sweets. _Booth touches her then moves away. She responds, blushes, and pretends it is nothing. I give up. _He throws his mental hands in the air, shaking his head.

_Oh well, _Sweets chagrins,_ whatever is going on is some kind of relationship progress. It can't be long now before they both explode and clothes get torn off in an impassioned frenzy. Good God._ Sweets grins the toothy, geometrically perfect, red, pouty-lipped grin of a very good breeder before launching into the final concern slated for this evening's session. "Fascinating," is the only thing he says for a moment.

"One more thing before we are finished tonight, Dr. Brennan," he begins, returning to the task at hand.

"Oh yeah, and what's that?" Booth asks, pulling his eyes away from his favorite past time, which has become twinkling at Brennan who has finally looked back up at him.

Sweets smiles and levels a heavy-lidded look at Booth, then Brennan. It's getting late and everyone is tired. He leans back against the cushions of his chair, puts his hands in his pockets which are easily accessible when he's stretched out in this position, and clears his throat.

"Listen, guys, I know this has been a long session. Usually we would schedule these out over a two or three-day period, but you two are leaving again tomorrow without a specific date of return," explains Sweets, laying out his logic for their approval. "The issues we've already discussed today are of great import to your future as partners and individually. So, bear with me for just a little while longer."

Booth swings his head to the left and rolls his eyes at Brennan. She chuffs and shrugs. He grins back, then grimaces.

"This better not take more than another half hour, Sweets," warns Booth, swinging back with their verdict. "I have people to meet; Bones has work to do. We both need to get some sleep before a very early morning of what promises to be a very long day. What do you say?"

"Thirty minutes, Agent Booth, you have my word," answers Sweets with another slow grin. "I appreciate your candor," he says, nodding. Pausing to gather his thoughts, Sweets sits up straight and leans forward. "We have only somewhat touched on your experience this past year, Dr. Brennan. I would posit that there are a number of issues you will be confronted with going forward, and a great deal of healing that needs to take place before you can consider yourself equipped to take the next step in this relationship."

"Why do you say that? And, by the way, my sexual habits remain no longer a topic for discussion," states Brennan.

_How interesting that at the mention of their relationship,_ observes Sweets, _Dr. Brennan brings up the topic of her sexual habits. I believe we call that a 'faux pas'. Or is that a Freudian slip? Why can't I remember? I do need a drink. _

"Well, ah, I say that because, as we've established, you have displayed a number of classic symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," explains Sweets. "Those will not go quietly into that good night, I can guarantee you that. And … keep your sexual habits to yourself, as you have requested; however, the dynamic of your personal relationship sets the tone for your working relationship," he says, crossing his arms and cocking his head to the side. He doesn't expect an objection, but nothing surprises him about these two any more. "Now, the Bureau doesn't care what you two do in your free time—"

Booth snorts, rolling his eyes.

"—however, it behooves you to take whatever measures necessary to continue the work we've begun here. I recommend reviewing the events of this past year, taking responsibility for your parts in it, making amends, and supporting each other as you work through any emotional fallout." Sweets rests an elbow on an arm rest and plants his temple on his upturned fist. He looks at Brennan expectantly.

"You are making sense about the symbiosis of our personal and professional lives, Dr. Sweets," she says, considering her words carefully as she continues. "However, how do you recommend we proceed in regard to my PTSD symptoms? Wouldn't my childhood issues be more appropriately directed for discussion between myself and my own mental health professional?" She asks, squinting disagreeably and shaking her head.

"While I agree that individual counseling might be beneficial for as long as you are symptomatic, I contend that these symptoms correlate directly with the trauma you experienced in this relationship," he says, knocking on his knee with an index finger. "This relationship right here … as opposed to past wounds from your youth."

The whole room holds its breath. Sweets lets the silence expand. _It had to be said,_ he thinks.

_I was right,_ thinks Booth. _Her … anxiety … has to do with this past year. Wow. _He sighs heavily with consternation.

"Dr. Sweets—" Brennan starts to speak, but stops. She's thinking. "What part of this past year have we yet to discuss? We've touched on when Booth unsuccessfully requested we give our relationship a chance. We've discussed the impact Hannah had on our relationship, and the reasoning behind Booth's involvement with her. We've identified that the missing ingredient in our partnership is connectedness and honesty at all cost. What more is there to discuss?"

"We've discussed events, reactions, responsibilities, Dr. Brennan. We've yet to purposefully investigate the emotional toll this experience, this year's trauma, has taken," he says, leveling his eyes at her, "on you."

Brennan stares at him. _There is no way out of this,_ she thinks_. I was almost home free. I never thought I would consider this, but I find myself wishing Dr. Sweets' capabilities included a lack of organization and only a superficial commitment to excellence. A lesser professional would release us, satisfied with our current progress; assume we'll handle the rest on our own. Of course, Sweets is the best, even if his field of study is a poser among the real sciences. Hockey pucks!_

Booth glances sideways at Brennan, interested in how she will respond to Sweets' suggestion. _Sweets is right,_ he hears himself thinking. _She's got a whole lot of hurt locked up inside that heart of hers. It's not going to pack its bags, pay for its room, and leave quietly through the back door without a trace. It's going to resist arrest and go out kicking and screaming if it doesn't get healed properly. This is way over my head. Well, maybe not __way__ over my head, but I don't want to handle this alone. Especially since a lot of that pain, maybe all of it, has to do with me in one way or another. _

"I don't think I'd call this past year 'traumatic', necessarily," argues Brennan in a slightly irritated tone, grimacing her distaste for the word. She doesn't see Booth's surprised expression as he turns slowly to look at her.

"We talked about this Friday night, Bones, remember?" Booth prompts her. "I told you how Dr. Gordon Gordon said that emotional and psychological trauma is the result of 'extraordinarily stressful events that shatter your sense of security, making you feel helpless and vulnerable'. Remember that?"

Brennan turns and looks at Booth, uncomfortable with the emotional exposure this line of discussion is leading to. She huffs, closing her eyes momentarily and shaking her head. She remembers, but now that a conversation is imminent, she's apprehensive about delving into the mystic with Booth, the subject of her past 'trauma', and Sweets, the human lie detector.

"He also said that any situation that leaves you feeling overwhelmed and alone can be traumatic," reminds Booth, "it doesn't have to involve physical harm. And remember that it's not the facts that make it traumatic, it's your subjective emotional experience … the more frightened and helpless you feel, the greater likelihood—"

Brennan crosses her arms, tilts her head to the side, closes her eyes, smirks, and slowly shakes her head. She walks around the box in her mind, giving it a little kick once on each of its four sides. As she does, a puff of black soot wafts out of the top, dissipating almost immediately, as if it were steam, rather than a cloud containing a gritty substance.

Sweets misinterprets Brennan's body language as a reluctance to accept that what she's experienced this past year is, indeed, trauma. Booth, however, knows that this is not the case because she and he, Booth, have discussed this at length already. He knows she gets it, but is resisting because she feels uncomfortable._ I get that,_ thinks Booth, _I just did that myself. It's no picnic._ He lets Sweets take the floor anyway. It gives him a chance to observe Brennan and think about how he might be able to help her purge and process. _I do feel considerably lighter now that I've laid everything out on the table,_ he thinks, _and in no small part thanks to the Boy Wonder over there. Wonder if he ever had a red cape as a child? His mom probably sewed one on his Superman tee shirt for him. _Booth grins at the image of a young Sweets jumping from couch to chair to end table, a shiny red cape flowing behind him.

"Okay, Dr. Brennan, let's review. You recently awoke in the middle of the night with broken lamps, twisted sheets, and blood smeared all over your arms. It stands to reason that this significant emotional event was brought about by the emergence of wounds from the recent past."

"Okay. I concede your point," says Brennan, sighing.

"Couple that with a nightmare, which would be considered traumatic in its own right by anyone's standards; you pushing your partner, your significant relationship, into a razor blade-edged hornets' nest."

"It _was_ quite traumatic, I concede," she says argumentatively, "but I think we handled it fairly well!" She glances at Booth who nods in response. "To be accurate, Booth was the one who handled it well. I was the recipient for once," she explains, still looking at Booth.

Booth grimaces in pleased agreement and smiles back at her.

"Prior to that event," Sweets continues, "was the significant level of anxiety you experienced as a result of seeing Booth and Hannah together at the diner on Monday. You say there have been other episodes similar to that, if I am understanding you correctly."

"You are," confirms Brennan, begrudgingly. She recalls that before she left for Maluku she'd already begun having nightmares about not being able to save a drowning Booth. She shudders at the memory.

"So, you have to ask yourself, what's going on here? What emotional detritus is being held captive in your subconscious? Detritus that will most certainly disrupt any future level of happiness you aspire to achieve. No, my supposition is that there is yet a deeper level of meaning which you need to explore," says Sweets confidently. "Have I made my point?"

"Rather succinctly," she replies with a nod. Booth faces Sweets, his head leaning toward hers, listening and nodding where necessary as he exchanges blank glances with Sweets.

"Okay," Sweets continues, confidently. "We need to determine the scope and scale of your trauma."

"In what manner would you recommend we proceed, Dr. Sweets?" Brennan asks, suspiciously, when Sweets doesn't respond. "What do we need in order to move forward?"

"Yeah, do we have to have a séance? A psychobabble exorcism?" Booth chuckles at his own joke.

Brennan grins, but shoots him a disapproving look.

"No, Agent Booth, we don't need to hold a séance," says Sweets, amused. _Humor is a sure sign of buy-in. That is a good sign from Booth,_ observes Sweets. "If my assessment is correct, you both seem more equipped today than you ever have been. You appear to be in sync, open to suggestion, and able to support each other—better _equipped,"_ he says, making air quotes as he says the word 'equipped'.

Booth and Brennan nod, sigh, and relax in unison. All three sit in silence for about twelve seconds. Booth and Brennan furtively exchange an affectionate glance, both thinking the same thing. _This__ time feels so much different than it felt over a year ago. The past five days have felt right, good, normal … easy. This is what ready, willing and invested feels like. This time … it just makes sense … to both of them._

Booth crosses his arms, and bows his head._ Over a year ago … on the steps right outside this building. That was when this whole mess began, _he thinks._ God bless the broken road, right? The Lord works in mysterious ways. Who am I to question His methods_? Booth absently raises his right hand and pulls on his bottom lip. Smiling to himself, he steals a glance sideways at Brennan and finds her patiently watching him out of the corner of her eye. The faint laugh lines at the corners of her eyes crinkle further when their eyes meet. She winks at him, and catapults his heart into its own little isolated case of endorphin-induced tachycardia. _God bless the broken road … that lead me straight to you_, he thinks, winking back.

Surprisingly, much of this goes unnoticed by Sweets who is rummaging through the notes he's been writing as they've progressed.

"Well, you already have much of what you need right here," says Sweets, finding what he was searching for and looking up at the two of them. "You have minimized risk and developed some key competencies necessary for working through whatever traumas your subconscious has been withholding from you. As you have already seen, your mind and body have determined that you are prepared to face what has been hidden." Holding out his hands, he begins to tick off a list on each of his fingers, "so that's practice and previous experience. You have guidance here, right? That's me. And you have your safety net."

They both nod agreement.

"Wait, my safety net? I don't know what that means," says Brennan, furrowing her brow and looking from one man to the other.

"Your soft place to fall, Dr. Brennan. He's sitting right next to you," says Sweets, nodding toward Booth.

Brennan turns to look at her partner. Booth looks back at her.

"He's right," says Booth grimacing in agreement, and wiggling his eyebrows at her.

"And, you are correct, Dr. Sweets, I feel equipped now," says Brennan. "At least, I feel a lot better equipped than I have this whole past year, thanks to you, Dr. Sweets." She beams a full set of Bones-y incisors at him, coupled with a warm twinkle in her eyes.

Sweets pauses not taking his eyes off hers as he speaks. "While I certainly appreciation the attribution, Dr. Brennan, because believe me I earned it," he says with a half chuckle, feeling his cheeks flush in response to being on the receiving end of an irresistibly charming feminine smile, "but flattery as a device to circumvent this process is neither appropriate nor helpful." Sweets grimaces, curious if his calling her on this will remove the smile from her face. _Where did she learn to pour on the charm like that, anyway? Booth, of course, _he correctly surmises.

In response, Brennan's smile softens, and becomes more genuine. He knows she appreciates the work they did together. He also knows she will expect him not to allow her avoid something as important as this roadblock to her healing from the pain of this past year.

"Anyway," says Sweets, clearing his throat, "equipped or not – it doesn't change the fact that you had feelings you chose to ignore to the extreme detriment of your emotional well-being and growth."

"Booth, Dr. Sweets, is it not sufficient that I have nearly dehydrated myself through the outpouring of anguish over Mr. Vincent Nigel-Murray's death and the hapless 'Booth and Hannah in the diner' debacle? In the last thirty-six hours I have secreted more lacrimal prolactin, adrenocorticotropic hormone, leuenkephalin & the elements potassium & manganese that I had in the last … the last," she stumbles, her sentence falling off her lips unfinished, interrupted by a reality she knows she's not going to like. Brennan stares blankly at Sweets' shoulder, her upturned palm still held out in front of her.

"Bones. Bones," says Booth, reaching over to lay his hand on her shoulder when her pause goes on for too long. "What are you thinking? Right now. What were you just thinking?" He asks with a firm, attentive tone, uncrossing his legs and leaning toward her.

Brennan turns her head toward Booth, and drops her hand into her lap.

"Right now, Bones. You have that file cabinet look on your face where your eyes go all squinty," he says, squinting himself as if the answer were written on her face, "and you stare off into space, but you're really fingering through files of information in the back of your head."

"That's absurd, Booth. I don't do that," she says with a slightly annoyed expression on her face.

"Yes," Booth nods confidently, "you do. Sweets?" He shoots a glance at Sweets.

"Dr. Brennan, I have to agree with Agent Booth. Your face does take on a decidedly vacant yet focused expression when you tap into your subconscious and unconscious minds in search of latent submergent and emergent memories. I've noticed this myself on numerous occasions."

Brennan looks from Sweets to Booth, then back to Sweets. "It is more likely that my expression appears foreign or peculiar to you because you've rarely observed the expression of an exceptionally brilliant mind at work."

"Absolutely not true," says Booth dismissing her comment completely. "I see that on a daily basis." He watches her face, his eyebrows raised and head cocked to the side. When comprehension dawns, she smiles slowly, as Booth nods at her.

"Oh," she says, "you are correct, because you spend a good deal of time in my presence. That does make sense," she allows. "What was the question?"

"The question was," says Booth, intently and in a low voice, "what had you been thinking that caused you to make that exceptionally brilliant squinty face?"

"Oh," she says, chewing on her lip, reopening the file in her mind. "I was calculating—" she stops mid-sentence once again, her eyes going blank as if she's staring off into the back of her brain.

"Tell me," whispers Booth, pulling her hand into his own, then covering it with his other hand. She allows him to take it, but when he leans forward, she leans slightly away. The black box in her mind begins emitting a slow stream of gray puffy mushroom clouds, one right after the other, with spaces in between. Each cloud emerges darker and denser than the last. It reminds Brennan of the exhaust from a cartoon train, except these are black puffs. This box is making her more and more anxious.

Booth has Brennan entranced by his penetrating gaze. The imaginary black box emits a low rumble. Brennan relents, dropping her shoulders and leaning forward to sit upright once again. Booth returns to his original position, but he's still got her hand nestled between his own and resting on her right thigh.

"Booth, I was going to say," she begins slowly, "that I have shed more tears in the last thirty-six hours than I have in the whole of the last ten years, but then I realized that is woefully inaccurate." she says, leaning her head to the side, a forlorn look in her eyes. She swallows before adding, a pained look in her eyes, "I have shed more tears this last year than I had in the previous thirty-three in aggregate."

Booth takes a deep breath and nods.

They look at each other, the weight of her admission pressing down on both sets of shoulders.

"Look, it is no secret that this past year was difficult for me—" she begins to explain, a catch in her throat.

"I know," nods Booth, grimacing, and blinking slowly. He recalls something Gordon Gordon told him this past year over sundried tomato and pesto bruschetta appetizer followed by grilled Mahi Mahi with lemon butter sauce and cold white asparagus. He'd forgotten this slice of insight until just now. _People do unforgivable things in anger out of deep, deep pain_, Gordon had said_. Your lovely doctor may have felt pain, but she never lashed out at you. This you can be thankful for. _This had given Booth pause. Had he done things to _her_ that she might consider unforgivable?

At the time, Booth and Hannah had just broken up. _Why am I angry with Bones about Hannah not wanting to marry me? _He'd asked Gordon. _Am I lashing out at her?_ Gordon could see that Booth was still harboring a great deal of resentment for Brennan, though Booth was oblivious to that simple fact. _When we are hurt,_ Gordon had said, _we lash out at those closest to us, those most important to us._ He'd said nothing more, leaving Booth alone with his thoughts.

"I don't know what to do about the fact that this last year was so difficult for me," she says. "What I find disconcerting, Booth, is a palpable sensation," she pauses and swallows, "of negative space in my consciousness. It is frightening to look into an abyss inside your own mind," she says, swallowing, the parenthesis around her mouth turning down. "This … vortex … manifests itself as three dimensional cubical structure-"

"A box, Bones?" Booth tries to imagine what she is describing, his face pinched in thought.

"Precisely! A box devoid of all light-"

"It's black? A black box?"

"That's what I said, Booth. It's dark, unattractive, repugnant. This cube, or box, the black box sucked into itself everything I deemed undesirable to process at the time. It is what keeps me from getting closer to … people," she says, resigned and frustrated. By 'people' she means him, he knows. "I rejected any thought, any emotion, any failed hope, that I labeled unnecessary for my survival at each moment. I suppressed and blocked and wrapped them all up. Like you said, it's all part of my fiberglass-wrapped heart. Just one more thing to wrap in fiberglass, right?"

"No more wrapping things up in fiberglass, okay?" Says Booth, slowly shaking his head. He squeezes her hand. "Lets get that out; lets deal with it. Leaving it is the riskier thing to do, right Sweets? Isn't that what you've been telling us: minimize the risk?"

"It stands to reason that if I unpack those sensations, those spurned emotions, Booth," she says, hesitantly, "I may find experiencing them unavoidable. I was reluctant to when they emerged the first time, now I find myself anxious. I'd rather leave them alone," she says, with an unconvincing distasteful look on her face. She starts biting her finger nail, then drops her hand back into her lap, focusing on Christine Brennan's ring once more.

"Come on, you don't really mean that, Bones," cajoles Booth, his voice soft but insistant, as if speaking to a frightened child. "I know you better than that, huh?" He pauses for a moment. "You have to stop protecting me, Bones," he says, just louder than a whisper. "That's what going on here, isn't it? You don't want to hurt me. I'm a big boy, I can take it," he says, lifting her chin so he can look in her eyes, his own filed with warmth and compassion.

Brennan gasps as unexpected tears spring from her eyes. She's stuck under a tidal wave of panic. She _is_ trying to protect him, and she is having a hard time letting go of that. Brennan breathes slowly, cleansing breath in, toxic breath out, and again, in … and out. "Booth—" she chokes.

"I gotcha, I gotcha, I gotcha," he says, pulling on her hand so she's forced to move over next to him. He puts his arm around her and firmly rubs her arm, causing her to rock back and forth sideways. It's exactly what she needed and helps fight off the sudden chill that had begun its invasion when the tears began to fall. Brennan presses three fingers into her wrinkled forehead, and breathes rhythmically, trying to regain control.

_He hit a nerve,_ thinks Sweets. _This is good. He hit her 'protect Booth at all costs' nerve. Man, he's fast. How does he do that?_

"You're trying to protect me, that's what's going on, and it's stopping you from clearing out all that junk you have locked away in that beautiful head of yours. But, Bones, I had a hand in this too, okay?" He says gently. "It's my stinking mess, just as much as it is yours. Maybe more." He says guiltily, raising his eyebrows and shrugging with one shoulder. He knows he's in over his head, but he's not sure what to do about it, except support his mate.

"Booth," she gasps, furrowing her brow in anguish.

"Bones, I know I have hurt you unforgivably," he says, leaning away just enough so he can look in her eyes, "I want you to tell me whatever you need to … without worrying about me. Whatever you have to say, whatever you need to do, I can take it." Leaning back toward her he says into her ear, "Just focus on the prize, right? Let it out. Don't let stupid mistakes stand between us."

She turns to look in his eyes, their noses just five inches apart. "Booth, you see this?" She asks pointedly, waving her hand between the two of them. "This, right here? This closeness? Us, communicating, connected?"

Booth nods.

"This makes sense to me. This feels positive and healthy."

"I agree," he says, nodding forward once and looking back at her.

"If I go back there … into those … traumatic emotions … I fear I will be forced to take on an adversarial role."

"Wh—"

"Just listen, Booth. I don't want to be adversaries or even have an adversarial discussion," she says, a pained expression on her face,

"Why would it have to be adversarial? It's just you and me, huh? Nothing here to argue about, Bones," he says, a hint of concern in his tone. "We're on the same side …"

Brennan sighs, closes her eyes for a beat as if preparing for what she's going to say. "If these—emotional responses I had were destructive enough to be suppressed, it stands to reason that they—what if they truly are destructive? I don't want anything destructive between us," she says, feeling her throat go tight, her nose begin to tickle and her eyes water.

"Okay, okay," says Sweets, nodding, biting his lower lip. "That, my friends, is why we are here. This is good. We need to excise those traumas, that dark space, and the discomfort," he says making motions as if he were cutting into a blueberry pie, "so you can move forward in a meaningful, healthy way."

Brennan sighs, she's clearly uncomfortable, and not convinced by either of them.

"Bones, listen," says Booth, squeezing her sideways, "I just told you some really ugly stuff about what went on in my head this past year, Did it destroy anything?"

She grimaces resignedly.

"So, trust me, okay?" He says, glancing over at Sweets, hoping he's saying the right things. "Listen, I have my feet firmly planted in today – firmly planted," he says, stomping on the ground with each foot. "Roots all the way to the center of the earth.""Booth—" she says, dipping her chin and smirking at him with one eyebrow raised. _That is ridiculous,_ this tells him. "The inner core of the earth is a hot, dense solid sphere, composed primarily of iron, with some nickel. It would be impossible for your roots, or roots of any kind, to thrive, much less survive in such an environment. Surrounding the center, which some believe is crystalline, by the way, is a heat-induced roiling liquid layer consisting of 85% iron, 5% nickel a 10% mélange of other lighter methods. But you were speaking metaphorically, weren't you?" She says, registering his indulgently bland return expression.

"Bones," Booth continues, sidestepping her overly literal dissertation on the center of the earth. "I'm not kidding. Okay? I can see that what we have today—it's good and it's strong, right? You know, bananas foster, and footie notes, and Enrique Iglesias, and Pringles, and Old Time Rock and Roll, and sext—uh, _texting,_ and cell phone photos, and bloody noses, and beautiful cobalt blue blouses, and notes in Spanish, and finding happy places, and talking about occasions of sin, and past relationships, and waiting for Tuesday, and talking about …" _having babies, _he continues silently, swallowing as he envisions the rest of his list as his eyes travel from her her eyes to her lips and back, _and getting to kiss you and take a nap with you in my arms._ "It's all good, and it's not going anywhere, okay?" He finishes, looking over all of her features and cherishing every single one.

She looks at Booth with a mixture of gratitude and faith, tiny tears piling up inside her bottom lid. As he had been talking, she was walking laps around her little black box. She's getting ready to pounce on it. Ready to hold her breath and … pounce. _I will do anything for this man, _she thinks._ I just wish that didn't include telling him how awful—Get over yourself, Temperance. Bite the bullet! Get it over with!_

Sweets has been observing silently. He's impressed with their connection; each of them possessing an unabashed support for the other, neither wanting to hurt the other, both wanting to do whatever needs to be done to get past this last painful year. _Wow,_ he thinks.

Once again, Booth sees that Brennan is on the brink. "It's scary being on the side of the one who has to bare their soul, isn't it?"

"I'm not sure I believe in the soul that can be—"

"Bones," Booth interrupts her, "You know what I mean," he says, tilting his head to the side admonishing her. "It is easier to forgive than to be forgiven. Are you going to hold anything against me—any of those," he rolls his eyes shaking his head in disbelief of the things he admitted only moments ago, "those ... unflattering things I told you about myself?"

"Of course, not, Booth," she says, shaking her head, pursing her lips.

"Right," he nods, "you said—Sweets has the transcript right over there—you said, 'Booth the past is the past. Lets live in the present', right? Very wise words, if you ask me."

"You are making sense, Booth. I did say that—" she says, hesitantly.

"Yes, you did, Bones. And I was … selfish, and hurt and not at all forgiving of … the past during the last many months. I was thoughtless, maybe even mean, I don't know. You'll have to tell me," he says, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. "Dr. Gordon Gordon says we do unforgivable things out of deep hurt. Unfortunately, I've learned that that Booth way … the hard way," he snorts. "But I'm one of the lucky ones because I have you, a person who loves me enough to see past my crap and believe in the good underneath, right?"

"Right," she says, letting the tears trickle down her cheeks. _Take me home and hold me,_ she thinks, gulping down the extra saliva pooling in her mouth as she's been focusing on not falling apart. She nods, sniffs, takes Booth handkerchief from him to wipe her eyes.

"Now," says Booth authoritatively, "I promise you, there is nothing you could have done, said, felt or thought about me or to me or against me … that I can't overlook. That we can't get past, if you are willing to. And if you feel you need forgiveness … you got it." He says, confidently, assuredly, looking directly into her eyes.

"You sure? I had some … really nasty thoughts. I blamed you for a lot of stuff," she says, sniffing. "You deserved some of it, even. At least I thought you did," she finishes, chuffing.

"Absolutely sure." He holds her gaze, unwaveringly. She sniffs. He hands her a fresh tissue. She leans onto him weakly, draping her left arm around his neck and letting him pull her into a full hug.

Booth locks eyes with Sweets and shoots him a quizzical expression. _Am I doing this right? This is going okay, right?_ His look says. _Am I lying? Have I promised too much?_

Sweets returns Booth's look. He nods first, and then shakes his head. _You're doing just fine. It's not easy, I know. You are doing fine_. Looking on as Booth rubs circles on Brennan's back, Sweets leans his chin on his upturned fist and realizes no book could ever do justice to what he's witnessing here today … unless it was a romance novel.

* * *

><p>Welcome to our newest readersreviewers who have risked exam failures, sleep deprivation, family estrangement,  
>and any number of other abuses as they invested time in reading this whole fic in just a few days - or<br>who opened up and reviewed for the first time after lurking for the whole season!

Martreiya, BostonLegalGirl, hillhappy, BoNeS-FaN91, Seamonkey, dlh, maryfran, pasha54, Memo3139

If you are as anxious to get out of the tough stuff and get on with the humorous and fluffy stuff -  
>I'm right there with you! However, I strongly feel that this emotional crap needs to be dealt with. Only one<br>more chappie in Sweets' office -I swear on my mother's fake diamond earrings that she's leaving  
>me in her will. Then - we're off to the Jeffersonian and then Washington - and TUESDAY is around the corner!<p>

Special thanks go to the loyal readers and reviewers who lift me up when I am down,  
>as well as the almost 100 Twitter followers!<p>

fluffybird, eire76, UrbanBorn, grandma bones, Kimberrn, flute1952, Twerp24, Eryngrace94, Becky, Kimberly01  
>celheartstv, Dyna63, OhSnapItzAmelie, ILuvBonesNDool, DWBBFan, TraciM, elmasuz, mef1013, miranda55,<br>coterie2, CrayonClown, spicysftblplayer, caracoleta07, yenyen76, DWBBFan, crys82, sarahlizlangas,  
>Stati, jbcrace14, Danzjaron, Becksbones amazin-grace88 manicpixiedreamgurl, jazzyproz, kimrn,<br>CrayonClown, Michelle, JP, Irisrose37 alexindigo, and Olive

You guys keep me in the conversation every day,  
>providing encouragement and spreading the Bones love. Here's some back for you:<br>Mwwwaahhhhh!

~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter

I know you all may have found this too heavy - I hope you will continue to read the next chapters.  
>The good stuff is right around the corner, folks. I promise!<p>

**_Was I too harsh on Booth? Is Brennan making this harder than it has to be?  
><strong><em>Help me out here folks! Review, if you dare.<em>**_**


	197. Trust Me

_Dear Readers,_

_I'm posting this chapter before I probably should because I miss you. How crazy is that? I've been alone with this chapter for two frickin' long and I need some interaction. This isn't even the whole chapter. Well, it is now, because I'm pushing the rest into the next chapter. Screw it, I say! So, my point is - this is not a well-edited chapter ... my editor hasn't even seen it *ducks from a box of Kleenex being thrown at her from Queen Nora* Enjoy - and drop me a note, for goodness sake - make a girl smile today! ~MoxieGirl ~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 197 Trust Me<strong>

Fifty-eight minutes after hanging up from her last call to Booth, Brennan dials his number and hears him pick up before the first ring cycle completes. She's calling him from her apartment two minutes short of an hour after her last call to him. That call had been placed after she'd left Sweets' office to go to the restroom and found herself just minutes later in her car driving toward her apartment.

"Bones!" He shouts, practically falling off of his barstool as a blade of adrenaline shoots through his chest. He's at the sports bar with Hansen, Nathan, and Square Chicken, who just happens to be Nathan's twin brother, or, as some have been known to refer to him, Nathan's alter ego. Booth had been so distracted ever since arriving at The Founding Fathers that he hadn't remembered ordering anything when the waitress came by. When his drink arrived he was surprised by it's color. He smelled it, but never put his lips to the glass. He's been sitting with his friends, but his brain is across town at Brennan's apartment.

At the sound of Booth's voice on the other end of the line, Brennan finds herself unable to utter a single syllable; such is the intensity of her relief. She squeezes her lips together as a couple of hot tears drop into her ears as she attempts to swallow away the tightness in her throat. These are good tears, though. These are 'I'm stunned at how amazing it is to hear your voice' tears and 'I wish you were here with me already' tears. Thrown into the mix is a little bit of, 'this really sucked and I don't ever want to go through it again'.

"I'm on my way," he says, intuiting exactly what this means and hanging up. He wouldn't have heard her nodding her head in the affirmative, anyway, as she gripped the phone to her tear-drenched ear with her sweaty palm.

* * *

><p>Two hours earlier in Sweets' office, Brennan had been sitting in the loveseat with Booth's arm still wrapped around her shoulders. This was the moment she had been dreading—time to delve into the contents of that nasty box into which she had stuffed all the unpleasantness of this past year. She'd been surprised, at first, that she wasn't as emotionally distraught as she had anticipated she would be. Her ease, of course, was in no small part due to the comforting warmth of the right side of her body being pressed up against Booth's by the arm he's got wrapped around her shoulders and left arm. She also found herself compelled by Sweets' argument that her disturbing physiological and psychological 'trauma' was a direct result of her inability to process this recent pain, as opposed to any scars from her more distant past. She'd already become familiar with the research explaining how negative emotions, allowed to propagate unchecked, would fester and subvert healthy advancement of primary relationships and of an individual's wellbeing. <em>Neither of which, <em>she kept reminding herself, _are acceptable, no matter the difficulty in dealing with the emotions._

Watching the two, Sweets is reminded of a case he worked during his dissertation. It was a brother and sister—twins. The sister had undergone a traumatic event, one which she had been suppressing for over a year. Despite several innovative techniques and many hours of therapy spanning ten sessions, Sweets was unable to reach a level of trust with the girl such that she felt comfortable confiding in him. Noticing an intense bond between the siblings, Sweets recalled some innovate work being conducted at Johns Hopkins and decided to give it a try. He approached the brother with the idea, gave him a pamphlet to read plus about fifteen minutes of additional coaching, and invited him to participate in what was to be the final therapy session with the sister, if progress continued to eluded them. The brother had readily agreed; he would have done anything to help his sister get through the repercussions of a trauma which had left her unable to function.

Seeing a similar dynamic between Booth and Brennan, Sweets asked Booth if he would be willing to try this same strategy that had proven so successful with the twins. Booth and Brennan had explored many difficult personal issues together over the years—and had recently faced her most recent demons together early Saturday morning. She trusted him more than she'd ever trusted anyone and was able to open up to him in a way that she'd never opened up with Sweets. Booth was, after all, Brennan's safety net.

"Okay," said Booth, tentatively. "What do I have to do?"

"You two talk. I'll direct you and jump in if necessary, and we'll see what happens."

"Um, okay … don't I need some kind of training or something?" He asks, dubiously, an image flashing before his eyes of the last time he stepped into an empty canoe and ended up picking seaweed of his boxers for the rest of the day.

"Did you have any training before you had to deal with the hotel room incident Saturday morning?"

"Heh, no," said Booth, raising his eyebrows and snorting, then dropping all expression as he began to seriously consider the younger man's proposition.

"And you were fine, right?"

Booth looked sideways at Brennan whose face held a reluctantly agreeable expression. He shrugs with a shoulder and the right side of his face.

"Look, you already have everything you need, Agent Booth," Sweets assured him. "The key is to listen intently, respond unemotionally, refrain from defending or explaining yourself, and accept that feelings are just that—feelings—not facts. Her experience is what she _says_ it is, no matter how much it matches or refutes your experience or the objective facts. Got it?"

Booth stares at him as if he's just been asked to diffuse a bomb using a coat hanger and wearing only a bathing suit and a baseball cap. He cleared his throat, and considered what was on the line. What it came down to for him were a couple of questions he could answer in a heartbeat without even having to think about it: _Between me and Sweets, who knows Bones better _He asked himself_. Me. Who loves her more? Me. Who does she trust more? Me. No contest. _His only hesitation had to do with not wanting to screw it up. _Lord, some guidance here would be nice, _he thinks in the direction of the invisible man in the white robe sitting over in the corner. The Holy Spirit smiles serenely at His son and sends him a telepathic message. _I never send you somewhere I haven't prepared you for, Seeley Booth. If I have sent you, know that you are ready. You can do it._

"You can do it," said Sweets, attempting not to chuckle at Booth's expression.

Booth was startled at the sound of Sweets voice repeating HS's last phrase. For a moment, he thought he was actually hearing HS's voice out loud, and wondered if his colleagues herd it too. When Sweets continued, Booth was disoriented for a moment, but recovered swiftly, reflecting that it might just as well have been HS speaking through Sweets – _Who am I to question, right?_ He asked himself.

"Agent Booth, you can do this. You do it all the time," continued Sweets, "ask important, provocative questions in delicate situations. You once told me this is your super power, right? This is no different. And it's probably more important than most of the interviews you do on a regular basis, and—you're an expert at this where Dr. Brennan is concerned."

Booth thinks about how they made it through Saturday night. True, it had been freaky, but he'd handled it. They'd handled it together. _I can do this_, he decides, _we can do this. No sweat._ He hopes he hasn't just bitten off more than he can chew, even if he does have Jesus Christ, HS and the whole blessed trinity on his side. _And if I blow it, Sweets is here to help out, right? If I bomb, I can blame him._ He chuckles to himself out of nervousness more than anything. _Okay, this isn't funny,_ he reminds himself.

Brennan isn't completely sold on the idea, however. "This isn't a game," she says, smirking at the two of them.

"Pretend like I'm not even here," suggests Sweets, stepping over Brennan's comment and standing up. "Agent Booth, would you like to sit in my chair?"

"The shrink's chair? Hmmm. All the way over there? Uh, no," he says, looking back at Brennan right beside him. "Look, we can do this, Bones," he says. "Just in the last couple of days we've discussed a wide range of topics, some of them—really difficult ones," he says half chuckling. _Sweets doesn't even know the half of it,_ he thinks. Booth sits forward and turns to face her. "Listen, we can do this, you and me. We've both had a really tough year. We've both done things or said things or didn't do things that we regret—"

"I know," she says, dipping her chin and looking at him soulfully. "I know. I haven't made anything easy for you, Booth. I know that—" Still, Brennan looks at him skeptically, her eyebrows squeezed together, almost touching in the middle of her forehead, her lips bunched into what might be considered a scowl, but she's not angry … just unsure. This is a twist she hadn't anticipated. _Won't it be more frightening having to look Booth in the eyes and tell him exactly how I felt this whole last year? _She wonders._ Focus on the prize, right? Is this another one of Sweets' tests?"_

"Bones, retribution precedes grace, that's what they taught us in school. I have found this to be true more often than not," insists Booth. "First, there's **repentance, right? **_I'm sorry, I was an idiot, please forgive me._ Then, there's **retribution:** _I'm in a righteous hell of my own making and life sucks, everything has turned to garbage—I'm lost without you—"_

"Or, I feel like I've been stuffed in a black box and I'm suffocating—" says Brennan, seeing where he's going with this line of thought.

"Right," he says, encouragingly. "Exactly! Then, finally, we have the **grace:** _Of course, I forgive you, I love you and want what's best for you._ Like that. So, let's do this, huh?" He looks in her eyes, one at a time. "Look," he says, his voice full of emotion, his arms wanting to squeeze her to his chest because he's convinced this is the right thing to do and it is so important and he desperately wants her to be okay with it, "this is not at all what I had in mind when I said we needed to give ourselves time to think before Tuesday, but this, right here, has got to be _exactly_ what was supposed to happen."

"Tuesday?" Asks Sweets, furrowing his brow. "What about Tuesday? This Tuesday?"

Neither of them look at him.

"This Tuesday or next Tuesday," says Booth, "or Tuesday a year from now. It doesn't matter, Sweets," says Booth, not taking his eyes off Brennan.

She shrugs, looking pale and still unsure.

"The people we investigate," continues Booth, "the couples who do horrible things to each other, the parents who hurt their children, friends who hurt each other? They've lost the grace between them. They get all mixed up and lose who they were to each other. They harbor resentments and do strange things to each other, horrible things. Sometimes I wonder what it's like between two people, you know, like the week before one kills the other. How bad was it between them? Why did it turn tragic and how did they get that way?" He stops and grimaces. "People kill the ones they love … just a little bit … all the time."

"Booth not everyone who has problems commits murder," she says, looking at him quizzically.

"Of course not, Bones, not literally perhaps. But they do by keeping things from each other … they kill their relationships—by harboring resentments—by expecting that their unspoken needs will get met or their hurts healed without even telling the other person what those hurts are," he says, chewing on the inside of his lower lip. "And by not trusting each other."

"Trusting is very hard for me—" she says, a look of mild panic passing through her eyes.

"I know, but I would hope by now that you know me well enough, and I know you well enough, Bones, and we've been through enough together—" he says, a tinge of pleading in his voice. He scoots back against the couch but leans away from her so he can look her in the eyes. "Bones, do you trust me?" He asks, levelly, expectantly. His tone is confident, assuming the sale before the paperwork is complete. He knows she trusts him, she just has to allow herself to admit it.

Her eyes travel from his mouth to his eyes to his shirt. She feels compelled to agree, but she has a process she needs to go through. She takes a moment inside herself and conducts a survey, requesting input from all systems pertinent to this decision. Booth can see this happening as he searches her eyes, waiting patiently.

"I can see now that not trusting you has resulted in non-favorable … results," she begins, looking at his face as if what she is saying is written on his skin. The words are hers, but she's seeing them flash before her eyes, like a readout across the internal screen of a futuristic robot. "Sometimes those results include a great deal of confusion and pain, Booth." That box in her mind is hopping about in a little circle. Each hop sends a puff of soot into the air. _What the hell does that mean, _she wonders, staring at the box.

"Sweets—" she says accusatorially. "If this is one of your—"

"I assure you, Dr. Brennan, this is not a test, nor part of a study. If this doesn't work, we can stop," he says, sitting back down on the edge of his seat. "I want you to think about those seven sessions we had, you and me, right here in my office, immediately after Booth and Hannah broke up. Do you remember them?"

Brennan stares at him in shock, her eyes widening at his question. She flicks a glance at Booth, then back to Sweets, a warning in her expression. That had been the most painful weeks of her life, including the year after her parents had disappeared. She had been so devastatingly stunned to learn that Booth had proposed to Hannah that she shut down emotionally. Completely shut down. Until right now, neither Sweets nor Brennan had ever referred to those sessions they shared here in Sweets' office.

Camille had insisted that Brennan attend several sessions with Dr. Sweets after Brennan had submitted her resignation from the Jeffersonian the very morning after Booth's proposal to Hannah. She even went so far as to threaten Brennan with suspension if she didn't comply with the directive to meet with Sweets. Whether or not Camille could actually suspend Brennan was questionable; however, something inside Brennan knew that she wanted someone to be looking out for her when she didn't feel she could herself in her current state, state which she later described to Sweets as numb and disassociated from—everything—including herself.

Sweets and Brennan had met seven times over the course of the next three weeks. Brennan would come into Sweets' office, sit on her side of the loveseat with her arms and legs crossed, and say absolutely nothing for fifty minutes. The first two times, Sweets had gently asked her several probing questions._ What has been your most frequent thought today? What would you like to talk about? How would you describe the interactions between you and Agent Booth lately? What are you planning to eat for supper tonight? When was the last time you slept for six straight hours_? He knew better than to ask her when she had last cried, though it was the question he was most interested in the answer to. He got the same exact response both sessions; a nonresponsive stare, a shake of the head, and a heavy sigh. Then she would spend the remainder of the time looking at the contents of his walls and whatever she could see out his windows.

By the third session he had accepted that she was in far too much pain to say anything, so he simply sat opposite her for the full fifty minutes. Finally, halfway through the fifth session, she dropped her head, closed her eyes, and began to silently cry. After twenty-five minutes, she got up, collected the wadded-up balls of Kleenex sitting next to her on the couch cushion, straightened her skirt, and walked out the door without saying a word.

She spent the sixth and most of the seventh session crying quietly as well. Forty-five minutes into the seventh session, she stopped crying, blew her nose, looked Sweets in the eye, and said, "Thank you," before standing up to walk out of his office.

"Dr. Brennan, if you ever want to talk—" Sweets had offered before she got to the door.

"What for?" she'd said, though it was a rhetorical question. No response was expected or rendered. Though they met several other times for other reasons, the topic of those first seven sessions immediately following Booth's proposal was never mentioned by either of them. Sweets couldn't help feeling that he'd failed her somehow. He chose to be satisfied, at least, that she had begun to allow herself to grieve.

* * *

><p>Brennan closes her eyes against the mental image of that box hopping around in circles and continues. "I've found that there have been times when—trusting you would have been the better choice," she says, introspectively. "I do trust you with almost everything. It has been my experience that trust requires a level of submission to the unknown that I have not been comfortable surrendering. To you, or to anyone," she says, apologetically.<p>

Booth looks at her, waiting. He can tell that she isn't finished; he knows she has to go through this process, reasoning it out so she can say precisely what she means.

"I could trust you, Booth," she says, the imaginary box popping over and bumping against her leg. She looks down at it and lightly shoves it away with her foot. "I can choose to trust you," she says, swallowing and looking a bit pale. "It is a choice, Booth. I trust you with my life—" she says, but her expression says, _isn't that enough?_

"Then trust me with your heart," he whispers leaning closer to her.

The box is doing little bunny hops in pace. It hops and leans a fraction of an inch in this direction, then that, almost as if it's excited, happy. _What the hell?_ she wonders. _This is in sane. I have lost it. I think I need to eat something._

Shoving the image of the box aside, Brennan focuses on Booth's eyes, while simultaneously making a decision. She can see how important these words are to him. She also knows that this is something she has got to get past—her unwillingness to surrender her trust to this person who is so important to her. She purses her lips, as her eyes get glossy. Closing her eyes, she shakes her head and sighs, her shoulders relaxing. She smiles weakly and nods, then looks up at him with an expression that says, _I sure hope this isn't a big mistake._

Booth slowly smiles at her._ It isn't. It won't be._

Having made the decision to trust Booth to take part in the remainder of this session as her pseudo therapist, she leans back against his arm and heaves a sigh.

Booth and Sweets exchange an agreeable glance. _Okay, here we go, _it says.

"I'm going to move my chair over here," says Sweets, picking his chair up and setting it down perpendicular to Brennan's place on the loveseat and at the end of the coffee table. "This way you can focus on Dr. Brennan, Booth, as well as be able to see me comfortably."

"Booth, though I find your support comforting," Brennan begins as he turns to look at her, "and, you know I do," she says, smiling sheepishly into his eyes, receiving a twinkle back from him, "I propose that this may be easier for me if we—if I sit on my own," she says, delicately. "It would also facilitate us being able to look at each other more comfortably without constantly straining our necks." _And without our mouths being only five inches from each other making me want to chew on your bottom lip,_ she thinks, ignoring a heat wave working it's way down her neck. "It may also prove less distracting," she mumbles leaning back toward his ear, her cheeks being visited by a little blush of self-conscious pink.

The left side of Booth's mouth crinkles in amusement. He shrugs with his eyebrows and nods. "Okay," he surrenders innocently. He stares at her, their eyes locked. She's looking back at him, expectantly.

"I'm all the way over here in my corner of the couch," Booth points out finally when she doesn't move. He shifts his arm off her shoulders and onto the back of the couch. "If you want to get away from me, you're going to have to move," he points past her, "in that direction," he says, puckering, amused that she hadn't realized this herself.

Though she was the one to bring it up, she finds herself reluctant to move away from him. She smirks and starts to move back to her corner, but then stops. In an uncharacteristic moment of whimsy, she tentatively leans toward Booth and quickly hugs him around the neck. "Thank you, Booth," she says, smiling self-consciously before scooting backward toward her corner.

During this final part of the afternoon's session with Booth at the helm and Sweets nearby to coach him, Brennan begins to share with Booth what she's been keeping from him for so long. Her thoughts, her feelings, her disappointments, and her resentments surrounding his request that they take their relationship further at a time when she was not ready for it. It was far from easy, and she still isn't convinced there wouldn't be repercussions within their relationship. However, Booth assures her that what she'd earlier said to him about letting the past stay in the past, choosing to live together in the present, holds for him as strongly as it did for her.

She tells him how she hadn't realized until well after their 'give this a chance' discussion that she and Booth had already been a couple, had almost always been a couple, albeit a celibate one. It was after that night, after things between them started to change, that she realized that what she missed from their relationship—the affection, the connection, the emotional interdependence, the unspoken agreement that there was no one else for either of them—these were aspects of the romantic side of their relationship. These are not standard issue in most professional relationships. By the time she realized this, she explains, she feared it was too late.

"I understand now that when I made the decision to go to Maluku, you interpreted it as an indication that there was no chance for the two of us. However, for me, it was an opportunity to figure out if I should give us a chance. When we parted we were in two completely different emotional places."

"Why didn't you tell me you were trying to figure that out?" Booth asks, stunned at this revelation.

"Because I couldn't promise an outcome that would please you any more than the first one had. I couldn't put you through what you'd already gone through the first time."

He sighs heavily. _So much unsaid. So much pain,_ he thinks.

"Bones, you have to stop trying to manipulate situations. You have to let me take responsibility for whatever happens on my end, in my own head, okay? If I'd chosen to count on something and make plans, that would have been on me. Your job is to tell me what's going on with you – give me that information. Then I can make my own decisions. If you had told me—" he shakes his head and shrugs.

"You would have waited … " she suggests, blankly, as if this would have been a bad thing. She hadn't wanted the pressure of knowing he was anticipating a certain result.

"Yeah – but that would have been _my_ choice. I have a right to make my own choice."

"The truth is …" she says, shrugging her unwillingness to say anything further. After a moment she says, "Booth, I'm not good at these things-" Her expression says, _Help!_

"What? What's the truth?"

"It's … I can't say it," she says, dropping her forehead into her palm.

"Why not?"

"It's unfair. Irrational."

"Too bad. Let's have it," he says, resolutely crossing his arms.

"I was intensely disappointed," she says, looking away.

"Okay, in what?" He asks, nodding expectantly. "In me?"

She looks at him for a moment as if tentatively evaluating the firmness of a piece of fruit, yet still unable to determine its ripeness. "The truth is, I thought you'd wait anyway," she says, puckering her lips up to the right, her eyes glossing a bit, "without my having to say anything."

She pauses, watching for his response. He nods, looking away, saying nothing, taking it in. He can't help feeling like he failed her in this regard, which is exactly what she knew he'd feel if she told him this.

"I know you didn't go to Afghanistan looking—to meet someone, Booth," she continues, "I understand now, as much as I am able, how that was for you, the terrible pain you were in. I do feel responsible for that," she says, pausing. "All I can tell you is what it was like for me," she says, apologetically, leaning her head to the side.

"That's exactly what you are supposed to be doing here. Telling me how it was for you. This is about what you went through. What you felt, thought," he says, forlornly. "I understand," he assures her.

"I realize I had no right to expect that you'd remain celibate, you are a healthy male with biological urges ..." she explains further, shrugging. "But, you said you were that guy who believed in loving me for thirty or forty or fifty years. How could a love like that fade ... how could my _mark_ on you disappear in a matter of months?" She asks, a catch in her throat, grimacing to the point that dimple lines appear around the corners of her mouth. She looks down at her fingers, her mother's ring.

"Woah," he says, closing his eyes and slumping back against the couch cushions. He purses his lips and nods slowly. He can see the logic in that. He had professed his love … and then moved on. Booth bites his tongue. _She's right, I said that. I understand her logic,_ he tells himself. _Steady, Booth ... no excuses, no explanations, no mounting a defense._

"Booth," Brennan says, reaching over and placing her hand on his forearm. "I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for? You are right. That's what I said. I understand why you—"

"But it wasn't fair of me. I realize that now. I—I didn't know what it was like for you. I had no idea how long you'd been hoping for us to be together, or how devastated you were. Now I realize that you were at the end of your string. I was wrapped up in my own—" she shrugs with one shoulder, "my own confusion. It doesn't matter now. The fact is, I turned you down, Booth. You had no obligation—"

Booth covers her hand with his own. "It's okay, Bones. It's over, right?" he says, slowly leveling a weak smile at her. "It's over. We both made mistakes, right? We both screwed up," he says chuckling hollowly, expelling a huge sigh from his chest as if he were inflating a balloon. He grimaces, looking from one of her cool blue eyes to the other. "Can we just go forward? Sweets," he says, looking over at the psychologist, "do we have to beat this thing to death? Can't we just go forward?"

Sweets nods. Booth looks back at Brennan. She takes a huge gulp of air, then continues.

"So, one of the driving forces behind my retreat to Indonesia was my need to step away from what was happening between us and to focus on the nature of the dynamic we shared, to identify it and then to establish a system by which I could determine what I wanted our dynamic to become, if anything at all. I was successful in that endeavor."

"What feelings were you experiencing at that time?" Sweets interjects.

"So how did it feel these last 18 months? Can you describe that, Bones?" Asks Booth, tossing Sweets an annoyed glance.

"It hurt right here," she says, bunching her fingers together and tapping her chest to the left of her clavicle.

"In your chest," Booth repeats, furrowing his brow.

"Yes."

He looks quizzically at her. "Say more about that."

"I was certain I wasn't completely filling my alveoli sacks to capacity. Breathing sometimes became labored."

"When?"

"Most of the time, actually," she says candidly with a shrug.

"Really?"

"Yes. I could never get enough oxygen – into my lungs, and therefore into my brain, I am certain. I worried about how that would affect my performance."

"So, if we were to put a name on that, the sensation, what would it be?" Booth asks Brennan, but looks questioningly over at Sweets, who nods at him.

"I don't understand the question," she says.

"If you were to assign a _feeling_ word to that sensation, what might it be? Sad, mad, frustrated, anxious?" Booth grimaces openly.

"Anxious," she says, nodding, rolling it around in her mouth. "Yes. That is accurate. Also, disjointed, incomplete, disorganized even. However, I found myself organizing my office almost to the point of exhibiting the primary characteristics of someone diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It kept me busy. Engaged my brain … So – anxious." She pauses, her brow pinching together. "I also felt … lost?" She says it with an upward lilt as she looks absently around the room. It's a self-exploratory gesture. "I wasn't literally lost. I knew exactly where I was at all times, i felt like-I frequently felt that I was supposed to be somewhere else-no matter where I was, I was in the wrong place," she says, squinting at her own thoughts.

"Where? Where were you supposed to be?"

"I," she shrugs, frowning, looking back at Booth while shaking her head, "I-if I'd known, I would have gone there, to wherever that place was. But I didn't. It was-it created a great deal of unease throughout my system. I had the odd sensation that my food was not digesting properly, and my clothes didn't seem to fit right. I know that sounds absurd, but I don't know how else to describe it, Booth," she says, looking at him with her lips pinched together as if she had just tasted something disgusting. She swallows with difficulty, then adds, "that is how lost felt, feels, for me." She shrugs again, tilting her head and looking into his eyes almost pleadingly, perhaps embarrassed by what she considers an inadequate description of how she felt.

"You're good at this," says Booth, impressed.

"I have moments that would support that evaluation, actually. It's a skill I'm working on. I still fall woefully below the norm. I'm getting better."

The box begins rattling.

"Yes," she confirms again, looking away from the box. "Lost-and lonely, definitely." She looks back at the box. It quiets down.

"What does lonely feel like?"

"Empty," she says stepping toward the box sideways but staying at a safe distance, arms crossed, peeking in. "Empty. Lacking. Something important missing. Lonely. I'm not accustomed to feeling lonely. Even as a child. Or a teen. Lonely is quite distasteful. I don't care for it at all."

"When I feel lonely, I feel … sad," Says Booth.

She considers, rolling her eyes around the room. Arms and legs crossed, her foot swinging off the end of her opposite knee.

"If sad is the opposite of pleased, satisfied, interested and engaged – then, yes, Booth. I was sad. I spent a good deal of time unhappy. If I were to put a number to it, I'd have to say … 37.3% of the time."

Booth whistles quietly. _Why didn't I notice?_

"Even when you were with me?"

She stares at him, slides her jaw to the side. Her foot stops swinging for a moment.

_I was too busy being resentful, too busy trying to move on,_ he reminds himself.

She thinks about all the meals alone. She's looking at her lap, the fabric covering her knee. She's always found time alone to be satisfying. Time to think. Time to read, chew on a particularly challenging forensic quandary. Time to write. She'd spent the largest portion of her life prior to her work at the Jeffersonian with a rich inner life – not that she didn't have one now. Before becoming part of the Jeffersonian, she'd spent most of her time alone in her head. The people at the Jeffersonian pulled her attention outside of her head, but none as much as her involvement with Booth had. It wasn't until Booth came into her life, bringing so much color, vibration, resonance ... a deep and full kind of noise, that she experienced an absence - a lonely ache that punctured her previously serene solitude - when he was gone. She imagined this lack of sensory input was akin to the experience of chemical withdrawal. She'd recently described this to Booth, she recalls. Physiological pain accompanied by the effects of starving neurotransmitters which had been trained to depend upon a degree of exterior stimuli to provide – stimulation, animation, motivation. Enthusiasms previously enjoyed with fervor no longer held their usual allure.

"For a while I was no longer entertained by my usual creative process..."

"You couldn't write?" He interjects, asking for clarity.

"Precisely. My ideas, my thoughts, were monochromatic. My life was without color and I didn't have enough interest to reanimate it. That's a mixed metaphor …" she says.

_This sounds like a low grade depression_, thinks Sweets. _Not that she would have taken anything for it – maybe something herbal?_

"I know what you mean, Bones." He recognizes what she's describing because he'd felt the same way. "There you go again, describing perfectly how I was feeling as well. I get it," he mumbles, sighing and shaking his head. "Devastated, lacking in color." He shrugs with his eyebrows and smirks.

"Yes. And even my blacks were no longer rich, sharp hues of ink and charcoal – they fell short of anything that could be remotely considered sharp – distinct. My whites weren't bright anymore. They were dull and dusty, grey. Like I'd mistakenly mixed my laundry – put the whites and the colors together … and got grey."

"You really are good at this, Bones."

"So are you," she mumbles, smiling slightly, but with a quizzical expression fleeting past her eyes. This hurts, seeing what they lost. Feeling how far apart they had become, how much she missed that rich life they made together.

She thinks of this past week and how he still infuses her life with color and texture. However, it's not just him, she realizes. That much is obvious from this last 18 months. It's their combination that glows in Technicolor.

"We make beautiful colors, rich textures together, Booth," she says, quietly, as if speaking to herself.

"Yes, we do," he says equally as tenderly, his neck warming. He looks away self-consciously.

"I didn't feel that this last year," she says, grimacing, then pinching her lips together in a controlled pucker. At times I actually experienced episodes of prolonged tachycardia, during which I also suffered from Temporomandibular joint irritation due to repeated clenching, an increase gastro esophageal reflux and I had to concentrate to suppress the urge to blurt or speak at an inappropriately volume in close quarters or in professional settings. It was quite uncomfortable, both physically and emotionally," she says. "At times like that I frequently had the sensation that would usually be sated by sustenance … but no culinary options could entice me to actually eat. I think I lost five pounds one week."

"Did you feel the urge to hit something?"

She ponders for a moment. "Hit? No. Rip? Yes. I wanted to rip the pages of books out – right in the middle of reading them … which is uncharacteristic of me. I have a great deal of respect for the literary endeavors of others. But I did clean out all my old file boxes. Instead of utilizing the Jeffersonian's industrial paper shredder, I ripped to ribbons the entire contents of three to four boxes, on two separate occasions. It proved highly therapeutic. Micah—"

"Night security guard, Micah?"

"Yes. We've come to be quite familiar with each other this past year," she says, recalling the many nights she chose to stay a the Jeffersonian rather than return to her apartment. "He said it is good to have such a skill as paper-shredding to fall back on just in case the anthropology gig loses it's allure. Can you imagine? He has quite an interesting sense of humor, Micah."

"Or the modeling career?"

"Hm?"

"Or if the modeling career doesn't pan out," he says, raising a mischievous eyebrow.

"Yeah. Oh!" She chuckles, remembering he got that from her panties – the ones he saw when he changed her into her pajamas at Enri's house. _Now there's a story we won't be explaining to Sweets,_ she thinks chuckling to herself. However, that memory puts a little color back in her cheeks.

"Wait. What? You were a model?" Sweets is lost. "How come I never—"

"Sweets!" Blurts Booth, tossing him an incredulous stare. "So, it sounds to me like you were angry, Bones," he says, returning to his partner.

"Yes, I know that, Booth. You asked me to describe it, not name it. That is how I would describe it. However, I didn't allow it to consume me. I clipped it in the butt—"

"Nipped it in the bud, Bones. Like pruning a bloom on a rose bush."

"Oh," she says, contemplatively. "That does make a lot more sense." She nods, biting the inside of her lip in concentration.

Sweets stifles a giggle, covers his grin with his hand. "Ah, what kind of things made you—"

"—Woah, Sweets!" It's Booth chastising his interrupting colleague once again. "Do I have to kick you out of the room?" He stares at Sweets sternly, then shakes his head exasperatedly.

"I apologize, continue," he says with a nod and a wave of his hand. "You are doing great, Agent Booth."

"Thank you," he answers and returns his focus to Brennan. "Bones, what were you angry about?" He shoots a look aback at Sweets, just for good measure.

She focuses on his face. Her expression is one of intense concentration attempting to interpret the odd behavior of the sooty box inside her head. It had been breathing as if it were alive. When Booth talks, the smoke begins to rise once again. _That box is not afraid of Booth,_ Brennan notices.

She crosses her arms. "I was angry about my inopportune timing," she chagrins, as if they should know exactly what that means.

"Your timing?"

"Yes, Booth. Oh, I'm sorry," she says, thinking he must be misunderstanding her meaning. "My reference to timing has nothing to do with the synchronization of pistons, intake valves, cylinders and spark plugs. This is not an ignition timing metaphor."

"How do you know all that stuff?"

"I listen to the things you tell me, Booth," she says. "I was referring to my poor timing resulting in my not being ready when you asked me to take a chance …" _and angry that you asked before I was ready,_ she thinks. "And then, when I returned from Maluku prepared to give us a chance, finding that I was too late—"

"What?" Booth is caught off guard. _Did she just say …?_

"Actually, now that I think of it, the automotive metaphor is quite appropriate here. If any of the many events necessary do not occur within a very narrowly specified time frame, the power will not be shot at the spark plug at the optimum time and no explosion will result. That is quite an effective metaphor," she says, impressed with her own thinking.

"Woah, Bones. What about … when you came back from the Malapoopoo Islands," he says, prodding her, all his senses on high alert. "What were you going to tell me when—"

"Yes," she recalls, dejectedly. "I had decided to take you up on your offer … if you were still … interested," she says, regretfully.

"What? When you got—when we all returned to D.C. to help Camille?" He's not sure he heard that right_. Wow._ He hadn't known this. He had been sitting up straight facing her, but now he leans on his left arm against the back of the couch.

"Yes. I was going to—but you told me about Hannah. Didn't you notice how insincere my-" She pauses to take a breath, noticing that her voice had been steadily rising in pitch. That was the second most disappointing day of her adult life. The absolute most disappointing day of her life had been months later when she told him about her epiphany and he turned her away.

"When I saw you that night—when I saw you walk down the steps, I had such a rush of adrenaline, I could barely breathe. I was elated. I know I'm not as demonstrative as others perhaps are, but I was quite—enthused about our reunion. I was filled with a sense of—joy. It was the happiest I had felt in quite some time, Booth. When I saw you, I wanted to run to you, but I held myself back. And when we hugged each other you felt so good, and you smelled so good," she says, her cheeks warming, she looks away self-consciously. It feels awkward saying that in front of Sweets. "I could barely contain myself. Just seeing you gave me such an intense sensation of relief and happiness and pleasure – I was overwhelmed and I couldn't wait to tell you of all I'd figured out, but the embrace was so brief and your smile was so slight. You didn't seem happy to see me. That's when I experienced what I think you have referred to as your 'heart falling'. I felt such disappointment, Booth," she says carefully, a catch in her throat. She holds her breath and pinches her features together, holding the impending release at bay.

"I was scared to death," Booth blurts, unable to stop himself.

Brennan looks at him quizzically. _What could he have been afraid of? What was there to be afraid of?_

"I had—no, no idea," he gasps, furrowing his brow, a black unpleasant sensation spreading across his shoulders. He distinctly remembers that night. He had been bracing himself against the impact that seeing her always has on him. He had worked so hard to finally feel good about himself. He didn't want that to unravel the moment he saw her, touched her. And … he was mentally preparing himself to tell her about Hannah. He wasn't sure how she would react. It hadn't occurred to him that Brennan might have had a change of heart.

"I almost kissed you at our greeting," she says, smiling absently at the hazy memory of the anxiety she felt while waiting to see him, her heart pounding with anticipation. "I thought about kissing you—even with tongue contact," she says to herself, grimacing at the memory of her eventual disappointment. She remembers what she had been thinking as she waited for him that night. She'd been reliving their first kiss, the kiss outside the pool hall right after he'd fired her from their very first case together. Then she had thought about their kiss under the mistletoe years later, a kiss that had left her dazed and breathless. She remembered that heady feeling she'd had every time she saw him or thought about him for weeks after that though she denied it meant anything. "I almost did. Kiss you, I mean. But, I made myself wait," she says, hesitantly, feeling awkward admitting this. "I needed to find out first if you still felt the same—"

The nasty black box starts tipping side to side. She clenches her jaw and has a difficult time swallowing. The pink in her cheeks deepens into a rich crimson. She hasn't thought about or visualized that night since immediately after it happened. She couldn't. She put it in that box, like the dried carnation from a high school prom, destined to disintegrate when touched. She clenches her jaw, remembering the nausea she felt upon hearing his news about Hannah.

"Not long afterwards, I experienced what felt like the," she pauses, "onset of a case of reverse peristalsis."

"You threw up?" Booth blurts, unable to hide his surprise.

"I thought I was going to. Fortunately, I hadn't eaten anything in the six hours previous." She places her palm on her forehead as if checking for her temperature. She fights an unpleasant wave of emotion that seems to have attached itself to this long locked-away memory. It makes the memory heavier. "But I think it would have been more of an emotional rather than physical purging. I had to force myself to hold it all in."

"I've come to recognize that sensation of needing to empty the contents of one's stomach to be result of an overproduction of stress-induced chemicals pooling in the digestive tract when one undergoes extreme duress. That's what causes the impulse to regurgitate when it isn't a cause of food poisoning, viri or bacterium. I read this in a book Sweets gave me. It's called '_The Feeling of What Happens: Body, Emotion, and the making of Consciousness.' _It's all about the neurobiology of emotion and feelings and how they relate to human stress in particular. It's by very well-written by a respected neuroscientist named Antonio Damasio." Turning to Sweets, she says, "Do you mind if I hold onto that book for an additional two weeks, Dr. Sweets?"

"Certainly not. It's yours. I have several copies," he says, shaking his head.

"Anyway, I had to accept that I had been given a choice many months before, the consequences of which I'd now have to face." She shrugs, "Why do we even have to discuss this – can't we just move forward?" Her body has become rigid. Her question slips out on a thin wisp of panic. "I believe I can be satisfied with how things are now between us. It isn't at all pleasant dragging myself … and you," she says, nodding at Booth, "through the detritus of the past."

Booth looks to Sweets, unsure. He holds his breath, waiting.

"Dr. Brennan," begins Sweets, aware of Booth's nonverbal request for assistance, "because this is the only way to subvert a toxic build-up of anger, anxiety, guilt, possibly even depression, whose heinous intention would be solely to derail the wellbeing of your person and your primary relationships. In this case," he adds, as if it weren't already obvious to everyone in the room, "that points directly to your relationship with Agent Booth. Without complete awareness of the cost … it would be too easy to leave that concern to fester. Festered pain destroys relationships. I apologize for stating this point ad nauseam, but I cannot emphasize it enough. So, please continue."

Brennan, grimaces, drops her shoulders, and sighs, relenting. "So, I dedicated myself to my work," she says weakly, resigned. "We solved cases. I enjoyed our time together as much as was possible under the circumstances. I found our working relationship reassuring at times, but I-, I missed our connection." She looks at Booth, a pained expression on her face. "And I dedicated myself, when Hannah arrived, to ensuring that I caused no conflict for either of you. As long as you were happy – I thought that it would be enough for me," she says, forlornly.

Booth's watching her, filled with regret.

"Listen, the impetus behind my behavioral choice regarding your relationship with Hannah was based on a principle you friend, Sergeant Ken Nakamura shared with me. Remember him, Booth?"

"Of course, Naki with the saki, whew. Was that when he came to find his missing sister, Sachi?"

"I remember the case," mumbles Sweets, gravely. Sachi had been found decapitated in a marsh.

"That is correct," Brennan answers Booth. "He was so saddened by the thought of never being able to talk to Sachi again. He was in such pain, Booth. I asked him if it was worth it to have your happiness so contingent upon another human being. His immediate response was, 'If I'd be willing to give my life for my sister, why wouldn't I be willing to risk my happiness?'" Brennan takes a deep breath and exhales it completely, her shoulders rising, then falling lower than they were a moment earlier.

"His words came back to me, repeatedly," she continues, with a catch in her throat, "as I struggled with what path to choose when it came to your happiness and your relationship with Hannah. Booth, I am more than willing to give my life for you, so why would I not risk my own happiness in exchange for yours?" She looks self-consciously at her hands, her fingers clenching and unclenching each other. She takes another shaky breath. She closes her eyes and shakes her head. She feels an uncomfortable, dark tingly sensation along the back of her arms and down into her chest. She shivers, squeezing her arms around herself.

"During the first month or so we were back together, everything we said seemed to be a double entendre for what we were going through." She swallows, watching the black box slide, agitatedly, two inches to one side, then back several times, making a shh-shhh sound on the cement floor. "I found myself reverting to my previously held contentions about the nature of love," she says, apologetically, "otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to bear it." She grimaces, feeling the warmth of impending tears filling her cheeks.

"I considered returning to Maluku to complete the work there on my own. Daisy had had enough. She wasn't going back. But it was painful to be around you. However, in the interest of the team whose needs I had sorely neglected in my initial choice to go to the Maluku, I felt a responsibility to remain at the Jeffersonian. And I missed you. I missed us. Painfully," she gasps, batting at a slow trickle on under her eye.

"Describe that feeling," says Booth.

"I felt angry. I could maintain the facade for a while, but it disturbed me that I couldn't show up at your home unexpected anymore and I had no one to talk to about it. You'd taught me that discussing frustrations with someone helps assuage them ..." she says, her voice trailing off for a moment. "Then I was angry that you had introduced me to that practice and then took yourself away. I had no one really … to talk to."

"You could have called me …"

She gives him a long incredulous stare.

"No, it wouldn't have worked, Booth. There were several times I knew Hannah was out of town and I would have appreciated sharing a beer with you like we used to—at your place or mine. But it felt inappropriate. I was angry that it felt inappropriate._ I_ was your partner for _years _before she came along," she says, her voice raising in pitch as her throat tightens. "I was here first, Booth," she says, her chin crinkling in barely-controlled regret. For a moment she can't talk, her throat is so tight. She starts again in a horse voice. "She just moved in—right in between us," she rasps, clenching her jaw painfully.

She looks him straight in the eyes. If she blinks, her cheeks will get a shower, so she's trying to hold it in. She clearly has more to say, but she's holding it in.

Sweets senses that Booth wants to say something. Sweets knows how adamant Booth is that Hannah was invited into Booth's life, and this mess wasn't her fault, but now is not the time for Booth to bring that up. Sweets shoots Booth an almost imperceptible shake of the head. _This is not the time._ _Don't go there,_ it says. Booth gets it, and remains quiet.

"Every time you say angry and/or disappointed, Dr. Brennan," directs Sweets in a conversational tone, "I want you to exchange those words for hurt and afraid."

"I find it unpleasant—uncomfortable talking about these feelings," she comments blankly, her voice controlled finally. "These are what I have been packing away in the black cube. I find I am reluctant to look at them, reluctant to share them with you, Booth, because the most logical answer is that I brought them upon myself by my poor timing, poor decision-making. I want to blame you for them. I've felt so—incredibly angry—"

"Hurt," injects Sweets.

Brennan looks at Sweets out of the corner of her eye and nods, turning back to Booth.

"—but, I don't want you to take responsibility for what's not your fault, Booth."

"This is _relationship_. To protect at this point is not to protect, remember? If we keep these things from each other—we'll never make it! We are a team." He exhales, shaking his head. "And I'm not going anywhere. You are stuck with me, baby. So—roll out the big guns." He looks at her expectantly. Then nods encouragingly at her.

"He's right," agrees Sweets. "Don't sidestep something that could be uncomfortable for you and possibly painful for Agent Booth." Sweets can see by her posture and the look in her eyes that she's battling her own instinct for self-preservation and the preservation of her mate. Her impulse is to protect, bury, redirect—anything to avoid vulnerability, exposure. _Wow,_ he thinks, _the mind's ability to combat invasion is remarkable!_ "You know he can handle it. The old Booth could."

She's already out in the middle of the pool with Booth, isn't she? She keeps mentally looking back at the poolside, unsure if she wants to stay. _I hate this_, she mentally stomps her foot and screams at the sooty box in her imagination. _And where the hell am I? In a stinking pool or standing in front of the nastiest black box in the world. I hate psychology. AGH! _In the real world, Brennan is more than anxious. Inside her mind, she's starting to crack as well.

"I _am_ the old Booth – haven't I been the old Booth this whole week?" He tosses out. "Come on, Bones, sometimes things are going to get rough and uncomfortable, isn't that right, Sweets?"

"Ah, absolutely. Yep," he says. Sweets can see what Booth is doing. He's standing up for Brennan when she won't. He's not going to let her get away with hiding behind any excuses. Most importantly, he's trying to irritate her a little. Booth knows innately that if he can do that, she'll tap into those elusive emotions, and heat them to a steady simmer, which will then bubble over. She won't be able to stop herself. He's also displaying strength, letting her know that, A) He can take whatever she has to throw at him, and B) She can lean on him.

_Brilliant, _thinks Sweets.

Booth doesn't view what he's doing in the same clinical way Sweets does. Booth does this naturally; he's a genius at evoking emotion in others. He knows how to taunt her just enough to ignite her without frightening into flight mode.

"Bones, you were never alone," says Booth dismissively. He knows full well, now, that she was completely alone. He knows it, and he isn't afraid to use it to irritate her into action. He's also willing to deal with any fallout. He's willing to face the music. He's gonna fight, if that's what it takes. Booth can do this while holding her in that safe harbor he provides … she knows this subconsciously. He sees the prize and he's going for it. This is the old Booth. The focused, confidant, committed Booth. The 'I'd lay down my life for this woman', Booth. The 'love conquers all' Booth.

Sweets feels like he's watching the final two minutes of overtime of a Chicago Bulls V. Boston Celtics game where the score is even and Jordan has the ball. Booth is Michael Jordan and he's got Pippin and Rodman drilling an aggressively defended path to the basket. The tension is high, the crowd is screaming, and Jordan knows exactly what he has to do to get this baby into the hoop.

_He really is back, _thinks Sweets, grinning to himself.

"Bones you were never alone."

"It's not about whether or not she was alone – it's about her feeling alone, Agent Booth," explains Sweets.

"I felt alone."

"I was still your partner."

"My taciturn, communicably unapproachable, irritable, humorless partner."

"You could have come to me."

She tilts her head and stares straight into his eyes. _That's horse pucky,_ her look says, _and you know it._

"And do what?" She bores into him, her irritation building. "Tell you that you were making the biggest mistake of your life, that you were behaving immature, that you'd lost your balance, your—perspective? Was I supposed to knock on your door one night and expect you to allow me inside so I could pelt you with the poison-tipped quills of my disappointment and anger? What was I supposed to achieve by doing that? How would having you know that I was miserable without you, that the color was draining out of my life, that I was—lost and in need of something that seemed no longer existent between us ...? How would that have helped? What would you have said? What could you do?"

"What could I do? How would that have helped?"

"You'd checked up, Booth. You know? You were _gone!_"

"It's checked out, Bones. I was checked out," he says, then listens to what he just said as it reverberated inside his head. _Wow. I was checked out. Pretty accurate,_ he thinks.

"Whatever. You felt gone to me," she says. "You want to know what it was like for me, how I felt, Booth?" Tears are pooling inside her lower eyelids. She ignores them and continues. "As long as we're being honest, I'll tell you how I felt. I was angry, Booth. I was disappointed. I was—I was," she shrugs, shaking her head, searching for how to describe the ball of fury she felt at times. The black box in her imagination has begun a low vibration. The box shivers, puffs of black smoke spit upward in short bursts. Brennan stares at that box, clenching her hands at her imaginary sides, her jaw clenching, saliva pooling in the corners of her mouth. She is seeing those puffs of black soot and her frustration is mounting.

"I. Was. Angry," she whispers roughly, her eyes shut against the pain, the tears beginning to drop to her chest, followed by a torrent that almost splash when they hit the previous ones.

"Dr. Brennan, I want you to exchange the words angry and disappointed with hurt and frightened," interjects Sweets. "Buried hurt disguises itself as anger, anxiety—"

"I was angry—I was hurt and frightened," she says, glancing back toward Sweets for a split second, "when you asked me to take a chance on us before I was prepared to do so … when the risk was too high and the price was just too steep! I was fearful that you would come to me one day and tell me you couldn't manage working together any longer. Was I supposed to tell you how shocked and disappointed—"

"Hurt and fearful—"

"—how hurt and fearful I was when you returned from Afghanistan in a relationship? No, Sweets, that's inaccurate. I was shocked and angry—that's what I was."

Sweets mouths the words 'hurt and fearful' at Booth, who nods only slightly without taking his eyes off Brennan for more than a spilt second.

"Booth, you once told me that good people leave marks on each other, and that we should let those marks fade away naturally, not scrape them off or paint over them with new marks. Do you remember that?" She says, finding it difficult to swallow.

"No, I don't. But it sounds like something I might say."

"I have a perfect memory, Booth. You know I do. Those are your words—almost verbatim."

"Based upon this principle, I could only conclude that my mark on you was not substantial enough to require a significant passage of time to fade away naturally."

"So – you wonder if he really loved you in the first place?"

Her face starts to collapse in on itself, her features pinching together. It's the pre-cry facial scrunch. She drops her face into her hands for a moment, almost as if she were splashing water on it. She shakes her head and clenches her jaw, twisting to look at Sweets over her shoulder. This display of quickly concealed emotion confirms his suspicion. She had had doubts. _This explains a lot,_ he thinks, feeling a great deal of empathy for this woman he's come to have a great deal of affection and respect for over the last couple of years. This knowledge grabs hold of his heart and gives it a forceful tug. Sweets sighs audibly. Booth looks over at him questioningly.

"I thought he did. Was I deceived? All evidence pointed to him loving me. All of it, Dr Sweets," she says, exasperated. "But I was also convinced that he was in love with Hannah. So, what does—what did—"

"But you weren't convinced at all, Dr. Brennan. You told me so yourself."

She looks nervously at Booth then back to Sweets.

"You were very much not convinced. You actually said it was not possible that he would be in love with her." Sweets pauses. Lets that sit in front of them for a moment. That she knew Hannah was not right for him, he hadn't known. She could not have told him. He would not have heard her. She was stuck and filled with anxiety.

"_He_ was convinced. _You _were convinced that _he_ was convinced – there is a difference. You, Dr. Brennan, were spot on every step of the way."

"I know I was," she says, not proudly. She looks at Booth who sits expressionless, looking at them both.

"Being beside you but not being together. We've been through this already," she says, dejectedly glancing at Sweets. This is ending up being much more difficult and uncomfortable than she'd estimated, and she finds herself pulling back.

"I befriended her—but I couldn't—uh, it was uncomfortable for me, sometimes seeing you together, uh—it gave me goose bumps, disagreeable ones. At times I had difficulty breathing, sleeping, eating. But I prevailed. I wasn't sure how you would react if you knew how I felt … how disheartened I was. How crushed I was … what good would that have done anyone?" she asks pleadingly. "Hannah's behavior suggested that she loved you. You are fairly equally matched in the realm of physical attractiveness. You would probably have had, intelligent progeny with symmetrical features. However, there was something _uni-dimensional _about your relationship with her. I don't know how else to describe it."

"What do you mean?"

"Booth. After a while, I could see that you were strained … something wasn't right. You weren't right. Your mouth kept saying you were happy. But your eyes, your posture, your tone. They all said something different."

"What did they say?"

"They said exactly what Hannah told you on Monday. That you were out of alignment. I didn't have the vocabulary at the time. I felt you were settling – not because she was unworthy – but because the two of you … together … were not as good of a match as I expected you would require of yourself. Your efforts seemed compromised, your words and actions occurred to me as discordant. I couldn't figure out why you would allow that to happen. That was not at all like the Booth I knew … and loved. But you kept saying you were in love." Shrug. "And that made me angry because I was fairly certain that you were not."

"Because what I wanted was you, Bones. And I thought I couldn't have you. If I'd known what you were thinking when you came back from Maluku—"

"Was I supposed to tell you that she wasn't right for you? I couldn't do that, Booth. I certainly didn't want to prolong your entanglement with her which my involvement could have done- and you'd been acting very strangely - I didn't know how you'd respond or if it would have made a difference. I was lost, Booth. You are the one I usually go to with quandaries such as this. Was I supposed to confide in you that the man I love was in a mismatched coupling with a woman who wasn't right for him? Tell you that that man had become unapproachable and humorless. That his stubbornness was keeping him from admitting this to himself? Tell you how unbalanced my days were, how empty my evenings were?" She looks at him on the verge of tears.

"But, how were you so sure it was temporary?"

"Because people don't change, Booth. Not completely. Your character, your ability to love and appreciate, your faith in the good in the world, your willingness to risk your life for another person, your commitment to always doing the right thing, despite its irrationality or unpopularity. Your reverence for … relationship," she says, searching his eyes, regretting not having done ... something. "These things never changed in you. I knew the rest of you would return—"

"You had faith," he interrupts.

"—given the appropriate time for those marks of pain to fade naturally," she nods, adopting a gentle yet informative tone, "and given the proper connection – and regaining the kind of love that is the component you require for happiness. I knew these things would come to you."

"How?"

"Because you told me that there is someone you are meant to spend the rest of your life with. I was confident that, at one time, you had believed I was that person. And I knew that I was available for you if you wanted me and I knew eventually you would do the right thing. If you didn't, I would have referred back to Ken Nakamura's principle, thrown caution to the wind, accepting that it could end our partnership, our friendship, and I would have come straight to you and told you exactly what I saw. Fortunately, I didn't have to do that because Hannah turned you down." She sighs, shaking her head. That would have been a frightening conversation to have with him, knowing everything would be on the line. However, if she'd be willing to risk her life for him …

"Things come full circle – Booth, you are correct. I had, I have faith in you. And, as I have demonstrated thousands of times … I am rarely incorrect in my assessments," she says with finality.

_There it is again, _thinks Booth, _the certainty of Temperance Brennan. The steadfast, enduring, unerringly confident heart of the woman I love. _He humbly makes a sign of the cross in his imagination, and then sighs out loud.

* * *

><p>Hanging up the phone from talking to Booth, Brennan experiences a powerful wave of relief washing over her as if she'd just finished a run in the park and is now lying in plush green grass. panting until her heart returns to its resting pace. <em>He is on his way,<em> she thinks. _He will be here soon and all will be right in my world. _The Brennan in her brain pauses and looks at her as if she just said something absurd. _'All will be right in my world', Temperance? That was hyperbolic. I don't care, she answered herself. And ... I'm talking to myself. This can't be good. _She chuffs at her internal running commentary on the quality of her thoughts_._ "Thank you for giving me this time to cogitate on what I found inside that stinking black box," she says out loud to her empty living room.

There's still a fair amount of processing to be done, but at least now she understands the topography of her long-banished anguish. She's done what she needed to do here on her own, now she just wants Booth her beside her.

Her heartbeat speeds up again at the thought of him arriving any moment. She can barely breathe; her face feels like she's wearing a mask of red ants. This is what thinking about being alone with him again does to her. _Over six years I have been working beside this man. Knowing he is on his way to meet me has always had a pleasing affect on my … what? Mood? Attitude? Whatever it has been, it has always been enjoyable knowing that he is on his way. Even when we've been in the midst of a disagreement._

_How is it that the anticipation of seeing him now creates such an intense physical reaction in me, much more intense than before, and much more than I imagined possible? _She thinks, knowing exactly what it is. _It's the oxytocin, the hormone of attachment, the one that the more you get, the more you need. It creates in humans the desperate need to be with their partner, and to perpetuate the race. Oh, yes,_ she thinks, _that is exactly what this is and it works spectacularly well._

She decides it is best to remain here on the floor. She wonders if she can even get up from where she lies on the rug in the living room listening to an ancient tape Russ made for her years ago. Attempting to walk across the apartment with gelatinized menisci, articular cartilages, patellae, femura, tibulae, fibulae, cruciate ligaments, muscles and tendons would most likely land her back on the floor anyway, but probably in a jumbled heap. She chuckles at herself. _This man makes me crazy,_ she thinks. _And I'm fool enough to enjoy it._

She's listening to an old cassette tape of Poco, Van Morrison, Rod Stewart, Joe Cocker and Jim Croce. Russ had created this collection back when they still lived with their parents. The songs were no longer current hits at the time, but they were some of Max's favorites, so they conjure many memories for both Russ and Brennan.

* * *

><p>"Gotta go," spits Booth, suppressing a nervous smile and tossing a twenty at the table as he jams his phone hurriedly into his jeans pocket. "Call you later, Hansen," he tosses toward the man, getting a brief nod in response.<p>

"You just got here, Booth! Hell, you barely said five words. And what's this?" Square Chicken complains, pointing at Booth's untouched drink. "Who are you, and what have you done with our sharpshooting, ass-kicking, moves-like-the-wind, head-as-hard-as-an anvil comrade?" He glances at Nathan and Hansen for support before looking back over toward Booth, preparing to shoot him a challenging glare that would stop a raging bull. When he looks back, however, all he sees is the back of Booth's head as it weaves through the crowd toward the door.

"What the hell?" Demands Square chicken, chuffing disgustedly.

"Man, haven't you been paying any attention at all?" Nathan looks at Square Chicken like he's the ass hat of the century. "Look, Seal's had a rough time, so shut it! That's why I practically forced him to come out here tonight. For the first time in months, it sounds like he might finally be getting his mojo back after that reporter screwed him over. I had lunch with him two weeks ago … the man was in a whole mess of hurt. He didn't say anything, of course, but you could tell just by looking at him."

"Well," Hansen joins in somberly, "he didn't look hurt as much as distracted tonight. What do you think's going on?" Hansen is the most intuitive and tender-hearted of the three, so he mostly listens, rarely talking unless asked a direct question. As a result, when Hansen opens his mouth, people stop and pay attention.

"Hell if I know, Hansen," mumbles Nathan, "but as much as that man's saved my ass when it was on the way to the meat grinder, he could piss in my coffee and I wouldn't complain," he says, swinging his head to the left to look Square Chicken in the eyes, "So – back the hell off and order yourself another drink. Or here," he says, picking up Booth's untouched tumbler, "have this one, on Booth."

Watching Booth disappear, Hansen raises his glass to his lips and hopes for the best for his brother in arms. He's been able to read Booth since they were grunts; has always felt a kinship for the man as if they were brothers by blood. He could see that Booth was anxious and distracted, but there was something else hovering around him as well. It was … a solidness of some kind. _Is solidness even a word? _He wonders. _Has he bulked up? No. He just seems more … solid,_ he thinks. _He also seems hopeful. Where Seeley Booth is concerned, that could only mean one thing._

Hansen has always known Booth to be confident, and there was never a lack of female company in Booth's camp, though Booth always played the good Catholic boy, no kissing and telling; no laying out his conquests like notches on a belt. That wasn't his style. Never had been. _But this_, thinks Hansen, _this has to do with a woman. Must be a good woman, for Seal to jump like that. He couldn't get out of here fast enough. Godspeed, brother._

"To Booth," says Hansen raising his glass to the center of the table. "Godspeed and good luck. To Booth." The three men clink their glasses, take a swig, and move on to the next topic of conversation.

* * *

><p><em>Okay folks, I sincerely hope this made some sense. But, like I said, this is for me. Sometimes a person<br>just needs some feedback. Should I do much editing on this - which I don't think will be much more  
>than grammar, spelling, stupid stuff ... but if I do, I will highlight or underline it and let you know<br>at the top of the next chapter._

_THank you to the following 43 readers who posted a review for Ch 196 Crazy Love. You rock:_

fofie675, CrayonClown, Shoulla, Dovepage, Kimberly01, Lady, Wifeofdom, appeidala, Danzjaron, jazzypros, caracoleta07,  
>flute1952, Memo3197,bonesluvr25, sarahlizlangas, Michelle, brensfan, cremant, eire76, Fluffybird, elmasuz, Aveburygirl,<br>bostonlegalgirl, ILuvBonesNDool, mathlete, jbcrace14, erinbeth07, Twerp24, DWBBFan, TraciM, OhSnapItzAmelie,  
>bonesgirl2, alexindigo, mef1013, yenyen76, Dyna63, Seamonkey2391, grandma bones, coterie2, celheartstv, Beckbones,<br>and Becky – kdgteacher7. Plus the wonderful people on Twitter who dropped me cudos there!  
>You guys do make a huge difference in my life! XOXOXOXO<p>

_Now, do me a solid and say hello by way of a review . . ._

~M-OX


	198. Broken and Beautiful

_**Dear Reader:**_

_How do you recover from the kind of anguish that Brennen and Booth experienced in Season Six? It's a challenge. In real life it would take months, maybe years. In fiction, it can take 200 chapters read over a period of a couple days and we can skip over the tough parts, or we can wade through them along with our protagonists. I believe in learning from other people's experiences, so I give you the wade through. Grab a cuppa your favorite beverage and a big warm blanket and see where this takes you. Enjoy!_

_**~MoxieGirl  
><strong>__**~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter**_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 198 Broken and Beautiful<strong>

She lies on the living room floor of her apartment, supine, in the dark except for the gentle glow of the stereo tuner eight feet from her face and the light it casts across her bare feet and the clothing clinging to her legs and chest. An hour earlier, she'd become overwhelmed and found herself fleeing Sweets' office. She had her keys with her, irritatingly poking into the soft flesh directly on the other side of the thin fabric inside her pocket. She'd stood there between the loveseat and the door to Sweets' office, panicking, after an outburst that left her fatigued, dehydrated, hot and hungry. As a result, her mind had been stunned into silence, having finally seen the contents of the nasty, sooty, box. She'd desperately needed time and the mental space to process, to take off the final prickly layer of—whatever that was—covering the small agitated object lying innocently at the bottom of the black cube. She tried to tell herself that she was holding herself together fairly well, but she knew that was a lie and made herself admit it immediately. _I am not holding myself together at all, dammit. I have come undone, as they say in the vernacular._

Her parting words to the two men were, "What if I can't handle what's in the box? What if I don't know what it means, or, or, what to do with it?" Turning on her heel, she'd rushed toward the door, then forced herself to come all the way back into the room, hands gripping the upholstery-covered edge of the back of the couch, hot tears pooling just inside the bottom lids of her wide-open eyes. She glared at Booth, unable to stop herself from raising her voice at him. "What if what's in there is something that I need, but it's dead and can't be resuscitated?" She sputtered, standing upright, swiping the trickle from her nose, batting at the dampness threatening to burst again from her eyes. "I need a break," she rasped, and turned one last time before marching from the room. Booth had reached out to touch her, but all he got was a hand full of the angsty wake she left behind.

Her intent had been to go to the restroom, sit on the floor and privately contemplate what was at the bottom of that box, then return to Sweets' office. However, when she got into the hall her feet took her to the elevator door and her hand pushed the down button. _Okay,_ she'd said to herself, surprised. _I'll just breathe some cool outside air, re-oxygenate my circulatory system, and my brain, so I can think better,_ she told herself. When she reached the outside air, her feet had another plan. Hadn't she told Booth several times that her body was smarter than she was? _This proves it,_she thinks, smirking to herself.

She marched to her car, beeped the door unlocked, and watched as the brake lights flashed red twice in response. She got in and slammed the door. Sitting in the driver's seat, she dropped her face in her hands and gave in to the need to wring herself out like a sponge. Hot, frustrated tears jumped from her eyes for several moments until she gasped wearily. "What does this mean?" She asked herself, now fully aware of what was at the bottom of that nasty black box. She dropped her head onto her arms, which were splayed across the steering wheel. Clenching her jaw several times, she slid her keys into the ignition and turned it, feeling the engine come to life.

Taking several cleansing breaths in and their complementary breaths out, she attempted to calm herself into an appropriate frame of mind for being on the street at the wheel of what could become a killing machine if she wasn't alert and level-headed.

She had been half way home before she realized what she'd done. She'd walked out on a session with Booth and Sweets. She hadn't meant to do that. She wasn't sure how long ago she stomped from the Hoover complex into the parking lot, but she knew Booth would be going out of his mind when she didn't return. She pulled an immediate left into the parking lot of Capital Hill Exxon at 3rd and Pennsylvania and dug into her pocket for her phone.

"Bones! Where are you? Are you okay? What happened? Where are you?" Breaking out in a flash of cold sweat and clearly panicked to complete distraction, Booth had verbally jumped through the phone to grab her by the upper arms.

"I'm okay, Booth," she gasped wearily, her words being trailed by a strange sigh-sob that surprised her. She didn't think she was that upset now that she'd gotten some air. However, she'd come to learn that she's not always the best evaluator of her moods. "I will be okay," she assured him.

"Where are you?"

"In my car."

Booth dropped his head at her verbal precision. "What? Okay, where's your car?" He asked anxiously, pinching the skin on his forehead between his thumb and first two fingers. She could hear him walking, probably toward the window to look out into the parking lot where he'd see his own SUV with hers no longer beside it.

"At the Exxon on third. I apologize for leaving abruptly, Booth," she said, sniffing and pausing to catch her breath. "Before I really knew what I was doing, I got on the elevator and now I'm half way home. I am so sorry, Booth. I-, I just needed a minute … actually; the evidence suggests I must need more than a minute as I have left the office. I will be okay, I promise you. I'm calling—I just didn't want you to worry," she said, jamming her eyes closed and holding her breath at the sensation that a couple more tears were on their way. "I apologize for not informing you earlier," she says in a strained shaky voice.

Booth was speechless. He was panicked. He felt physical pain at the sound of her voice, knowing what she'd just been through and not wanting her to be alone. She seemed to be on the verge of something, and he wasn't sure what, which frightened him.

"Wha- ah, are you coming back? What can I do? Is there anything I can do? Are you okay? Bones—" he choked out, unable to swallow or mask his concern with controlled tones. He waited, listening intently, suspecting she was once again attempting to contain her emotions. He heard a faint squeal of attempted control on the other end. "Bones! What can I do? Tell me! I'll do anything. Listen, I'm coming over…!"

"Booth," she says, her voice catching in her throat, "Sweetheart—"

_Whoops, that's not good,_ he thinks, _she only calls me that when it's really bad. I wonder if she realizes that's her gambling tell?_

"…I'm fairly stressed right now, but I will most assuredly be—better—soon. I just need a bit of time … to think things through on my own."

"What can I do? There's gotta be something I can do, Bones. I can't just sit here—"

"Of course there is something you can do, Booth," she says quietly, admonishing his dramatic exclamation.

"I mean for _you_," he answers emphatically, his voice rising in pitch.

"Yes," she says, firmly. "There is. First, take a couple of deep breaths. You sound quite anxious."

"Of course, I'm anxious! You just walked out of here without saying a word about where you were going. I thought you were coming back!"

"I am sorry, Booth. That is why I called. Now go. Go have a couple of drinks with your friends. Distract yourself for a while. Talk about flatulence and hockey. I will eventually be fine—"

"I can't go out and be social right now! I can't even think straight! And you shouldn't be alone—" said Booth, realizing he must sound hysterical to her.

"You have no other options where I am concerned, Booth. If you come here, I will not let you in. I need to be alone … just for a brief period of time. And, of course you can think linearly, Booth. I've seen you under a lot more stress than this and you always handle it well," she says, forcing herself to sound as calm as possible. She had just told a lie, which made it difficult. Tonight was the most upset she'd ever seen him, but she can't think about that now.

He could tell by her determined tone that this was not an empty threat. She'd lock him out and refuse to answer the door. She must have forgotten that he has a copy of her apartment key and could get in without her assistance if he was determined to do so. As he waited for a brilliant persuasive response to descend upon his humble brain, she sighed heavily and continued.

"Listen, you … just … please … go. I will see you in the morning. I am fairly certain I will be fine," she lied. "Please, Booth," she said, plaintively, sighing heavily, knowing this is difficult for him to hear her like this without being able to do anything about it.

They sit in silence for a moment. _What's my play here? What's my strategy?_ Thinks Booth frantically looking around the office. _Everything is as it should be Seeley Booth,_ he heard the Holy Spirit whisper into his ear, then nod at him. _Fat lot of help that is,_ thought Booth disgustedly, then immediately apologized to HS.

"You will call me," Booth pleaded into the phone, dejected, but relenting. "If you need … _anything,_ Bones. If you need me, right?" He waited for her response, realizing that his voice had a whiny tinge, his own eyes damp at the corners, and his head pounding. At least she had called him, right? And she was talking to him … not yelling at him. _She needs some time,_ he assured himself, taking a deep breath. _How much time,_ he thought, feeling the panic start to rise again.

"I promise you. I will call you," she whispered, interrupting his thoughts, "if I need you, Booth. I promise, pinky swear in the air."

"If you need _anything_," he whispered back in desperation, knowing she meant what she'd said. He clenched his jaw painfully, the end of the conversation bringing on a sense of some kind of finality which means – what? Until he knew what was going through her head, he wouldn't be able to relax. His uncertainty shot a piercing shock of adrenaline through his chest and dried out his mouth. He hated not knowing what's going on. He still wasn't sure she should be alone; he considered going over despite her warnings.

"If I need anything," she whispered back, closing her eyes and slumping in her seat. "Un dia vamos a duchar juntos, Booth, pronto," she said, closing her eyes and focusing on his soothing voice. _One day soon we will shower together, _it translates.

"En ese dia cuando tomos prod fin solos boy a tarde come taquero," he responded impulsively. His butchered Spanish translated as, _On that day, when finally alone prod volumes later boy to eat taco._ When he realized he'd answered her in Spanish, it didn't even faze him. "I'm calling you in an hour to check on you—"

"I won't answer. I need—"

"Okay, listen, I'm calling anyway, just so you can hear my voice," he said, turning his back to Sweets, and lowering his voice to an intimate level. "Okay? I'll leave a voice mail so you can listen to it. You can listen … and feel better."

"That would be nice, Booth—" She choked, momentarily surprised by how relieved she was that he knows something as simple as the sound of his voice would give her comfort.

"Okay. So I'm calling in an hour. Exactly one hour. I'll call," he said, quietly, looking at his watch, his heart still pounding against the inside of his ribcage.

Brennan smiled and released a barely audible sob. "I love you, Booth, with my whole—"

"—with your whole metaphorical heart, I know Bones," he said, his voice soft and tender, a warm auditory smooch on the forehead just like the one he gave her here in the office after reading her note to Hannah. "I'll talk to you later," he said as she released the call without saying another word.

* * *

><p>Bones had made her way home from the Hoover building, Sweets' office, on autopilot. Unlocking her door, she tossed the keys into the bowl on her kitchen counter top and headed straight for the master bathroom. Stripping off all but her panties, she pulled out her ponytail elastic and stepped into the shower, without turning it on. Looking down at herself, she realized she was still wearing her underwear.<em> I don't have the energy for this,<em>she huffed wearily and stepped out of the shower stall without ever touching the faucet.

She was exhausted from all the talking, the thinking, and from experiencing and expressing emotions she hadn't wanted to, but knew she needed to get past. Finally—finally, that box had split wide open, spilling ash and soot to every corner of her consciousness before the ash was blown away by a breeze she could see the effects of, but not feel. Finally revealed was what lay at the bottom of that box. It had been a surprise … a shock, to be more accurate, but, in retrospect, it made perfect sense. When she saw it, that's when she knew she had to leave. She needed to be alone. She couldn't surrender all control and unwrap the final layer of her anguish … even in front of Booth, safety net or not. Now that she was so close, she wanted to handle it on her own. She had to. For her own peace of mind. _We all die alone, _she thought. _In the final analysis, we all battle our innermost humanity alone. People support us, help us, love us, but we go into ourselves, into our own mystic, completely, utterly alone._

Leaving the bathroom, she stood in her bedroom, staring at her bed. In the light of her bedside lamp she could make out two body impressions in the messed up bedspread, like shapes left behind by sunbathers at the beach. That was where she and Booth had napped, wrapped around each other. _Why does this room seem incomplete without him here, like it's waiting for him to return? Why do I feel uncomfortable, irritated, chafed about that? Because it insinuates a dependency that is really pissing on me right now! "_I can't lay there. No way I'm laying there," she said to the emptiness pressing in on her. It still contained the remnants of Booth's scent. She allowed the tugging impulse in her upper chest to bend her over the bed. She thought about dropping her face into the spot where he had lain, then decided against it. _I don't want to be distracted. This is about me, me alone, _she decided.

Realizing she was covered in goose bumps, she moved toward her closet and pulled her yoga pants and tank top out of the hamper. Sliding them over her head and up her legs, she rooted around in her top drawer for the fuzziest pair of footies she could find and slipped them over her feet before slowly shuffling out into the living room. She sat on the couch with her knees under her chin, overcome by the fullness of the silence surrounding her. She imagined her head tightly packed into a box full of cotton balls.

Unable to tolerate the faint ringing of the silence any longer, she crouched on the floor in front of her shelving unit and browsed through a shoebox of old cassette tapes for something to chase away the quiet. Choosing one of her favorite oldies collections, she depressed the cold metal power button of her old tuner. She flipped the switch from tuner to auxiliary, slid in the cassette tape and closed the little compartment with a snap. Before leaving her perch in front of the electronic display, she turned the large round volume knob to 45% and closed her eyes as the music wafted into the room from the speakers positioned on either side of the shelving unit.

Crawling over to the speaker on the right, she adjusted the over-sized Infinity woofers and tweeters to point toward the center of the room, then did the same on the other side. Once_ 'Someone Like You'_ by Van Morrison began seeping into the air around her, Brennan listened intently with her eyes closed. Scooting backward toward the center of the living room on her hands and butt, she listened for the sweet spot. The sweet spot is the point at which the sound from both speakers meet and mix for the perfect combination of bass, percussion, vocals, drums, guitar, and other wind and stringed instruments. Bumping backwards into the coffee table, she slid it out of the way, located the perfect spot, and lie down in the middle the floor, her head in the exact location of the intersection of the sound waves from each Infinity speaker, allowing herself to float away on the notes of the song. Max introduced Brennan to the sweet spot when she was five years old. She and Max would lay on their backs on the floor in her childhood home, their heads smashed up next to each other in the sweet spot, their legs stretched out in different directions, listening to his favorite songs.

Sometimes, she'd find Max in the living room late at night, laying with his head in the sweet spot, listening to Van Morrison. She wasn't supposed to be up, so she'd sneak quietly up to him on her hands and knees. Sometimes he'd be asleep, so she'd lay down next to him carefully so he didn't awaken. Other times, he'd open his eyes and smile, lifting her up onto his chest. She'd lay on top of her dad, belly to belly, scratchy cheek to pudgy cheek, her arms around his neck, his hands clasped around her little waist. Listening to Van Morrison tonight, laying in the sweet spot, Brennan allowed herself to indulge in those memories of her youth with the first man she ever loved, as _'Have I Told You Lately That I Love You'_drifted out of the speakers like the smoke from an abandoned cigarette resting in the dip in the edge of a heavy glass ashtray.

_Fill my heart with gladness, take away all my sadness,  
>ease my troubles, that's what you do.<br>And you fill my life with laughter, you can make it better,  
>ease my troubles that's what you do.<br>Have I told you lately that I love you?_

Tonight, she had another thought while listening to the soothing '70's mix: Max Keenan was also the first man who ever broke her heart.

* * *

><p>Replaying the final half hour in Sweets' office from memory, Brennan allows herself to relax and focus on everything that had been said and every emotion she had felt. Now that she's alone at home and laying comfortably on the floor in the middle of her living room surrounded by the melodious tunes from the years when her youth was carefree, she's ready to get to the bottom of the black box. The key to the path that leads to the secrets held captive within that box, the key was in the content of that final conversation between her and Booth in Sweets' office. She tries to remember it all as if it were happening again right here, right now ...<p>

"How was I so sure that your relationship with Hannah wouldn't last?" Brennan repeats Booth's question. "Well, nature is cyclical. When something gets out of balance, or out of alignment, as Hannah put it, a negative feedback loop will counter-balance to compensate. Likewise, objects at rest will return to a resting state when a stimulant is removed or countered."

"Sir Isaac Newton. The laws of motion," interjects Booth, confidently. "See? I do listen."

"Exactly. Very good." She says. "Well, close enough, anyway," she mumbles after thinking for a moment. "I had every reason to believe that your relationship with Hannah, while successful in providing situational relief from your disappointment-induced—"

"Pain and fear-induced—" interjects Sweets.

"—your pain and fear-induced emotional upheaval, would eventually terminate. I believed that your relationship with Hannah was part of an imbalance which would right itself when it outgrew its usefulness, and eventually you would return to your resting state," she says, coolly. "Once returned to your resting state as the happy, healthy Booth we all know, you would recalibrate your behavior and come to the realization that Hannah was not that _one_ person you are meant to be with."

"Happy, healthy Booth?" Booth snorts. "Well, I don't know if I'd call myself a happy, healthy Booth. Maybe a snarky, cocksure, rugged Booth—" he says, smirking and shooting a glance toward Sweets who smiles slightly and nods.

"Wha—" Brennan stares at him quizzically.

"When we met I wasn't that happy healthy guy 'you all knew'," he says. "You brought that out in me, Bones," he says.

She searches his expression, looking for signs of sarcasm. None there. He's completely serious. No snarky glance at Sweets. Complete seriousness. That stops her in her tracks. She stares at him, blankly. Then pinches her eyebrows together. "Hm. What are you talking about?" she remarks. "You- You never told me that."

"Wasn't it obvious?" He looks at Sweets for confirmation, still no trace of jocularity in his composure.

"You'd have to ask the others at the Jeffersonian. You were fairly content when I came on the scene. Still snarky and cocksure, but I'd say you were content, comfortable with your place in the world, your relationships, your needs being met. I'd even concede that you were healthy as well, if you threw in a shot of Scotch and let me borrow your Green Lantern, Volume 3, 'Emerald Twilight'."

"See," says Booth, the side of his mouth upturned. Still, no trace of this being a joke.

"That doesn't prove anything," she objects, still a bit off guard. "And we don't have input from the others. However, I do seem to remember you being disrespectful of my team and even me when we first started working —"

"What it proves, Bones, is that you are good for me, see? Huh?" He croons, leaning his head to the side and shrugging with the same shoulder, then smiling sweetly. "But we are off point. Sorry," he says, clearing his throat, then glancing past her at Sweets. Looking back at Brennan, he shoots her a quick twinkle, before resuming a serious expression.

"What was that?" She asks, her belly doing a flip flop. She's been caught of guard by this new information. She was confident that her presence in his lfe had been good for him, but had it increased his ... level of happiness ...? Parker had said Booth appeared happy when she was around, but she'd assumed that was a child's simple interpretation. Not really sure how to react to this, she raises an eyebrow at Booth that says, _What? Are we school kids now?_

"What now?" He asks.

"What was that little thing you just did with the shoulder up to the ear and the eyebrows wiggling?" She asks, looking completely uncoordinated trying to mirror what he did.

"No—you got it all wrong, Bones," he says, showing her again.

"But ... what does it mean?" She squints at him, bewildered. _Do you have a license for that?_ She thinks. _Because it's kinda deadly._

"Oh," he says, doing it again, his grin dripping with increased charm every time. "That's my cocksure, happy, healthy Booth. See? That's who I am today. Well, at least I was before we got here," he says snarkily, doing the motion all over again. "Look—you're still doing it wrong, Bones. I'll show you later."

"This isn't a joke, Booth," she says, ignoring another flip flop in her abdomen and smirking at him, but she can't help softening and giving him a little smile with the corner of her mouth and one eye. Her smile says to him, _I'm happy, if that's what you really are, happy. _She follows it with an admonishing glance and a smirk that says, _Lets get this over with, for Pete's sake!_

Booth leans his head to the left so her head is obstructing Sweets' view, and he winks at her quickly before returning once again to his business face. He nods over to Sweets who has the patient expression of a mother waiting for each of her children to take their turn at the water fountain.

"Dr. Brennan, you were just regaling us with an explanation for why you were confident that Booth and Hannah's relationship was temporary."

"Right," she says, pausing as if looking through her mental notes to find her place. "So, if that meant I had to stay out of your way while you cycled through a relationship, then that is what I would do," she says, shrugging and crossing her legs, allowing her foot to wiggle back and forth.

Sweets watches Brennan's profile as she speaks to Booth. Booth's serious expression turns slightly grave. Sweets becomes concerned that Booth might feel that this calculated point of view trivializes his relationship with Hannah – which he has clearly said he finds irritating. Sweets watches Booth carefully.

Booth wears an expression of concentration. He's pulling on his bottom lip, squinting at Brennan. _Focus on her feelings, not on my own reactions,_he reminds himself_. What she is saying may sound cold, heartless, calculated, but this is not about me. It's about her. All things are passing, right? _He peaks over at the Holy Spirit and receives a nod.

"However," Brennan continues, slumping sideways against the couch cushions, "I found that doing this, waiting and watching, pretending that it didn't bother me, well, it came with a much higher price than I'd anticipated." Brennan notices Booth's attention shift abruptly past her left shoulder over to Sweets. Turning to look at Sweets, she sees he's holding his left hand up, palm down, in front of his face, while making a right angle with his right hand where the two hands join. He's tapping his left hand on the tips of the stiff fingers of his perpendicular right hand.

"What does that mean?" She asks looking from Sweets to Booth, mimicking Sweets' gesture. "Is this a house? Are we building a house?" She taps her left hand on top of her right. "What is this?" She shakes her head, tossing her hands up in the air.

"Time out, Dr. Brennan. This is the universal sign for time out," Sweets says.

"It's a capital letter 'T'," explains Booth, making the sign himself so she can see it.

"Oh," she says, her voice rising in the middle then falling. She looks back to Sweets.

"I have to interrupt you here. I'm calling a time out." Sweets can see that Brennan is beginning to stand behind science and logic to disassociate herself from the potential devastation she could have endured if Hannah had accepted Booth's proposal. _Logical and clinical aren't going to get the job done here,_ he thinks. _If she is going to get at what's at the center of her pain, she has to realize it fully. She has to see what she almost lost._Sweets knows he has to push her. _Especially if they want to get out of here within a half hour, _he thinks mentally rolling his eyes. _Psychology isn't like pizza! You can't just increase the heat so you don't have to bake it as long … _Then a light bulb goes on inside Sweets' brain._ Actually, that is exactly what I need to do. She's strong. She can take it. And she's got her safety net. I'm going to have to play the bad guy. I will turn up the heat under that black box she's battling. She's ready for it. They are ready for it. Even she believes she's ready for it, though she's tentative to give in to it. Yes, turn up the heat. Put her tentative tootsies to the fire._

"Dr. Brennan, perhaps in science there is a reliably cyclical nature to all things, but where humans are concerned, that is not entirely the case." He leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, intertwining his fingers. "While we can fairly accurately categorize the cyclical nature of most lives into one of a group of predictable patterns from a macrocosmic attitude; we cannot do the same from a microcosmic view."

"Hm," grunts Brennan.

"In American, people," says Booth, raising a hand.

"What he means is," says Brennan, "He can safely predict that an adult life will follow a basic pattern … but he cannot definitively predict the specifics."

"Exactly, Dr. Brennan. With humans it's not just biology and chemistry. There are also _free will_ and _adaptability _at play," he says, "Not to mention the incalculable and unpredictable influence of consciously and subconsciously retained past experiences, or changes in motivation resulting from a significant life event," says Sweets, grimacing, slowly shaking his head, and spreading his hands palms up to suggest a myriad of possible variables.

"What is your point, Dr. Sweets?" Brennan asks turning slightly toward him, her brow furrowed.

"You assumed that the deterministic progression of Agent Booth and Hannah's relationship would result in the termination of their romantic relationship. No," he says, grimacing a frown and sitting back in his chair. "We may be able to sketch out several possible outcome scenarios, but one cannot predict the end result until it has happened."

"If it's already happened, then, by definition, it is no longer a prediction, but a truth, Dr. Sweets! Again, what is your point?" Brennan asks, curtly. She shakes her head and shrugs impatiently. His comments are throwing a kink in her logic and she doesn't like it. It confirms that control is indeed an illusion. "At times I have felt that my illusions were the only thing keeping my head above the water this past year," she mumbles. Sweets can't decipher what she said, but Booth does, and he's familiar with that sentiment. He sees the mounting anxiety in the tightening around Brennan's eyes and shoots Sweets an incredulous 'what are you doing?' look with big eyes and his own curt shake of the head.

Sweets cocks his head to the left and locks eyes with Booth for a tense moment. His directness says, _I know what I'm doing, and it might not be pretty. _Training his eyes on Brennan, he leans forward and begins the onslaught. "Simply put, we cannot dismiss the plausibility of Hannah and Booth remaining together and perhaps even having a long, successful, satisfying relationship. Perhaps even for many years. Maybe for the rest of their lives." He drops that steaming hot bag of poo on the floor and sits back to watch her reaction.

Booth's eyes get as big as saucers. However, he's learned to trust the madness of the psych prodigy from Generation Z, so he keeps his mouth shut, though he has to bite his lips between his teeth to do so.

"Listen, call it destiny, providence, fate, God's plan, _converging variables creating favorable outcomes_—whatever. Call it what you will. The fact is, there are infinite possibilities and many potential outcomes which could have brought you each happiness," says sweets, gesturing toward Booth, then Brennan, and then pausing for affect, "even without each other. You are both resilient," he says, dismissively. He's making it sound like this is no big deal. "Look, it is easy to look back from the present and make definitive statements about past events and/or intentions when you already know the outcome. The past, at least in our minds is, to a certain degree, created by the present, over and over each time we reflect upon it."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Booth is lost. He thinks he gets what Sweets is saying, but he needs to be sure.

"Well," starts Sweets, sighing, "Let's say—"

"Hold on, hold on! Let me think for a minute," Booth says, holding up his palm toward Sweets. This is Booth's session with Bones and he's not giving up the talking stick any longer than he has to. "I think I can get my head around this. Say it again, Sweets," he says, sitting forward, leaning his right elbow on his knee, and resting his ear on his upturned fist. He peers over at Sweets attentively.

Sweets pauses, then shrugs. "What? That it is easy to look back from the present and make definitive statements about past events and/or intentions when you already know the outcome?"

"Uh, no. The next part … the part with the smaller words," he says, rolling his eyes at Brennan, then dipping his chin and raising an eyebrow at Sweets.

"Oh, of course, and I'll break it down even further." Sweets pauses to think, then looks up at Booth. "Knowing what we know today, it is easy to look back and see what we want to see; find proof or build a subjective interpretation for what we believe happened, and say that the outcome was destined or predictable."

"Okay," begins Booth, sitting up but still leaning forward over the edge of his couch seat. "This, here," he says, spreading his fingers out toward Brennan as if his hands are poised over a piano keyboard, "Hannah gone, us together, is not the only way our situation could have resolved? Is that what you are saying?" Booth regards him dubiously.

"Precisely. People move on. They do," assures Sweets, nodding and grimacing. "And they find happiness. If you'd never gotten together," he says, nodding once toward Brennan while speaking directly to Booth, "you would have loved again, Agent Booth. You would have found someone to love, Dr. Brennan," he says glancing over at her, noticing that she's started chewing on a fingernail again. "Because of your resiliency."

"Do you really believe that? After as long as you've known us, Sweets?" Booth is giving him a mild stink eye, the kind that falls under the category of 'this damn well better work or your ass is grass', and holding back his frustration at not having fully figured out Sweets' strategy.

"It doesn't matter what I believe. What matters is what you believe. The two of you. And what you want. What you are willing to do to get it," says Sweets, resting an ankle on the opposite knee_. I have a headache,_ he thinks. _How much longer do we have? Don't look at the clock. Don't look at the clock. I love this stuff, but I am exhausted, and thirsty. Doh! I looked at the clock. Twenty more minutes! I will not lay my head down on that coffee table and close my eyes for a moment. Engage. Engage frontal lobe. This is the final stretch and it might be a doozie._

"But I wasn't convinced that he was in love with her!" Brennan exclaims, her voice an octave higher than usual. "And I still don't believe they belonged together, not with how—out of alignment Booth was!"

"It doesn't matter if you are convinced. He was convinced. And he could have made it work. These things happen all the time. It is plausible that he could have had his happily ever after … with Hannah."

Brennan starts to go gray as she turns to look at Booth once again. Cognitively, she is well aware of the possibility that this whole situation could have turned out differently. That possibility frightens the hell out of her – and has it's own little cubby hole with Dish Network and three squares a day inside the nasty little black box.

The men flanking her on either side fade out of her awareness as if someone turned off the volume in the room.

_I almost lost him, _she thinks, her right hand creeping up to her face and sliding over her lips to conceal them. _Again! I came so close to losing him—again! _She thinks, with a mental catch in her throat, a hot and cold sweat making its presence known over her mouth where she rests her fingers. The black box slowly slides closer to her. She watches it intently. An insistent thought screeches into her awareness from within that box. This message is not on paper, or in a glass globe. It's emitting a silent scream. Like white typeface on white paper, it is there. She knows what the message is, she just can't see it. _If you don't get this box cleared out, _it says,_ you won't be able to hold Booth for long. He will find happiness somewhere else, with someone else. It happens all the time, after all. So, let me out of here!_

"Oh!" blurts Brennan behind her hand_. The box just referred to itself in the first person! 'Let me out of here', it said. Woooaahh, _she wails meekly inside her own head. The Brennan sitting in Sweets' office slowly closes her eyes and exhales audibly, "Haaaaaaa."

Sweets doesn't see the look on Brennan's face or notice her hand cupping her mouth. Booth is keeping an eye on her as he listens intently to Sweets. _I don't know what Sweets is attempting to do here, but it looks like it's working,_ thinks Booth, reaching over and putting his hand on Brennan's knee.

Sweets' voice breaks into Brennan's awareness. "The sweeping generalizations are much more cyclical and predictable than the small details which fit into that cycle. They are—"

Brennan drifts back into her own thoughts for a moment, but there are no words there, only silence. No words are necessary. The last ones to float through her mind were enough to inflict a sizable shock of adrenaline. Sweets' words, _'you would have found someone to love, Dr. Brennan',_ float back and forth in front of her like a feather wafting toward the ground. They land in the bottom of the box with a thud. They may have wafted, but those were heavy words to hear.

"How can you say that?" she blurts, accusatorially, twisting toward Sweets. "How can you say that I would have found someone else to love?"

"Because, Dr. Brennan, what you learned in this relationship changed you. You would no longer be satisfied with anything less. But, I assure you, you would be attracted to another person … again. You would be interested … again. You would love … again. Because you are a healthy person, and that is what healthy people do; seek healthy situations, healthy relationships." Sweets watches Brennan's expression. He notices how drained of color her face is, the patina of perspiration over her upper lip.

"Are you saying I stole Hannah's future from her?" Gasps Brennan. She doesn't see the anxious look Booth is shooting at Sweets behind her head.

"No, Hannah chose her future. She didn't feel she had Agent Booth's full attention _at that time_. Who is to say that if he'd waited three months, her response wouldn't have been different?"

Booth and Brennan stare motionless at Sweets as the words sink into their consciousness.

"Imagine this scenario," begins Sweets dryly, lifting a knee and suspending it over the other by wrapping his intertwined fingers around it. "Let's say this relationship continues to feel strained," he says, nodding at each of them. "Booth proposes to Hannah and instead of turning him down, she says, _I'm not ready … but let's see where this takes us._ So, they continue seeing each other. While you're waiting for them to split, Dr. Brennan," he says, nodding toward her, "you meet someone. You find you like this new someone. Since Booth is not available and you don't know if he ever will be, you decide to give this new guy a chance," he says, shrugging, and glancing nonchalantly around the room.

_It would be a lot more fun playing the ass hole role if I didn't know it would hurt Dr. Brennan and make Booth want to shoot me,_ thinks Sweets._It's my job to inspire catharsis in any manner necessary for the betterment of the FBI. They will forgive me later ... I hope. _He grimaces, acknowledging to himself that Brennan is a tough nut to crack which will require him going further than he might be comfortable with. He doesn't get to play this role very often in this office, and especially not with these two, but he's committed to do it with relish_ ... in the name of psychology, of course._

Booth has slumped back against the couch cushions and Brennan stares blankly straightforward.

"At first you're just having fun until Booth is available, right?" Sweets says, nodding. "But then you start really liking the guy. And it doesn't look like Booth is any closer to getting away from Hannah. Booth, on the other hand, sees that you are moving on, finally gives up on the dreams of you two being together and begins to fully focus on Hannah." Sweets pauses and chews on his bottom lip for a moment, letting this sink in.

"Maybe the sexual tension between you two dissipates," Sweets says, shrugging, dropping his knee and sitting back in his seat, trying to appear as casual as possible though he's actually quite nervous, "and you are able to continue the partnership, while acknowledging that you've both moved on. As time goes by, you both invest in your new relationships, and before too long Booth decides that Hannah _is _the one," Sweets says, leaning an elbow on the armrest, his temple on his fist.

Brennan holds her breath and glances at Booth who sits perfectly still beside her. _This is frightening, _thinks Brennan, squatting over the box in her mind's eye, which has become preternaturally silent while Sweets has been laying out this horror story. _There's something inside the box peeking through a thin layer of smoke. Something yellow, baby duckling yellow. It looks like—a football?_

Booth looks sideways at Brennan, moving only his eyes, saying nothing. _Oh, excrement, _he thinks.

"Maybe Hannah hasn't always _seemed_ like she was right for Booth," continues Sweets, "but she really is now. So much so, that Hannah finally and genuinely feels that she has his whole heart. And you, Dr. Brennan, are delighted to learn that this new man of yours is wonderful and loving and passionate."

_This is only a story. Why do I feel jealous of her new man? I object, Your Honor! _Thinks Booth.

_That would never happen,_ thinks Brennan. _Why is my pulse accelerating? Why am I finding it increasingly difficult to take a deep breath? Booth, make it stop," _she thinks, turning and locking eyes with her mate.

"—eventually, you attend each other's weddings," continues Sweets, who isn't going to stop until someone cries 'Uncle'. "Maybe you become god parents to each others kids and live happily ever after in your separate realities, eternally grateful to each other for the critical parts you played in each others' lives." Sweets crosses his arms and waits. "It happens all the time," he says, shrugging.

Brennan stares at Booth, a pained expression on her face. She begins to feel dizzy, a sea of black sparks swirl before her eyes.

"That's enough, Sweets," warns Booth. "Back. The hell. Off!"

Sweets looks at the back of Brennan's head, then over at Booth. Neither of them are returning his eye contact. They are both staring into each other's eyes. Sweets relaxes a bit, wanting to punch himself in the face for saying what he's already said. _That's the job,_ he tells himself. _And people think psychology isn't a dangerous profession! _He snorts, mentally._ I almost got myself killed today. Several times,_ he thinks, smirking to himself.

Booth shakes his head a tiny bit. _That's not us,_ he seems to be saying to her. _That is not us, he is just trying to scare you._

She looks back at him, her eyes as big as saucers. _Well, it's working,_ her look says, her eyes watering. _He is right. That could have happened. _She can't deny the plausibility of Sweets' scenario.

He sees the panic in her eyes, turns his head to the side and shakes his head. She's seen him do this before. _"Don't, don't think like that," _he's warning her.

"It should be easy," continues Sweets feigning obliviousness to the effect his words are having on Brennan. This is all part of the strategy to press her into action. "It should come naturally, like it's always been there. The relationship needs to be based on an intense and natural affinity, not a contrived one. That excitement, that energy, comes naturally when it's right between two people." Sweets knows these two had it once, and could recapture it ... if they are willing to get past this painful garbage from the last 18 months.

_That's what they call falling in love,_ thinks Booth. _That's the feeling people are referring to when they say, 'you'll know it when it happens', because you do know it. You feel it. And there's really no succinct way to describe it to someone else. _He makes a mental note to share this thought with Brennan later.

"Don't force yourselves to make this work because you feel you are supposed to … or because everyone around you expects you to—" Sweets continues, repeating the same message for the umpteenth time, but neither Booth nor Brennan are listening to him.

Booth is thinking again about how easy this last week has been. How natural and right it has felt. What Sweets had been referring to … that intense natural affinity, that excitement, that energy; they have all of that between them, he and Brennan. He knows it and he's confident she knows it. That is the prize they are focusing on.

Brennan, he realizes, isn't having the same thoughts that he is. She is growing paler by the minute and she's fidgeting. Her arms are across her chest and she's covering her mouth with her right hand once again.

Brennan is feeling an expanding anxiety in her chest cavity. _This is it,_ she thinks, panicked. _Spit it out! Tell him about the night he proposed to Hannah—what that did to me. Give it to him straight! _She tentatively reaches into the box, then yanks her hand back when she feels an eerie coolness rising off the football-shaped baby duck yellow object. She slowly reaches back into the box and touches the yellow material. It has the texture of cotton candy, without the stickiness and without the sickeningly sweet scent. _What the— _she breathes. Picking up the box and holding it straight out in front of her, she stands upright. The baby duckling football is vibrating. It wants to come out. She quickly sets the box back down on the concrete floor. _I need a computed axial tomography scan, _she thinks._ Maybe an MRI. What if these mental illusions are the result of a tumor? Maybe we should stop right now and I should go see a neurologist before we continue. Stop freaking out and looking for excuses, Tempe!_Brennan suddenly feels weightless, dizzy again. She needs to anchor herself down somehow so she doesn't float away and disappear into that box.

Before Booth can say anything, Brennan's hand flies out and lands on his forearm with a slap. Her grip is urgent, forceful, and damp from nervous perspiration. Booth's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline in response to her abrupt movement and he notices he's holding his breath. _Man,_ _she is at the pitcher's mound,_ he thinks.

"Booth," she says, in a low voice, swallowing audibly. "I have some things to tell you, so just … listen, okay?"

He nods and tries to turn his arm so he can take her hand but her grip is so strong he can't rotate his forearm. So he sits perfectly still and waits._Okey Dokey, if that's what she needs, _he tells himself,_ so be it. I can do that, whatever she needs._

"It destroyed me every time I had to watch you touch her," she says, a pained expression on her face. "Watching you together—I was devastated, then later I'd be angry. At you, or me, or her, I don't know. I just felt like ripping the pages out of a book."

"Hurt," mumbles Sweets.

"Sweets!" She blurts admonishingly. She hisses on the exhale, exasperated. "Please don't interrupt," she says, in a controlled, low tone. She releases her grip on Booth's forearm, noticing the anemic handprint she left behind. She jams her hands into her armpits and sits, rigid, facing Booth.

"I never told you how angry—how hurt—" she says, caught off guard by the sensation of a highly dense cloud, a sponge, heavy with condensation, passing into her chest cavity and lodging there.

"How hurt I was when I learned that you proposed to her …" She can barely breathe, much less swallow. Her jaw hurts from the repeated clenching.

Booth reaches toward her but she raises her hand to hold him off. She shudders and goes inside herself for a moment. She picks up the box in her mind, which weighs as much as a bowling ball, and feels like it contains one. The yellow object is uneven and lolling back and forth, making it difficult for her to maintain her grip on the box.

"When Hannah called me—" she begins, looking up, then pausing, staring intently into the empty air to the right of Booth's head. She shakes her head. She shakes it again, and swallows hard. She closes her eyes, and sits very still its still. She's trying to maintain her composure.

"Stop fighting yourself, Bones," whispers Booth firmly, leaning forward slightly to ensure she hears him. His eyes are glued to her face and he's willing her to get through this. "Just—let 'er rip—get it out—you know you can do this—" He's speaking barely above a whisper at this point, encouraging her. "Focus on that prize. It's right over the hill. It's twenty minutes away," he says in a rough whisper. "You've got me here and I'm not going anywhere. I will catch you if you fall. Nothing can happen that we can't handle," he coos. "Okay?"

She listens intently to Booth, nodding to herself, taking it in. She opens her mouth to say something, then remembers landing on the floor of her living room when Hannah told her about his proposal. "I—went—numb. It—was that sensation—of someone dragging me across the room by my ponytail," she says, opening her eyes and turning her head to the side as she reaches for her hair. She grabs the tip of her ponytail and pulls it against her neck, her arms still tucked in close to her torso. "—pulling so—tight that it felt like one long, searing burn," she says in a daze, starting straight into his eyes.

_Come on, come on,_ thinks Booth, his eyes full of sympathetic encouragement.

"I'm trying to remain fair and balanced, Booth-" she insists by way of explaining her hesitancy.

"There is no 'fair and balanced' in feelings, Bones! This isn't the five o'clock news - this is about whatever was, is, going on inside of you. Lopsided is fine ... lopsided is how it's supposed to be, okay?" He asks with a pinched concerned expression. "We know you are rational, and brilliant, and ... having a hard time with this. Get crazy, get irrational, just ... get it out. No one here cares if it sounds irrational." He grimaces at her, then gives her a small quick nod. _Go ahead!_

"Okay," she says, dropping her chin and taking a deep breath. "When Hannah told me about what happened and where I could find you, I had this image—in my mind—of something hard and confining – closing in on me," she describes, squinting at the remembered image. Rubbing the outside of her arms, she continues. "Cold and hard and I didn't know what to do. What could I do? I would never abandon you, Booth," she gasps desperately, her eyes dropping from the empty air to his eyes once more.

"I know—" he says, pained and nodding, holding her gaze. He reaches out but her arms are wrapped around herself so he rests three fingertips gently on her knee. She starts when she feels his touch, but doesn't move away or discourage him this time.

"—I—my own internal reactions—" she gasps "—you needed me," she says, plaintively. "But inside was a prison – a black-walled prison. Cold and hard. Something inside me—turned—turned off. Pitch cold blackness, all around. When you gave me that ultimatum that night, I wasn't surprised," she says, gasping, dropping her chin to her chest as she attempts to grab hold of some internal control. She gasps again, and then swallows, then sniffs, then huffs, her expression blank, her facial muscles flaccid, but her respiratory system belying how upset she truly is.

Seeing her like this is painful for Booth, but he knows she has to do this. Finally, he can't help but say something. He wants her to know he didn't mean to hurt her.

"Bones, I was such a mess. I knew, almost the moment I proposed to Hannah that it wasn't right. But nothing had felt right since … nothing was right anymore … and I couldn't distinguish between what was real and … I was so lost, Bones. I know I hurt you—" he shakes his head. There is too much to say, too few words to say it with.

She grimaces and swallows. "When I saw how hurt you were … it crushed my heart," she says, levelly, closing her eyes for a moment against the painful memory. "There was finally something I could do for you … I could be there for you in whatever way you needed and I understood your need to process, to let the old mark fade naturally—" her voice trails off. She gets lost in thought for a moment, as her face starts to pinch. Then she shakes it off, inhales sharply, and continues.

"Let. It. Go," hisses Booth toward her ear, his breath on her skin. She shudders involuntarily.

"When I got home that night, my own devastation returned … knocking me over like one of those boxing bags at the gym. What are they called? Those heavy cylindrical bags hanging from the ceiling at the gym? People use them to practice punching. It swings back and forth—and you hit it—jab—jab—what is that?"

"A speed bag? Like a tough-skinned suspended balloon?" Booth suggests.

"No, they are the approximate size and density of a human body, weighing approximately 100 pounds. Usually covered in leather," she says, irritated with herself. "I know what they are – I just can't think straight. Booth—!" She pounds her thigh with the side of her fist. Booth is surprised at the intensity of her frustration over this little detail.

"A—_heavy_ bag?" He asks, his expression circumspect.

"Yes! Yes, yes, yes! That stupid—heavy bag."

"Okay," says Booth, watching her closely. "What about the heavy bag, Bones?"

"I had the sensation of being hit by a heavy bag that was swung at me. But—it didn't push me over—it punted me across the room. My brain remained in stasis, but my body was across the room in a crumpled heap somewhere. Haahhhh," she gasps, holding back a cry that's attempting to escape from her throat at that horrid memory. "That is exactly how I felt." Her eyes gloss over. The tart sensation hits her between the eyes like an ice pick jammed into the bridge of her nose.

"I actually felt like I was … not going to make it. And that is no way to live. Booth," she says, in a tiny, strained voice, no longer able to restrain the pool of tears from dripping down the center of each cheek. "It was very—difficult. That night I wrote my—resignation letter and submitted it to Dr. Saroyan. I submitted it to her the next morning. She took one look at me and said—something about cadavers—I don't quite remember the exact phrase she used …" She says, cry-chuckling, a drop of saliva stringing from the top to the bottom of her lips.

Hearing this, Booth's eyebrows creep up in surprise. He darts a glance over at Sweets who responds with a confirming grimace and a slow nod.

_All these things,_ thinks Booth. _I had no idea about so many things._

Brennan had arrived at the Medico-Legal lab looking like death itself, her skin gray and waxy in appearance, her eyes glassy, her lids rimmed in pink. Camille knew something must have happened between Brennan and Booth. She insisted Brennan sit down for a moment while she made Brennan some tea and discreetly made a call to Sweets demanding he make a surprise visit as soon as he could possibly arrange it.

"Writing and tendering that resignation was exceptionally irrational," says Brennan, looking back at Booth. "As I had no intention of leaving the Jeffersonian." She shrugs, still confounded by her rash behavior. Her voice has evened out now that she's describing actions and motivation, rather than emotions and fear. She takes a Kleenex from Booth's outstretched hand, wipes her eyes and blows her nose, tossing the balled-up rag into the garbage can Sweets had moved over next to her seat.

Brennan pauses, looks from one of Booth's eyes to the other, seeing sympathy, empathy there, for which she is grateful. She drops her shoulders for a moment and sighs dejectedly.

"Dr. Sweets suggested to me later that by writing that letter of resignation, I was attempting to extricate myself from a situation rife with intense anxiety and pain so that I could process at a lower concentration of hysteria." Turning to Sweets, she adds, "I still maintain that I was in no danger of achieving a level of hysteria that would prohibit me from performing my usual duties, Dr. Sweets." She turns back to Booth.

"I acknowledge your statement," he says, nodding.

"That didn't sound like a concession, Dr. Sweets," she says, turning back, giving him the stink eye.

"Because it wasn't, Dr. Brennan. You are aware of my disagreement with your assessment. I am aware of your rejection of mine. We have agreed to disagree."

"I was right," she insists, turning back to Booth.

Sweets glances at Booth, shaking his head, mouthing, '_No,'_ his eyes slowly closing in disagreement.

Booth nods at Sweets, accepting the younger man's assessment as most likely the more plausible one.

"Dr. Sweets also suggested that by tendering my resignation, I was subconsciously informing Dr. Saroyan that I had experienced a severely traumatic event and was temporarily incapable of making rational decisions. I found that interpretation preposterous as well. However, it stood to reason that if in fact Dr. Sweets was correct, then my finding his assessment preposterous could possibly be irrational."

"Bones," says Booth gently, knowing she has to get into the emotional part of what she experienced, "What were you feeling when you wrote that letter of resignation?"

She leans back and shakes her head, shrugs, the skin on her forehead wrinkling as she tries to access what she felt without drowning in it. Realizing she's still clutching the greasy, sooty box, she presses it against herself, almost crushing it against her chest.

"How did it _feel?_" She repeats, choking on the question. "It didn't feel good, Booth," she says, incredulous, as if he'd just asked her how many tails she has. "It was devastating! Like death! Nothing there! No, it was worse than death. It was—there was putrefaction," she says, an intense frown stapled to her face. The yellow football in the box starts jiggling around, smacking itself against the sides of the box. It frightens her, but she doesn't know what to do. _Do I set it down? Do I try to calm it some how? Do I touch it? Do I throw it?_ She wonders. What she wants to do is run away from it. "How could you leave me alone like that?" She lashes out at Booth, accusatorially, as she tries to catch her breath.

He isn't exactly sure what she's referring to, so he sits and listens, biting his lips between his teeth so he doesn't accidentally blurt a question or an apology or anything at all. _Come on, come on, come on, Bones, let it out,_ he thinks, trying to encourage her telepathically.

"I had an intensely disagreeable reaction to—that whole night!" She gasps, her chin wrinkling as she tries to maintain her white-knuckle grip on her composure. She's quickly losing the battle against control, but turning the tide in her favor in the war against that box. She stands abruptly and walks to the other side of the coffee table where Sweets' chair used to sit. She feels like a lion in a cage. She needs space, air. She's shaking as if she is freezing. "I still—hate it," she gasps, the tears pooling inside her lids, almost full to the point of overflowing.

Booth wants to go over to her, but something tells her she removed herself from the couch because she needs a little distance.

"And I wanted—" she says, her words coming out in staccato between gasps, "to hate you—but I can't—" she sobs, finally closing her eyes and letting the tears fall. "—because I—" her diaphragm spasms involuntarily, causing a quick intake of breath that sounds like a hiccup "—love you," she says, her tiny voice being squeezed out of her increasingly tightening throat. "—and I hate it that—I, I love you because—" she stops abruptly to swallow, looking at him sternly, frustrated, ignoring the downpour covering her cheeks. "Because—it hasn't felt healthy, or—g-good these last 18 months—and," she hiccups, as more translucent tears spill over her lower lids, though she refuses to acknowledge them, even with a blink. When she opens her mouth, her words come out in a choked, high tone. "I've never felt this way—about myself!"

She looks at the box, aware of a myriad of ideas popping and jumping around. She sees sparks and colors … like the mental visual illusions brought on by dizziness.

Booth watches in silence, his own eyes getting glossy, a tickle spreading from the bridge of his nose to the corners of his eyes. His heart is breaking for her as she stands before him perfectly still, her hands still jammed into her armpits.

"Mmmmm," she softly moans, trying to hold on, "I hate—it that you—" diaphragm spasm again "—taught me all the—things you did." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and trains her eyes, hard, on the coffee table. "I hate it that I—I need—" sniff, "—you. I find it disturbing that you let," hiccup, "let her touch you," she says, her voice high and thin in pitch, drenched in tears. She squeezes her eyes closed as her chin wrinkles in anguish at the thought of him with Hannah. "I'm sorry, maybe I have no right to feel that way—but I do," she squeaks out, pressing her fist into her forehead, trying not to make a sound. "As irrational as that sounds," she says with a hiss.

"Ummmmm—ggh—hohhhhhhhh-you shared yourself with her!" She clenches her jaw, holds her breath, and gasps each time she exhales. She falls silent as tears stream from the center of her eyes, disappearing into the slick swath of salt water making its way to drop from the tip of her nose or slide under her jaw. She shakes her head and sniffs, looking up at Booth. She grunts, pressing her fist to her forehead again, turning away to face the back of the office, then blowing out a stream of hot breath. She rests her head in her hands, her palms covering her eyes, her fingers in her hair. Her shoulders bounce silently as the sobs erupt quietly from her chest.

Booth stands, but Sweets raises a discouraging hand, warning him not to move. Booth pauses, agitated, and unsure what to do. It's torture leaving her there all alone just four feet from him, crying her eyes out. He's barely able to hold it together himself. He looks back at Sweets, who's watching Brennan, then looks back at Booth, moving only his eyes. Sweets' message is very clear. _Do. Not. Touch her._ Sweets holds Booth's gaze until the older man reluctantly sits down on the edge of his seat. Booth runs his hand ruggedly through his hair and grips his knees like he's poised to break huddle and charge when the whistle blows.

Brennan huffs deeply several times, her shoulders rising and falling in an exaggerated fashion. Eventually, she regains some composure. Without turning to face either man, she begins to speak again.

"I can't do it again and I won't do it again, Booth," she says, calmly, sniffing, just above a whisper, "even if it means being alone all my life. I don't care. I won't go through that again," she says with finality.

"Booth, I've been angry with myself for—for," she hiccups, "caring about your happiness when you didn't seem to care—" hiccup "—about mine! That is madness, Booth. Madness!" she spits, turning back around to face him. "I am not—a, a mad person!" She blurts insistently, cringing through clenched teeth.

Neither Booth nor Sweets moves or dares even breathe.

"I know—I know you were in your pit of loathing!" She tosses out loudly. "This isn't about what you were or weren't capable of at the time, it's about how I felt, how I do feel!"

"You have every right to feel how you felt, how you do feel now," Booth says, affirming her, shaking his head side to side for emphasis. He looks away for a moment. Everything she's saying rings true; he can see that now_. This past year, I might as well have been walking around blindfolded. This is further proof of his bubble of idiocy,_ he chagrins, smirking to himself.

"While you were in your own pit of self-loathing," she mewls, "guess what, Booth?" She asks, her voice rising. "I had my own habitat of excrement!" She spits, her cheeks turning pink, then red. "You! You wear your heart on your coat so everyone knows what you're going through. Everyone tiptoes around you, cuts you some looseness, stays out of your way, but I kept my personal—" she shakes her head, pursing her lips, looking for the right word. "My—agh! My personal—concerns—stored away in a box and I persevered. That whole time you've been hiding away, I've been putting on a smile. Sometimes I've felt that my skin were sealed in polymer, that's plastic, Booth!" She pauses, to catch her breath. "It was fake! Fake, Booth!" She tosses at him. "Do you have any idea how hard it is—how much I detest being—_fake?"_

"If I thought it would have made a difference—I, I would have come over—" hiccup,"—and screamed at you, or smacked the crap out of you … if I thought it would force you out of that," sniff, sob, "that dung hole you were hiding in! But instead, like an—" hiccup "—an IDIOT, a fool, I—I blamed myself!"

"As a result," she continues, "I felt like a child. I am not a child, Booth, Sweets! I am a full-grown woman with feelings! I may not—" hiccup, "always know what they are—", hiccup, "or what they mean but I have them! And I needed you!" she yelps, sobbing quietly into a hand covering her mouth. "And you weren't there, you horse's sphincter!" She yells, wiping her hand on her pants and squeezing her arms against her chest, her face pinched in hurt and anger. "But did I turn against the world; blame everyone else for my—" hiccup, "—my situation? No, I remained pleasant but I went into my own loathsome habitat and I lived there for longer than was healthy, Booth!" She sobs, chewing on a thumbnail, "because you couldn't get your—your—bovine excrement together! But I paid the price, Booth! I—I," she said, jamming a finger into her chest several times. "I paid the confounded price! Did you know that?"

Booth listens, not knowing if he's supposed to respond or not, so he doesn't move. He learned early in life that it's best not to step into the ring with a pissed-off Alpha female lioness.

"I forgot how to relate to people! I didn't have the energy. It felt like a lot of what you taught me drained out of me—I felt awkward and—" sniff, sob "—stupid!" She jams her eyes shut and turns from him to face the back wall of the office. "I felt stupid, Booth!" She hisses. "Can you imagine that? No one, NO ONE, makes me feel stupid," she gasps threateningly, a wail escaping from deep in her chest. "I felt—so—stupid!" She cries silently for a moment. "You showed me a new way of experiencing the world, then took yourself away from me. I'm not saying I'm blameless. I'm not saying you're the Blue Meanie. These are my feelings. Illogical, subjective, the whole kit and kabob—"

"Kaboodle," corrects Booth.

"Really," she cries, incredulous, turning back to face him. "You're going to correct me while I'm falling apart right here in front of you?"

Booth grimaces and shrugs apologetically, imagines kicking himself.

In the silence of Booth's non-verbal response, Brennan hears her voice bounce off the windows and realizes she's actually yelling at Booth. "Oh, copulating donkey turds! I am making a mess of this—" she chokes, batting at the itchy trail of tears on her cheeks. "Well, screw it!" She cries. "See what I mean? I'm blurting nonsensical drivel right now, Booth! Look at me. I'm a mess," she yelps, her veins popping out of her neck, her face turning pink as she tries to hold a torrent of emotion at bay. "Look at this mess I've become," she repeats, flapping her arms. "Is this what you wanted? Me—a mess?"

"Dr. Brennan," interjects Sweets calmly, "may I tell agent Booth about our sessions after the proposal? He really should know—"

"Not right now, Sweets, you can tell him later. Please, please, don't interrupt me!"

"Obviously you weren't _invested_ in me this past year, Booth!" _I have to get this out. I have to get this out, she moans to herself. _Puffing out a breath, she growls. "Aghhhh! I have to get this out!" She begins to hyperventilate. She rounds the coffee table and flounces down in her spot on the couch. She leans over and points the top of her heard toward the floor. Sucking in a tug of air, she forcefully blows it back out through her teeth, spittle landing on her lips. Booth reaches out and squeezes her shoulder.

Brennan's forearm flies up and bumps his wrist as she shrugs away from his touch. "I just—please, Booth," she grunts. "Just let me—let me be angry," she hisses through clenched teeth from between her legs. He leans back, his hand slipping from her shoulder and landing on his own thigh. Instead, he rests his arm along the back of the couch and leans toward her protectively, though not touching her, as she requested.

"I hurt for too long. And I don't know if I can go all the way back," she says, shaking her head, still attempting to slow the pace of her breathing. "Not if I don't get this, I can't go back—to how we were before, Booth."

"Hey," says Booth softly, his voice a gentle, unobtrusive caress against her ear, "Remodeled bone is stronger than it was originally, right?"

She doesn't move or acknowledge his statement, but he knows she's listening because she's holding her breath and gone completely silent so she can hear him.

"Isn't that what you've always told me?" He's leaning closer to her speaking so quietly that all Sweets hears is a low buzz. "The bone won't ever break in the same place twice, because it's stronger, reinforced, right?" He continues.

She nods, uncertainly, sighing through a full exhale.

"So, why go back? We don't want to go back to anything," he says, "Right?"

"You don't want to go back, Dr. Brennan," adds Sweets, picking up on the last intelligible thing he heard her say. "You've both come too far. You are stronger in the broken places. Those weaknesses are transformed into strengths … remodeled, if you will."

"Is this what you wanted, Booth? All that time you said you were resenting me, you wanted me broken? And miserable? Were you trying to punish me? What am I doing? I'm going crazy – I am crazy. I'm saying ridiculous things now." _Somebody stop me,_ she thinks. _Slow this ride, I won't get off, I promise, I just, please slow it down._

Booth is sitting back, taking it all in. He doesn't know if he should be more worried or more relieved. He's also proud of her, fiercely proud, that she's taking this bull by the horns and wrestling it to the ground. _She's going for it; getting it all out, and not in a small way. She is a fighter! What a relief that we have found our way to each other again … this time, I am never letting her go. Look at her! She's giving everything she's got,_he thinks, humbled by her strength.

If she'd shared all of this with him a week ago while he was in the depths of despair, he would have told her to stay away from him, that she deserves better - but today he's got his head on straight, and whether or not she deserves better, she's getting him … and that's a fact, as far as he's concerned. A unanimous choice between them. He's hanging on to that, focusing on that, just like she told him to.

Brennan stands and walks over to the windows. This time she simply needs a stretch. She looks at her own white reflection in the cold, dark glass. She's regained her composure for the most part, and speaks in her usual tone at her usual volume.

"Booth, I've come to believe that human being periodically pretend things are not as they really are—so we can bear them. It's what Sweets would call a survival mechanism," she says, glancing over at Sweets. "I suspect that when I turned you down, you pretended—well, you gave up on yourself. You gave in to despair almost immediately. You should have fought for yourself, Booth. Despair is a remorseless assassin," she says, leaning her head to the side, looking back at him forlornly. "When things went sour between us after that, I didn't know how to fix it. I didn't know how to talk to you about it without making it worse. Besides, that's not part of our agreement."

"What agreement?" Booth asks.

"Our unspoken agreement that I'm brilliant and you have to figure me out, help me navigate the world of people with skin and blood and faces!"

"Oh, yeah," says Booth, raising an amused eyebrow at her, "that agreement." He stifles a chuckle.

"Being that that is our agreement, I would have thought that you would have intuited that I needed time and patience, not to be abandoned," she says.

_Ouch,_ thinks Booth, wincing.

"So, I have to wonder: do you know who I am?" She asks, walking back to the spot where Sweets' chair formerly sat. "Did you know I hold the record for the highest score on record for the Medical College Admissions Test? In addition to a perfect score, I submitted proof of an error in their question about the Zeroth law of thermodynamics, because the binary relation is Euclidian and reflexive, but those—idiots—at MCAT—their exam erroneously presumed the binary relation was anti-reflexive or premeditative which would make the veracity of their supposition null and void. Subsequently, I was recommended by the Association of American Medical Colleges to assist in rewriting 'The Gold Standard', which is the definitive study guide for the MCAT."

"Did you know that out of over 5000 scientists in over 13 areas fields of study research I—I, Booth, was chosen as one of the only two recipients of the Savage Minds Elinor Ostrom Nobel Prize in Anthropology?" She huffs. "Do you know how many copies of my books have sold in the United states? Twenty Million!"

"Impressive. I didn't realize that. Congratulations, Dr. Brennan," says Sweets, nodding in awe.

"I knew that," interjects Booth, glancing at Sweets.

"Do you have any idea how many foreign languages my books are printed in?" She looks from on to the other.

"I know that," interrupts Booth, raising a finger. "Thirty-two!"

"Thirty-four!" Brennan raises a challenging eyebrow at Booth. "Did you also know that my first novel won the Ellis Award for Best First Novel and set the standard for all subsequent anthropological procedural fictions?"

Booth nods, he hadn't known that, but he's not surprised. _That's my girl_, he thinks, stiffling a big toothy smile.

"Did you know that college and universities and medical schools use my novels as case studies because, they say, there is 'nothing out there as provocative or cutting edge' as what I present? Did you know that during my freshman year, my _freshman_ year in college, Sweets," she says, turning slightly to face Sweets.

Sweets shakes his head. Booth adjusts himself in his seat as if waiting for a movie to start.

"—I wrote an article analyzing the probabilistic variables driving prenatal health care initiatives for misplaced under-aged mothers in the Ugandan Rainforest, and that that article won me the coveted Rudolph Virchow Award given by the Society for Medical Anthropology's Critical Anthropology for Global Health Study Group? You didn't know that, did you, Booth?"

She turns to Booth who shrugs, wide eyed.

"Sweets?"

Sweets shakes his head slowly.

Brennan inhales, sticking out her chest, and continues. "I bet you had no idea that Jeanine Landwheir, the 2010 Margaret Mead Award recipient who is currently writing her twelfth anthology on the ethnographic research in Madrid with Peruvian migrants and adoptees, has asked me to be her co-author. There's bound to be a Nobel Prize in our future for that amazing body of research!"

She stands before them, hands on hips, a wadded damp Kleenex in one fist. The sooty box bounces from side to side, but she can't hear it when it touches down on the concrete floor, as if it were a Nerf ball. _Interesting,_ she thinks, one mental fist on a hip, the other hand tapping her chin. _A fuzzy yellow football-shaped Nerf ball. Hm._

"Oh!" She blurts, "And the Orden del Pop which I received in 2009 from the Museo Popol Vuh at Guatemala's Universidad Francisco Marroquin for my contributions toward the protection, study and research of Guatemala's cultural heritage," she says pensively, tapping her chin. "I'd forgotten all about that one!" She shrugs.

"Did either of you know that there are seven research and analysis techniques named after me?" She raises her hand to ward off any response from Booth who has raised his finger and looks like he wants to say something. "I'm not finished. Did you know I hold 13 patents? And I did all of that with no family and very few friends and I certainly didn't need any man, or, or sexual partner, to make introductions for me or—sustain me. Never, never, not once did I need or want anyone to finance my endeavors!"

Booth sits watching her, nervous for her. In his experience, a list of accomplishments tendered by a person in distress is usually followed by the mention of a counterbalance whose influence negates the value of everything on the list of successes. _She must be feeling pretty small,_ he thinks, regretfully. _Dammit. If I could just take that away—_

"I didn't need anyone, Booth," she says, her voice getting smaller, "until you made me realize how lonely it is at the top. Being the best has it's disadvantages. People leave you alone when you are self-sufficient, and extraordinary," she says, gulping, her jaw clenching, her eyes wide open, daring those tears to try to jump the curb to the free world. The black box is vibrating, puffs of smoke billowing out and up, up, up; the soot and smoke dissipating when they are as high as her head. She stands, watching, more curious than afraid.

Booth remembers her talking about this Saturday morning. About how people imagine a force field surrounding those who have achieved what they themselves would never attempt. Perceiving this boundary, many people keep their distance, assuming the achiever has everything they need so why would they need ... support ... companionship ... love. Men are frequently either competitive or intimidated, women are jealous and swift to find fault.

"Yes, I am different! Yes, I am self-sufficient!" She says forcefully, her voice getting louder again. "I have fueled my own meteoric ascent to the top of my field. Yes, I eat food that some people find unappetizing. Sometimes I find repugnant what sates others' appetites. I pay my own bills, run my own home, lead the top medico legal lab in the world! I maintain my own vehicle, I do my own laundry!" She continues, gaining momentum as she goes. "I am responsible for my own orgasms, I make my own doctors' appointments, I fund my own lifestyle and live within my means, I recycle, I balance my own check book, I maintain a portfolio of investments—well I have a person—and, Booth, I sure as hell don't need any help doing any of that!"

Both men stare, astonished at her fervor. Booth is anxious, waiting for the crash. Sweets is controlling his urge to look to his left to see if Gloria Steinem is standing on the other side of the glass wall.

"I was fine before you came a long. I was fine until you brought all that color—" She says, her capillaries suddenly begging to dance in a dense cloud across her cheeks. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and back, her face pinched in anguish.

"Maybe I could have gotten myself through my trauma on my own," she says in that high pitched, emotionally strangled voice. "Maybe someone else could have provided a safe place for whatever I couldn't handle on my own. Maybe I could have learned about the possibility of, of—" she chokes, taking a deep breath, "a love that's more," she pauses when her voice cracks, "more valuable than life ... from someone else," she huffs, holding back, "—but I wanted you. I wanted _you,_ Booth," she sobs, her crossed arms straining against the sides of rib cage, her fingers clutching handfuls of her own shirt under her arms. No pretending, no longer holding back, she simply allows herself to cry. She drops her head and closes her eyes, letting the flood do whatever the hell it wants because she can't fight it anymore.

The black box jiggles, hops, vibrates, and puffs black smoke. When it rises off the ground, the yellow furry football goes into slow motion free fall within the confines of the box, then touches down lightly when the box smashes itself to the ground, its sides pleating against the impact, then straightening perfectly as if nothing even happened.

"I wanted," hiccup, "you. That's perhaps one of the," hiccup, sniff, "stupidest choices of my life because you can be difficult and" sharp involuntary sniff, "and romantic and you want to talk about feelings which I'm," sniff' "I'm no good at and you see right through me and you know," hiccup, "know me better than anyone else has ever dared to and I hate that. I hate it because you are supposed to know me," she cries, her throat too tight to speak for a moment, "know when I'm hurting but ... this time you didn't," she sobs, a string of saliva stringing from her lips until she licks them. "I hate it because there is no one else out there like you and I wish there was because I have been so hurt and afraid these last 18 months that I haven't known what to do about it," she says, turning away from Booth and sitting on the coffee table with her back to him.

In a flash, the sides of the nasty, sooty, black box of anguish split open down the seams. Right down to the bottom corners. Just as swiftly, the sides fly back up, as if the box wants to keep itself together, but the damage has been done and cannot be reversed. Still, the sides somehow cling together loosely, as if huddling around the baby duck-yellow object. _But is the box it confining the object or protecting it?_ Wonders Brennan, noiselessly moving toward the box, stopping only a foot from it. "I find I feel an intense dislike for the sensations associated with not knowing what to do," she says in the highest voice yet. She bends over her feet and drops her face into her hands.

The moment her face lands in her hands, Booth's knee and one flat foot hit the floor between the couch and the coffee table. He snakes his arms around her midsection and holds her tightly without saying a word. She's tense, her muscles are tight, and she's shaking. She's trying to relax, he can feel it, but she can't control the shaking and she can't let go. This reminds him of the state she was in late Friday night, early Saturday morning, when he found her atop the toilet in the bathroom right after the broken lamps and her bloody nose.

She leans back into Booth, her shoulders jumping at each sharp intake of breath as she sobs quietly. Booth holds her around her midsection until her breathing slows and she relaxes, spent. When he feels her full weight against his chest, he pulls her completely backward the few inches separating them so he can get a tighter hold on her around her waist. When he does, her head lolls back onto his shoulder and she stares with tired eyes at the ceiling.

"Now," she says quietly, the words lazily crawling out from her throat, hoarse with emotion, "now I have to face that box." She takes two deep breaths. "I've seen what's inside it, Booth," she whispers.

He waits for her to continue. When she doesn't, he rests his cheek sideways on her temple as her eyes slowly close. Shifting slightly, he puts his lips to her temple and kisses her there. Her hair smells like sweat, and heat and tears. In response, she emits the kind of sigh that starts higher pitched in the throat and deepens in tone as it travels into her chest, surrendering to the assurance of safety. She follows it with a full, robust inhalation of clean air, and exhales what she imagines to be black, sooty, smoke. It feels so good that she mentally imagines giggling as it flows out of her.

When he kisses her again, she begins to shakily raise her right hand to his face, then hesitates, suddenly alert. "Dr. Sweets?"

"He's gone," assures Booth quietly. "He left about five minutes ago, I think."

A sound of relief emanates from somewhere inside Brennan as she relaxes again and reaches back up to drape her hand around the back of his neck, sliding her fingers into his hair.

"I'm sure he'll return," says Booth, looking back toward the glass windows and door behind him.

Sweets, when he heard the sound in Brennan's voice as she told Booth of her anger and pain, her fear and resentment. And then again when she admitted she could have done it on her own, but chooses to have him anyway—and that no other person would suffice—that's when Sweets knew she'd seen inside that box and was ready to face it. Sweets' knew his work, for now, was nearly complete. When Brennan plopped down on the coffee table and dropped her face in her hands; when Booth's knees hit the floor and he wrapped his arms around Brennan; that's when Sweets knew there was nothing more he could do but give them some privacy.

Now aware that Sweets is no longer in the room, Brennan turns around and lets Booth gather her weary body into his arms. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she rests her forehead against his ear and neck, breathes in a scent that she now associates with strength and safety, love and home, and finally … finally, she relaxes fully; a stretched-out, deflated balloon in a child's hand.

It takes a moment for Booth to realize that tears are dropping from her eyes again because these ones are simply slipping out and drop, drop, dropping onto his skin, and then being wicked up by the neckline of his cotton tee shirt.

"I'm so tired," Brennan says against his clavicle in a faint shadow of her usual voice. Booth squeezes her to his chest, his arms reaching all the way around her so they are almost in her armpits, and rocks her slowly side to side. After a moment, he drops his mouth to her exposed neck and blows three quiet raspberries against her salty skin.

She wearily smiles and sighs, tightening her arms around his neck. _I could sleep here,_ she thinks. _Just let me sleep here._

"I'm sorry," she says, mournfully. He knows she's referring to everything.

He grimaces, shrugs, and shakes his head. It's a gesture that says, _fah-get about it._

"I love you," she exhales, rubbing her cheek against his, her eyes still closed.

"Good," he whispers back into her ear, his breath jostling some loose hairs, tickling causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. She raises her shoulder against the tickle and sighs peacefully. "I ... really love you," he says.

"I've seen what's in that box, Booth," she says leaning back to look at him before he can kiss her, which is what he really wants to do.

"Okay. Do you want to tell me?" He asks searching her eyes. He's not sure how she feels about what she's discovered, but everything she's said so far about that box has been negative, maybe painful, and he wants to be there for it, if she wants him to be.

She rests her head on his shoulder and thinks for a moment.

"It's the color of a baby duck. Yellow, bright yellow," she says calmly, unemotionally.

"That's not so bad, huh?" He says. "Seeley booth never got taken down by a fuzzy—"

"Furry."

"—furry baby duck!" he says, encouragingly.

"But it's not a baby duck. That's just the color," she says, grimacing. "And, it's not about you taking it down. It's clearly about me ..."

"I understand that," he says with a single gentle nod. "And it's furry."

"Uh huh. And bigger."

"What? You've got a small woodland creature in there?" He says, surprised.

"I don't know. I don't know," she demurs, slightly frustrated. "Booth, what if I can't get that off—the fuzzy, furry whatever that is?"

"You will. Don't try to do everything at once, Bones," he says, turning and kissing her forehead. "Okay? One step at a time."

"I'm not coming back here, Booth," she says. "I don't mean to Dr. Sweets' office, though after tonight, I could use a hiatus from these four walls," she snorts. "I meant—"

"I know what you meant," he says gently, nodding, his jaw rubbing against her forehead.

"I'm not going through this again. I have to get that thing out of there and figure out what it is," she says, definitively.

They sit in silence for a moment, enjoying the relaxation that comes after a good cry for her, the satisfaction from knowing you handled a really difficult situation well for him. It's just nice to be holding each other, to be able to relax and breathe.

"It wants to get out, Booth," she says, leaning back to look in his eyes.

"Well then," he says, reassuringly, "Knowing what you want is half the battle." He smiles beautifully at her, seeing in her expression that she knows all the meanings behind his comment.

She sighs, smiling weakly and leaning forward to kiss him gently on the lips, then moving away to smile at him sheepishly. He slides his arm up so he's got the back of her neck in the crook of his elbow and he pulls her back to his lips, returning the favor, making good on what he wanted to do a few moments ago. "Mmmmm," she responds as he chews on her lip, then covers her mouth with his own, delivering a mushy kisses.

"I have no strength," she says, disappointedly, when his lips travel north to kiss her nose, then her cheek, then behind her ear.

"I have enough for both of us," he teases into her hair, so relieved this ordeal is over and no blood was shed.

"Unnnn. Why did I know you were going to say that?" She says, teasing him.

"Because you know me, Temperance Brennan," he says back, breathing in the scent of her hair and allowing a low, short moan to escape from his throat.

"Not in the biblical sense," she responds, coquettishly. _It feels good to feel good for a moment,_ she thinks.

"But I will," he says in a sing-song tone, kissing her on the lips once again, making a smacking sound when their lips separate.

"Do you want to make love to me, Booth?" She asks, a little uncertainly, but feeling good enough to truly flirt and taunt him. She's also needing reassurance that they are who they have been this past week, not who they were for the last 18 months.

"Repeatedly," he says, warmly, wrapping his arms around her again and showing her just how serious he is on this particular point without uttering another word … verbally, at least.

"Ohhhhhhh," is all she can get out of her mouth before he stands up, taking her with him, and squeezes her as tightly as he possibly can, planting several raspberries under her ear, then further down her neck. She starts to giggle, then playfully pushes him away, but he won't go.

She grabs him by the sides of his head and drags some highly sensuous wet kisses from his ear, across his jaw to his lips where she breathes across them, " I miss you. I've missed us," she says, with a catch in her throat, leaning back to look in his eyes.

"Me too," he whispers, both of them getting a little tickle in their eyes. They stand like that for a moment, looking in each other's eyes. Both relieved this is nearly over ... at least this first part ... the revelation part. She closes her eyes and kisses him again, slowly, emotionally, turning him into a pile of Jell-o. Well, most of him at least. Some parts of him don't believe in the Jell-o effect and prefer to go in the opposite direction, nature being what it is. God bless nature, by the way.

Having reduced her mate to a submissive pile of goo, Brennan removes herself from his grasp and departs for her side of the loveseat.

"Lets get this over with," she exclaims, as Sweets walks back through the door.

Sweets had attempted to return to his office eight minutes earlier, but walked swiftly back to the restroom when he saw they were locked in a rather friendly embrace. "We all love to see people kissing on television and in the movies, he thought to himself, but no one wants to see their colleagues do it." He shudders, gives them another five minutes, then walks back down the hall doing everything he can to make noise short of beating on the walls with a bat.

"So," says Sweets upon returning. He looks at the two questioningly.

"I saw what's in that box," says Brennan. "Well, at least I have an idea of what it is."

"That's progress, right?" Sweets asks, grinning.

"Yes," she says, noticing something she hadn't seen before about that box in her mind. She mentally crouches down to have a closer look at it and is startled by what she sees. _Oh,_ she thinks. _This is not good! What the hell-?_

While she was investigating the baby duck-yellow football-sized object lying in the center of a cardboard cross made by the flattened sides of the exploded box, Booth and Sweets had continued talking. Her heart starts pounding. Her breaths become shallow. She knows it's time to remove the furry outer layer of that object and put this thing to bed. She begins to panic slightly as the possible consequences whiz through her brain. _Calm yourself. Calm yourself,_ she tells herself, but she's caught up in her need to get this over, coupled with this recurring anxiety which she thought was already. _I should have known better,_ she admonishes herself, irritated with this new development. _The cleverest adversaries lull you into complacency and a false sense of security then hit you-BAM-right between the eyes._ _Excrement, excrement, excrement! I find I am not at all entertained by this ridiculous emotional rollercoaster,_ she yells at the contents of the box before gathering up the cardboard sides and carrying the whole contraption off the stage of her consciousness.

Booth senses a change in the woman sitting beside him. Something is going on. She is tensing up. Her breathing has become shallow. He stares at her. Before he can say anything, she jumps up off the couch.

"What if I can't handle what's in the box? What if I don't know what it means, or, or, what to do with it?" Turning on her heel, she rushes toward the door, then whips back around, forcing herself to come all the way back into the room, her hands gripping the upholstery-covered edge of the back of the couch, her wide-open eyes glossing up once more. She looks at Booth, pleadingly. "What if what's in there is something that I need, but it's dead and can't be resuscitated?" She sputters, standing upright, swiping the trickle from her nose, batting at the dampness threatening to drip for the one hundredth time from her eyes. "I need a break," she chokes, and turns one last time before marching from the room.

* * *

><p>Driving toward Brennan's apartment from The Founding Fathers, Booth thinks back to what happened in Sweets' office and the last thing Brennan said before she fled.<p>

"_What if I can't handle what's in the box? What if I don't know what it means, or what to do with it? What if what's in there is something that I need, but it's dead and can't be resuscitated?"_

When she swung around and headed out of the room, Booth had swiftly jumped up and scaled the couch, propelling himself toward her, but he was too late to catch her. Sweets, however, had slowly stood when Brennan first became agitated enough to rise from the couch. As her distress intensified, Sweets had slowly and cautiously moved forward to stand just to the right of Brennan's usual side of the love seat. As a result, he was able to reach the door before Booth. As Sweets turned back toward his office he caught a chest full of Booth coming at him with full force, almost knocking the wind out of both of them.

When Sweets didn't move, Booth grabbed a fistful of his shirt and tried to yank Sweets into the room and out of his way, but Sweets stood his ground, bracing himself against the door frame.

"What the hell, Sweets?" cried Booth, irritated and confused.

"Let her go. Let her go, Booth," Sweets said calmly and authoritatively in a low voice. Knowing that Brennan might prefer to face alone what the box held captive, Sweets had a suspicion that she might seek privacy. Watching Brennan describe her pain and fears about her relationship with Booth this past year, Sweets knew by the stunned panic on her face, the moment she saw, in her minds eye, what she thought lie at the center of the despicable box. He also knew she needed to be alone.

Booth's face twisted into an, 'are you flipping nuts?' expression, which he catapulted at Sweets, unintentionally spitting on the younger man's cheek.

Sweets still didn't move. Booth continued to grip a handful of the younger man's shirt in his fist. He'd just spent a great deal of time watching Brennan go through a harrowing confession of the ... trauma of this past year. He'd listened to her, wanting to flog himself. He listened without defending himself, without being able to even console her. Seeing her leave as distressed as she was, and now that he doesn't have to hold himself back any longer, he allows himself to feel the intensity of his frustration with himself and the situation. Unfortunately, Sweets is getting the short end of this stick simply because he's there.

"As radical as this may sound, this is incredible progress," Sweets said with a compassionate grimace, attempting to assure Booth, hoping Booth didn't force his way past Sweets. He'd have to let him go. He didn't want to do that. This isn't about Booth; it's about Brennan, so she gets to dictate how it's gonna go. Her abrupt departure made it clear she wanted to be alone.

"How can you say this is progress when my partner just left this room in tears after what she's just gone through—" Booth's expression says, 'what kind of heartless man are you?' "Sweets, she's obviously very upset and she needs me," said Booth desperately through clenched teeth.

"Actually, what she needs more is to be able to process this alone," answered Sweets calmly. "She has made that abundantly clear by her actions."

"Sweets, she's spent most of her life completely alone, and I am going to do everything in my power to see that that woman never … ever … has to cry alone again."

"Agent Booth, sometimes it is necessary, even healthy, for a person to allow themselves to cry alone. If she'd wanted company, she could have taken you with her."

Booth loosened his grip on Sweets' shirt, uncertain what to do now. What's the FBI protocol for when you've got your therapist in a stronghold during a grief counseling session?

"We all have parts of ourselves that are private," said Sweets. "She has the right to dictate the conditions of the environment in which she will process her inner thoughts. Give her a couple minutes; she'll be back," he said assuredly, though he suspected that Brennan would be gone for more than a couple minutes. He'd seen her heading for the elevator. Sweets saw this perhaps his final opportunity to have a word with Booth alone before the two took off for Washington tomorrow.

"How would you know about her inner most thoughts?" Asked Booth, tightening his grip on Sweets' shirt. "I noticed you two have been spending some time together. Too much time maybe. Maybe it's gotten a little more _personal_ for you, huh?"

Sweets looked quizzically at Booth, still unmoving and showing no signs of fear.

"What the hell's with that? Huh?" Booth hissed. "You come in here with your degrees and your awards and your double stupid studies and you spend time with her. And you can't tell me it hasn't been personal. Maybe this extra time you've been spending with my partner has got you making plans. Maybe you like her a little bit too much, huh?"

Sweets chuffed, but made no other sound or motion. He could see that Booth was quite serious, even though his accusation was baseless. _This man's still in a great deal of pain,_ he thought. _And he's freaked out that he could lose her again after finally finding her. Remember that he's also crashing emotionally now that he doesn't have to hold himself together in front of her, and his frustration is bound to come out in unpredictable ways. That is predictable._

"Are you in love with her, Sweets, huh? Answer the question!"

"Agent Booth, if you took a poll in this office, I think you'd find that the majority of the male agents harbor a bit of a crush on Dr. Brennan," Sweets admitted, snorting lightly. _Who wouldn't?_ He thought.. "She's a brilliant, beautiful … person. But that doesn't mean …" He paused, scrunching his eyebrows together, not wanting anything he says to be misinterpreted. "I assure you, Agent Booth, our relationship has been … completely and totally… professional," he said, grimacing compassionately at Booth.

Booth loosened his grip on Sweets' shirt. His face relaxed and his shoulders dropped as he realized the absurdity of what he'd accused Sweets of, and the fact that he has this innocent man in a stranglehold by the front of his shirt. Suddenly, Booth feels stupid, but stuck. _Way to go, Booth. What do I do now? _He asks himself.

"Sometimes when we love someone we think everyone else must see what we see, and love them as we do, how could they not, right?" Asked Sweets, pointedly.

"Don't try to shrink me, junior. I'm not in the mood," warned Booth. "If I find out any differently about you, I will remove your testicles and serve them to you on a piece of toast!" Spat Booth in Sweets' face for good measure.

"Agent Booth, this is a wicked stressful situation," said Sweets, making a note to himself never to get on Booth's bad side; this man can be hugely intimidating when he wants to. "Your threatening tone and attempt to intimidate me are clearly misdirected anger at yourself for being human. The pain of seeing the woman you love reduced to tears to the point of fleeing the room has got you thinking irrationally. I'm going to guess that this is one of the few times you've ever seen her run from anything." _Aside from, perhaps, Maluku?_ Sweets thinks to himself.

Booth stares at the younger man, Sweets shirt still bunched in his fist.

"If you could just relax your grip on my shirt, there is something I can share with you that I believe will help you put what's happened here into perspective," offered Sweets. Booth released his grip on Sweets' shirt with a slight shove to Sweets' chest. Sweets walked slowly back into the room as Booth turned and walked toward the windows, one hand on his hip, the other gripping his mouth.

"Listen, pal," spat Booth again, rotating toward Sweets only enough for Sweets to see his profile. "I don't want to put this in 'perspective'. I want to go find Bones and make sure she's okay," he said uncertainly, his voice losing steam as he speaks.

"Yet, you are still here," observed Sweets cautiously and unemotionally, stretching his neck and adjusting his shirt by making a half backward rotation of one shoulder after the other.

Booth turned around and gave Sweets a blank stare. He swallowed, puckering, and slid his hands into his pockets.

"You aren't handcuffed, Agent Booth," Sweets said in mildly sardonic defiance, then paused, allowing Booth to suck on that for a moment. "You are stronger than I am, faster than I am," he stated, frowning, then mumbled, "usually," under his breath. "And bigger than I am. What's keeping you here?"

Booth looked Sweets in the eyes for a moment, squinting briefly.

Sweets stared back at him unflinching, saying nothing.

"I've got all night, Agent Booth," he said as he sat back down in his chair, and attempted to button his shirt, noticing one of the buttons has been ripped off. His tie was also a mess so he slid it off and tossed it behind him onto his desk. Leaning back in his chair with forced casualness, Sweets cocked his head to the right, and draped an arm over each armrest, allowing his hands to dangle toward the floor. His posture was one of complete submission. It suggested, _you're in charge. It's your call, Booth. Do whatever you want._ The man in Sweets understood Booth's feeling of helpless; the psychologist in him understood Booth's need to feel he had some control over something, anything.

"Agent Booth?" Prodded Sweets expectantly while absently examining his empty buttonhole.

Booth was unsure what his next move should be. He truly wasn't sure why he hadn't left the room in search of Brennan.

"Booth, would you like to sit down?" Asked Sweets quietly after another eight beats, throwing a hand out toward the loveseat, then letting it dangle back toward the floor.

Getting no response, Sweets sat quietly for a moment, then asked his question again, this time in a tone of curiosity, his brow furrowed. "Agent Booth, why are you still here?"

"I don't know why, Sweets," Booth shouted, irritated but losing steam. He paused, turning back toward the window. Noticing he'd been clutching Sweets' disarticulated button this whole time, he looked at it, then tossed it toward the window, hearing a small "ting" as it bounced off the glass and disappeared. "I … don't … know … why …" he said quietly in the direction of the window. With that admission hanging in the air, Booth twisted his body around, hands still on his hips, jaw clenched and straining.

He smirked at Sweets expectantly, as if Sweets might have an answer to his own question.

"We were _this _close." Booth said, making a little one inch gesture with his index finger and thumb, and then dropping his arm, letting it hit his thigh with a smack. _Please, Lord, b__e with Bones and help her get through whatever she needs to get through. And please let me be doing the right thing here. _"You're my shrink—," said Booth, frustrated and resigned.

"I'm a psychologist, not a psychiatrist," corrected Sweets gently.

"Who the hell cares? Aren't you supposed to tell me these things?" He said, accusatorially. "Warn me when I'm making a mistake?"

"You're an adult, Agent Booth. You don't need anyone to tell you when you're making a mistake. Besides, what we usually call a mistake is merely a matter of lack of perspective."

"I've been avoiding talking about Hannah because I didn't want Hannah … anywhere near … us," confessed Booth.

"And look how well that turned out," said Sweets without thinking, realizing too late that it was an inappropriate response. He should have kept his mouth shut.

"Thanks a whole hell of a lot, Sweets. I'd already figured that out!"

"Don't beat yourself up, Agent Booth," said Sweets consolingly. "You did the best you could do with the information you had."

"I'd drop kick my own ass through the goal post if I treated myself the way I've treated her this past year." The moment it was of his mouth, Booth realized he was being dramatic, or, hyperbolic, Brennan would call it, but so what? This had been the most stressful therapy session of the millennium.

"Don't underestimate her love for you. Remember, she is the queen of rationality. She's also trained in viewing life on a much broader canvas than most people. She's able to see across cultures and centuries and identify cause and effect over many years. She's mastered the art of the long view, Agent Booth," Sweets pointed out, hoping this might provide some comfort. "Your behavior suggests that you feel you have just lost something," he said next. "Do you actually think you are in danger of losing something here?"

"Why do you say that? Am I in danger of losing something?" Asked Booth, his voice increasing in pitch.

Sweets gave Booth the blank, half-lidded 'do _you_ think you are in danger of losing something' look. He followed it with the dipped chin, the smirk, and one eyebrow raised. Pausing for longer than necessary, Sweets posed a different question.

"Is it possible, in your assessment of your current situation in totality," he said drawing a large circle in the air with both hands going in opposite directions in the air, and then meeting again in the middle, "that you have done something so heinous that Dr. Brennan would hold it against you indefinitely?"

Booth swallowed and pushed out a lungful of air. "I don't think so," he admitted guiltily, begrudgingly, feigning that he hates it when Sweets is correct. "So, what do I do?"

"Give her the space she's asked for, okay? Then go find her, with her permission, and be that soft place for her, that safety net," explained Sweets, shrugging and dropping his hands on his thighs. _She's already forgiven you,_ thinks Sweets, knowing Booth will have to discover this on his own. "The tough work is over. Though Dr. Brennan may have left in a state of high anxiety, the toughest part is over. What's left in the box will not hurt her, because she has already won the battle." He said, leveling a steady gaze at his colleague. "Agent Booth, I may have fewer years in the field than you do, but I've seen a lot of pain. The extraordinary support you have already provided for her was ... ... I, I've never seen anything like it," he says interlacing his fingers and slowly shaking his head in genuine awe. Booth stares back at Sweets, not sure what to say to that.

The silence was broken by Brennan's recorded voice singing a verse of Girls Just Want to Have Fun from Booth's pocket. Booth sits up abruptly and yanks his phone out of his pocket, standing and walking toward the window, his back to Sweets.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Thank you already to the following reviewers who make it even more worthwhile to post 20,000 words in one shot: <strong>_yenyen76 sarahlizlangas Silver Maker tessdancer Dyna63 Cremant mef1013 eire76 JayBee188 jenny DWBBFan smiley Memo3197 erniebeth coterie2 alexindigo AngelBach mariabones SarahSueD OhSnapItzAmelie maryfran kdgteacher7 fofie675 brensfan appiedala elmasuz tessdancer jsboneslover fanficauthor1226 Grandma Bones Shoulla Rankor01 dovepage dlh dd justlittleirish TraciM ILuvBonesNDool Michelle Kimberrn pasha54 Becksbones caracoleta07 jkb1992 Martreiya Marebear _and the list continues to grow every day ..._

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><p><strong>June 12, 2012<strong>

**Readers, this chapter was posted several months ago and, to date, has been the most reviewed**  
><strong>chapter. As a marketer by profession, response rates mean a lot to me. <strong>  
><strong>If this chapter moved you, made sense to you, or put thoughts into your head <strong>  
><strong>that will stay there for a very long time, please do me the honor of clicking on the REVIEW button below and let me know.<br>**  
><em>Help me push this chapter over the 70 mark, it would make me so happy.<em>

** Call me greedy, call me self-centered or competitive - whatever. However, I've learned in this life that**  
><strong>if you want something, and it is worth enough to you, you will find the balls to ask for it even if it<strong>  
><strong>means risking people thinking those things about you. I'd like to break this record. And you can help me!<strong>

**Please, give this writer just three more minutes of your time,**  
><strong>and let me know your thoughts about this chapter.<strong>**  
><em><strong> In the words of Special Agent Sexy Booth,<br>"I love it when you do that!"**_  
><strong>

**~MoxieGirl**


	199. Come As You Are

_A/N That last chapter was a record breaker for **The When and the How: A Bone to Pick.** So many emotional responses,  
>so many of you grateful to see Brennan finally tell Booth how hard that last year was for her. Now, we move forward. Rather,<br>they move forward. I have nothing brilliant to say to all of you who have followed me down this rabbit hole, except thank  
>you for the extraordinary response, the encouragement, and the dedication to Bones to get this far with this story - we shall continue doggedly - to Tuesday and beyond!<em>

_Thanks to Queen Nora for the 39 emails it took to get this puppy up and running, and to Laura, aka "Boneslvr38" for the pre-post read-through._

_Heartfelt gratitude to over 66 of you fab readers who have taken the extra three minutes to click the "Review" button at the end of the chapter. You blow me away and make it all worth while. XO_

_Enjoy!_

_~MoxieGirl  
><em>_~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter_

* * *

><p><strong>199 Come As You Are<strong>

Taking a right turn several blocks from Brennan's apartment building, Booth recalls how relieved he was to hear Brennan's voice when she called him at Sweets' office. He had desperately wanted to leave and join her. Sweets, however, wasn't ready to release him just yet. Sliding his cell back in his pocket after promising Brennan he would call her in sixty minutes to leave a voice mail for her to listen to, Booth had dropped onto the love seat, slightly deflated and weary.

Sweets looked at Booth, assessing how ready the older man was to hear what he needed to tell him. Sweets sighed audibly and sat up straight. _Here goes nothing,_ he'd thought.

"Before you see her again, there are some things you should know," Sweets began.

Sweets spent the next ten to fifteen minutes sharing with Booth those things that Brennan had given him permission to share. Booth listened attentively, sitting back against the couch cushions with his arms crossed and his eyes trained on the coffee table.

When the psychologist recounted Brennan's fear that she had inaccurately gauged how little Booth loved her, and then her fear of how much she had undersetimated his love for Hannah, Booth closed his eyes and swallowed dryly, his right knee pumping anxiously up and down.

"Dr. Brennan made calculations of how infrequently you've made contact with her since, well, probably since she came back from Maluku," said Sweets in low tones, his own eyes trained mostly on his fingernails or the grain in the wood of the coffee table. "She compared all of this to comparable statistical analysis of before you both left the country, perhaps even earlier than that." Listening to the details, Booth chewed on the inside of his bottom lip, clenched his jaw, shook his head several times, and smirked regrettably as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

"She kept track of the diminished number of minutes you'd spent working with her in person, the decreased number of meals you'd shared, and the lack of extra curricular social interaction between the two of you," Sweets explained.

As Sweets described in low tones how Brennan feared that she was replaceable, that her mark on him was insignificant, and that Booth would never love her again the way he did before she turned him down, Booth leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He intertwined his fingers as if in prayer, and rested his forehead on his extended thumbs, blowing out several silent, yet labored breaths.

When Sweets gave Booth his assessment that Brennan had come to the conclusion that she had brought all of this upon herself through her own fear and selfishness played out on the steps outside this very building many months ago, Booth slowly slumped back against the cushions again, brought his hand to his mouth and started chewing on his thumbnail while his knee took on a life of his own. He stared blindly toward the dark window and the precarious future that lie out there waiting for him.

Listening to these words from his colleague, Booth felt a cold tingle followed by a panicked rush of adrenaline gallop through his chest and shoulders. He closed his eyes against the sensation, the same way one looks away when having a hypodermic needle shoved into the vein in the bend of their elbow. He had to remind himself that a lot has happened since she made those calculations and came to those terribly misinterpreted conclusions, and that today Bones had told him to focus on the prize of their future together, if that's what it took to get him through this session with Sweets. She asked him to do this, despite what she went through months ago. Today, she said that the past is the past, and she is committed to the future. _How can she be that strong?_ He wondered in amazement.

Sweets sat silently across from this man whom he admires, and fought the urge to assuage Booth's fears_. If he has any question about her devotion to him, let him see it through her devastation at the thought of losing him,_ he told himself. _We hold most dear what we fear we are in danger of losing. Booth needs to know how precious he is to her and that her love for him is different than the love he's had before, the love that he felt he could, and did, chase away. Booth may know this in his head, _thought Sweets_, but he needs to feel it where it hurts, and stop questioning his own lovability. _

"Agent Booth," Sweets started again, breaking into the silence of both men's thoughts, and pulling Booth's eyes to his own. "Any—doubts you may perhaps have about her commitment to your, ah, … relationship," he said, choosing his words carefully, "are not about Dr. Brennan."

Booth winced, furrowing his brow and squinting at Sweets.

"They are about your own insecurities, Agent Booth."

Booth rolled his eyes and tossed a hand in the air. _Like I didn't already know that,_ he thought, his knee still pumping. "Thanks for bringing that up, junior," said Booth, smirking.

"Agent Booth, is it really necessary to be flip—" remarked Sweets, shooting Booth a reproachful look.

"I know, I know," Booth said apologetically. "I'm just—" he shook his head and stared off into space in the direction of Sweets' walls, frustrated with himself.

**::: **::: :::**  
><strong>**  
>While Sweets and Booth talked, Brennan had been using her time alone to get to the bottom of the nasty black box, the box that held the secret to what has been plaguing her …<strong>

**Brennan lies in the middle of her living room floor, but she's not really there, at least, not mentally.  
>She's standing, hands on hips, facing away from the nasty, black, greasy, sooty box filled with anguish and hell.<br>Ever since she left the men behind, she's suspected what it contained, but the yellow furry wrapping perplexed her.**

**"Yes, you have your experience. And your interpretation of that experience, combined with the meaning you gave it and the emotions you associated with it."  
>It's Sweets' disembodied voice.<br>"Give those emotions a name. Let them come out to play, Dr. Brennan."**  
><strong>"They don't want to play," she says defiantly to the voice coming from somewhere beyond the box. "They want to fight."<strong>  
><strong>"Fighting works," affirms Sweets.<strong>

**The black box begins bouncing about. She sees it out of the corner of her eye, but stands perfectly still, refusing to look directly at it.**

**"I experienced a collage of sensations over the course of the year. I don't know what they all were."  
>Torn bits of cardboard around the edges of the box where the flaps were ripped away sway in a breeze she cannot feel.<strong>  
><strong>The box rumbles.<strong>  
><strong>She rounds on it, clenching her imaginary jaw and shooting it the stink eye of the century.<strong>

**::: **::: :::****

_At the Hoover Building, Booth and Sweets continued discussing what Sweets felt Booth needed to know before seeing Brennan again …_

After a moment, Booth continued. "What, uh, what was it you wanted Bones to tell me about your session with her after I, you know—asked Hannah? You said there was something I should know? What was that all about?" He asked, swallowing, bracing himself for whatever he might learn.

Taking a deep breath, Sweets described for Booth the first four sessions immediately proceeding Booth's proposal to Hannah.

"She sat there; never saying a word, Agent Booth. After the first two sessions, I stopped asking questions. All I'd get in response was an evasive glance, if I was lucky."

"Hm," grunted Booth, clearing his throat. His knee stopped moving and he sat perfectly still. "What, uh, what—" Booth tried to ask a question, but was stopped by the threat of his throat tightening. Clearing his throat with a grimace, he tried again. "What do you think she was—uh," he stammered, cocking his head and flicking his eyes at Sweets before focusing on the coffee table again.

"From a psychological perspective, the fact that she came to the sessions at all confirmed that she was beginning to process. No one could have forced her to come here, yet she still came," Sweets said with a weak chuckle; a chuckle inspired not by amusement, but by his own empathetic discomfort. "I think she needed to know that someone was looking out for her, Agent Booth," he said, pursing his lips. "She was, ah, very lonely," he said in an almost whisper, never initiating eye contact with Booth.

"Did she say that?" Asked Booth, looking up and locking eyes with the younger man. The mood in the room had suddenly turned as solemn as a wake.

"She didn't see it that way – but I saw it. Angela saw it." _Until tonight,_ Sweets thought. _Tonight she named it as abandonment, something she's all too familiar with._

"Are you saying I wasn't there for her?" _Why even ask this question anymore; the answer has been obvious tonight, but it's still hard to swallow, _he thought.

"Are you saying you were?" Sweets challenged gently but firmly without blinking.

Booth's shoulders dropped under the weight of his private shame as Sweets' piercing question sunk into the fibers of his being. The cold reality of his abandonment of Brennan hit him in the gut like a boxing glove at the end of a powerful blow, knocking the wind from his lungs. He felt caught, a frantic mouse in a trap with no way out except to gnaw off his own leg. But wouldn't he gnaw off his leg for Bones? _Yes,_ he told himself. _In a heartbeat_. Once again, he wished he could go back and let their relationship evolve naturally without him pushing when she was obviously not ready.

Booth crossed his arms, forced several deep breaths into his lungs, exhaling each slowly and audibly. "Was that it?" He asked, resting an ankle on the opposite knee, alternately wrinkling and straightening his red, green, blue and yellow striped sock several times, "Just four sessions?"

"Ah, no. There were seven sessions in total," replied Sweets quietly, nodding and resting his own ankle on his knee, mirroring Booth's posture.

Booth looked at Sweets expectantly. Getting nothing, he raised his eyebrows in question.

**::: **::: :::****

**Back at the apartment and inside Brennan's imagination, she's now facing Hannah Burley … and her own fear that Hannah is the one that Booth truly loves the most …**

**"You turned him away. He loves me now."**  
><strong>It's Hannah. A tiny Hannah. About the size of a child's phalanx.<br>Hannah's figure hovers over the black box like Princess Leah delivering a warning to Obi Wan Kenobi projected from R2-D2's memory banks.**  
><strong>She's standing on a comparatively large, curved, gold platter.<br>The platter is suspended by two chains on opposite sides of the platter.**  
><strong>An identical tiny Hannah drops onto the platter beside the first. Then another. And another.<strong>  
><strong>"I'm winning!" Says the original Hannah gleefully as all the other Hannah's nod in agreement.<br>**  
><strong>Brennan notices there's another gold platter nearby, also suspended by chains, and attached to a bar overhead.<br>****The bar extends from her chains to the ones suspending Hannah's platter. A gold poll stands between the two platters forming a fulcrum upon which the bar above balances .**

**Standing on this platter is a small Temperance Brennan. Another Brennan joins the first. Then another.**  
><strong>"What the ..." wonders the real Brennan.<strong>  
><strong>She steps back to get some perspective.<strong>  
><strong>Those platters are the scales of justice ... or some kind of scale, at least.<br>They are comparing the weight of the Hannahs against that of Brennans! **  
><strong>Tiny Hannahs are piling up on Hannah's side of the scale.<strong>  
><strong>Only a few Brennans appear on her own side, slowly, her platter rising as Hannah's lowers.<br>"We don't measure our love by weight, Hannah," says regular-sized Brennan, sternly. "Love can't be measured . . . empirically ..."  
>Brennan stands, watching the Hannahs, struck by the significance of what she just heard herself say.<br>**  
><strong>"You are my absolute truth."<strong>  
><strong>It's Booth's voice this time, but who is he referring to?<strong>  
><strong>As she watches in anticipatory horror, Booth stomps up to the scale, and contemplates its construction.<strong>  
><strong>Jumping onto the center pole between the platters, he reaches the level of the phalanx-sized women.<br>He looks to Hannah and smiles, nods.  
>Then hops onto Brennan's platter.<br>A second Booth drops onto Brennan's platter from above. Then another Booth. And another.  
>Three more Brennans and two more Booths drop down until all the Hannahs lose their balance and tumble off their side of the scale.<strong>  
><strong>This image disappears, leaving only the black box.<strong>

**The sooty box hops from side to side, puffing and sputtering as if it's trying to cough something up.  
>Finally, the glass globe from earlier today comes shooting up, clearing the top of the box.<br>The globe hovers in front of Brennan's face.  
>Once again, it contains a message for her.<br>Actually, she realizes, it's a quote.  
>A quote from Booth from their conversation after her nightmare at the hotel.<br>She hears it read in his voice as she reads it silently to herself.**

**"Despite being locked away and protected, that 'metaphorical' heart of yours beats with a fierceness that I have never seen before.  
>I've listened to that heartbeat get stronger and stronger the longer I've known you. Even when I was with someone else, I could still feel that heart beating … even though I didn't realize what it was."<strong>

**"You can trust me with your heart, Bones," is that last thing said by Booth's voice as it diminishes and disappears along with the glass globe.**

**The box has nothing to say as the globe rises and disappears.**

**::: **::: :::****

_At the Hoover, Sweets continued the tale of Brennan's post-proposal sessions …_

Sweets sighed and continued with the story. "In the middle of the fifth session," began Sweets solemnly, "Dr. Brennan began to cry."

Booth squeezed his eyebrows together, his eyelids suddenly too heavy to hold open. "She … cried?"

Sweets nodded, with a grimace. "Quietly, yes. She cried … soundlessly. I wouldn't have known if I hadn't looked straight at her."

"Did she, uh, say anything?" Booth asked, in a tight voice after a moment, his expression pinched and pained. He searched Sweets' eyes for the answer, praying … wishing that she hadn't had to go through all of that, and feeling his heart slump just as his shoulders were at this news.

Sweets looked at Booth, then slowly shook his head and shrugged, never losing eye contact.

"She cried through the sixth session," he said and sighed. After a moment, he continued. "Then most of the way through the seventh session. At the end of the seventh session, she stood, thanked me, and walked out that door," he said, gesturing over Booth's head with a nod and a flick of his eyes toward the door.

While listening to this last part of the story, Booth clenched his jaw several times, his eyes shiny. He crossed his arms, leaned his head back on the back ledge of the couch, and stared at the ceiling, his leg starting to pump again, though not nearly as energetically. He exhaled several times through puckered lips as if he were trying to keep a feather afloat. He remained like that for more than two minutes while Sweets sat silently across the coffee table from him, trying not to notice.

"How could I have handled it differently?" Booth asked in a choked voice, then sniffed without raising his head from the couch ledge. "I was devastated when she turned me down," he said, realizing it applied to both Brennan and Hannah. "How are you supposed to handle something differently," he said, his voice devoid of inflection, "or handled it better, when you are in a heap of hurt yourself and the hole you've dug is so deep you don't even know which end is up anymore?"

Sweets said nothing for several beats. Then sat up, ready for this turn in the conversation, the turn from focusing on Brennan to focusing on Booth.

"What is done is done," Sweets finally said, shrugging empathetically. "Who said you should have handled it better or differently anyway?"

Booth lifted his head and looked at Sweets with a sarcastic, incredulous expression.

"Seriously, Agent Booth. What would that solve?" Asked Sweets, argumentatively. "Perhaps it would have spared both of you some pain and it's red-headed step sister - _anger_, but you're placing a value judgment on anger and pain."

"What the hell is that supposed—"

"Look, you've made an assumption that, ah, pain is bad. Pain isn't bad or good, Agent Booth. Pain is just pain," he said, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair and interlacing his fingers to rest them on his chest. "Pain has a purpose. Pain can be productive, if you let it. As for anger," he said, shrugging with his shoulders and his hands, "Anger is a natural part of the grieving process – it actually facilitates healing, as long as you aren't harming yourself. Anger is fine; it's healthy."

Booth did not need Sweets to explain these concepts to him.

"—As difficult as it may be to accept," Sweets added, mumbling as he tugged at a loose string dangling from where he used to have a button.

"Is this the 'sadness, fear, and anger teach us about compassion' speech? Because I've got this one memorized," said Booth, smirking and scooting upright in his seat again, pulling at the knees of his pants which have gotten bunched up from all the moving around in his seat.

"There you go," Sweets said, smiling softly. "Look, Agent Booth, don't dismiss the value of how you got where you are right now. This may be wicked stressful, but who is to say that if you'd done anything differently, you would have gotten these same results?"

Booth stares at Sweets, thinking.

"This_ is_ the goal," he said, "Am I right?" Sweets cocks his head to the left and raises his eyebrows. "I mean—" he hesitated to go further, to mention the affection he'd seen between Brennan and Booth here tonight.

"Yes. Of course," Booth murmured self-consciously on the exhale, looking anywhere but directly at Sweets.

"So, consider this, Agent Booth. Through this process … through the experience of these last two years, the two of you have come to appreciate what you are to each other," he suggests, shrugging, tugging on the knees of his trousers and sitting back. "Two years ago, neither of you were equipped. She wasn't ready to move forward. You weren't ready to fight for her. Perhaps you couldn't. You weren't equipped to fight at the time, so you didn't take her refusal for what it was, you took it for what you thought it was," Sweets said in an almost admonishing tone.

Booth opened his mouth to ask what her refusal really was, then closed it. _Sweets is right,_ he thought. _I let my insecurity get in the way. I overlooked that she simply wasn't ready. I gave in to the Filthy Stinking Bastard preying on my—_he shrugs, not knowing what to call it. _Bones nailed it: I gave up on myself. I accepted that it was the end, and I let it consume me._

**::: **::: :::****

**This time, Brennan finds herself thrust into the middle of a conversation with Booth.  
><strong>**"How do you determine if something is constant?" He asks.  
><strong>**"You develop your criteria. You measure what you observe against those criteria and you make an assessment."  
><strong>**"That's not love … that's science and reason. You can't reason with love, or prove it with … calculus. You gotta feel it. In here. I know you feel it, Bones."  
><strong>**"I do! I just—I don't trust it."  
><strong>**"Why?"  
><strong>**"Because it's a chemical reaction in my brain—"  
><strong>**"Agh, Bones," he says, bending at the knees and making claws with his hands, then takes her face in his hands. He shakes his head. "Such a beautiful face, such a complicated mind—"  
><strong>**"What if something happens and my brain changes? What if you have another tumor and your brain changes? What if either one of us wakes up and isn't in love anymore?"  
><strong>**"Once you are together the elusive, unobtainable becomes the acquired, the possessed. The dynamic changes. It evolves, but it's still—love—Bones!"  
><strong>**"What if one of us dies?"  
><strong>**His eyebrows shoot up.  
><strong>**"What if I love you … and we make a life … and we have … ch-children and a home … and you die … you leave me?"  
><strong>**"There are no guarantees in life, Bones. Except death and taxes. Your 'statistics' will show that I will die before you. I will eventually leave you. It is inevitable. So why not make ever day until then the absolute best they can be? Let's not run equations about probabilities and statistics and neurotransmitters and whatever. Let's just take one day at a time. Lets be together today. And then tomorrow and next week, if there is a next week. Lets do it that way."**

**"I've never done it that way. I find it difficult to …"  
><strong>**"Do you trust me?"  
><strong>**"That's a complicated question."  
><strong>**"No it isn't, Bones. Its yes, or no. That easy." Holds out his hand. "Do you trust me?"**

**She stares at him trying to figure out what to say.  
><strong>**"Do. You. Trust me, Bones?"  
>"Well, of course I do, Booth, you know that."<br>"No. I mean really trust me?"  
>She stares at him, quizzically.<br>"Do you trust me?" He says again.  
>"I don't understand the question."<br>"Do you trust me to be constant, faithful, dependable, enduring, unchanging?" He rattles off.  
>She paces, then walks toward the door, opens it, and keeps going.<br>****He follows her.  
><strong>**She turns and faces him.**

**"I trust you. I trust you. I do, okay?"  
><strong>**"Then what's the problem?"  
><strong>**"I-I don't trust _me."_  
><strong>**"You don't have to trust yourself."  
><strong>**"I don't?"  
><strong>**"No."  
><strong>**Quizzical look.  
><strong>**_"I _****trust you. _I-_trust-_you._ _You-_trust _me," he says. "I_ trust _you."  
><em>****Oh," she says, as skepticism, then slow wonder float over her face. "Oh."  
><strong>**She ponders this for a moment.  
><strong>**"You'd do that for me? Just … trust me even if I'm not sure I can trust myself?"  
><strong>**"Shhhhhhyeah! Are you kidding? In a heartbe—_yes!" _Nods._ "_ Yes." Pause. "Absolutely."  
><strong>**She thinks. She walks right up to him so they are toe to toe, nose to nose without touching.**

**"Okay," she says, with a nod.  
><strong>**"Okay. Okay?" His face lights up with a smile.  
><strong>**"Yes. Okay." She smiles slowly.**

**The box is speechless.**

****::: **::: :::******

_Sweets recognized that Booth is still blaming himself for everything that transpired over the last couple of years …_

"Stop it, Agent Booth," chastised Sweets consolingly, watching resignation and sadness, then disgust float over Booth's face.

Booth looks up abruptly. _Did I say that stuff out loud? _He wonders. "What?" He blurted, caught off guard.

"Stop beating yourself up, just for a minute. It's unproductive, Agent Booth," said Sweets, compassion in his eyes. He let his comment sink into Booth's brain for a moment before continuing. Leaning forward, he stage whispered, "Stop punishing yourself over the past. You. Can't. Change it. Learn, then move on as best you can."

"Did I really break her? She asked if I wanted her to be broken," said Booth, dejected and forlorn, unable to let go of the past for more than five minutes.

"Are you paying any attention to me at all? Focusing on the past at this point is unproductive," Sweets replied, unable to mask his fatigue. "Look, we are all broken in one way or another, right? You yourself said we do unforgivable things out of anger and pain. You also said we kill each other a little all the time. Kind of a harsh analogy, I admit, but an effective one. Look, being broken is part of the human condition," he said, sighing as he dropped his forehead, massaging his tired brow with his fingertips.

"Yeah?"

"Hhhhyeah," replied Sweets, with a nod and a slow motion blink. "You're a man of faith, right?"

"Try to be," said Booth, shrugging disconsolately.

"Okay. Ever heard the song 'Broken and Beautiful' by Mark Schultz?" No sign of recognition from the sniper across from him. Sweets began to talk-sing …

_"We all fall short. We all have sinned,_  
><em>But when you let God's grace break in … it's beautiful.<em>  
><em>Come as you are. Surrender your heart.<em>  
><em>Because there's nothing more beautiful to God<em>  
><em>than when his sons and daughters come … <em>  
><em><strong>broken and beautiful."<strong>_

_~Mark Schultz_

"Did you have to sing it, Sweets?" Booth asked, dragging his hand over his eyes and feigning irritation, but following it with a slow, appreciative grin.

"That song's got a poignant message in it which pertains directly to your session tonight. Before you see Dr. Brennan tomorrow morning, you should think about some of the significantly supportive comments made between you two today. That's what you should take away from this session … and that's what you should build upon."

"Which things specifically are you talking about?"

"Okay … ah, how about this—" began Sweets, sticking out his index finger to tick off a couple examples.

"Cliffs notes, remember!" Requested Booth before Sweets began his list. Sweets grinned with heavy lids as an insistent thought floated past his frontal lobe and he suppressed a yawn. _How long have we been here today? Man, I could use a serious drink! Barkeep, I'll take a rum and Coke, hold the Coke._

"You said things to Dr. Brennan like, _There is nothing you could have done, said, felt or thought about me, or to me, or against me, that I can't overlook, that we can't get past,_" Sweets repeated, grabbing hold of the tip of his index finger and extending his middle finger. He can't help being impressed by the support these two have for each other, and by their willingness to express it to each other.

"You also said, _What we have today is good and it's strong. _Then you listed a bunch of things which I didn't understand—something about bananas and happy spots and different days of the week -Friday and Tuesday?" Sweets shot Booth an inquisitive glance, hoping for some enlightenment. Booth smiled wanly to himself, ignoring the request insinuated by Sweets' tone. "These things obviously meant a lot to both of you."

_They really are a couple, _thought Sweets._ I am their therapist, first and foremost, _he thought, feeling a deep sense of pride with a little regret wrapped around it. _That's the job, _he reminded himself, _even if I do consider them two of my closest friends._

"Actually, there's a lot that went on here today that I didn't understand," continued Sweets, "but that's immaterial; you two understood it and that's all that matters. You two with your own language between you," he said, extending his ring finger for the third example. "You also said, _You've got me here and I'm not going anywhere. I will catch you if you fall. Nothing can happen that we can't handle. _Then somewhere along the line you threw in some catechism … something about repentance, retribution, and grace. This seemed to hold meaning for Dr. Brennan, which surprised me considering her unwillingness to ascribe to the tenants of any organized religion."

"Hm," grunted Booth, crossing his legs and arms in a relaxed fashion, tapping his fingers against one thigh and leaning his head on the other fist at the end of an elbow resting on the loveseat armrest.

"Dr. Brennan said things like, _We make beautiful colors and rich textures together, _and, _My truth is that your past, my past, our past, they do not change how I feel about you today_, and, _All that matters to me is that you have always loved me, and that you love me still,_ to which you replied, _Like a rock_," said Sweets, no longer able to suppress the yawn. "When Dr. Brennan says something, she means it. You know that as well as I do, so have a little faith, Agent Booth."

A look that could only be described as both proud and sheepish crept up the left side of Booth's face, taking half of his mouth with it. It was a pleased, yet modest self-congratulatory grin. He took his cell phone out of his pocket, pushed some buttons, and looked at the photo of a sleeping Brennan, feeling a warm sweetness in his cheeks and neck. With his thumb, he traced the curve of her hair around her face, then clicked off the phone, returning his attention to Sweets.

"Look at what you have … right … now. Okay? Give Dr. Brennan her space and time to herself, got it?"

Booth nodded, contemplatively.

"Then, then go make things right with her," counseled Sweets. "There is no need to dissect everything everyone did, said, thought, whatever. You were both hurt. You were both unkind to each other at times. Yes, you were," said Sweets firmly, holding up his palm when Booth started to object. "There were times Dr. Brennan was less than generous with you vocally. You didn't see it because you felt you deserved it … or you weren't paying attention—"

Booth snorted at that. "Sounds like I wasn't paying much attention to anything where she was concerned," he chagrined, smirking.

Sweets shook his head. "So, when you're both ready, go make it up to her. Let her make it up to you. Don't look back."

Booth looked at Sweets uncertainly.

"However, go slowly," the psychologist advised. "Emotionally, as well as—" Sweets paused, searching for an appropriate word to express his thought without getting himself shot. "As well as where affection is concerned." _Nailed it_, he thinks, _giving himself a mental fist bump._ "People working through even minor post-traumatic stress can get overwhelmed easily. They need space. They need to be in charge of their own person. She just needs … wants ... just give her your support, Booth."

"Speaking of which, what the hell was that load of crap about how I could have found happiness with Hannah?" Booth asked, furrowing his brow, staring with big eyes at his colleague. "I know you were trying to rile her, but, geez, man! Bones is like a bird with a broken wing right now. You don't rush at her with a net, you hold out your hand and let her hop to you!" Booth throws his hands up in the air, letting them fall back on his lap with a muffled smack.

Sweets pursed his lips and remained mute. He'd done what he had needed to do and it had worked. Eventually, the quizzical expression fell from Booth's face when he accepted there would be no discussion about Sweets' methods.

"So, how do I give her that support without talking to her or touching her?" He shoots Sweets the _'are you crazy'_ glance.

"That's not what I said, Agent Booth. I said give her time and space. Let her decide when to move forward."

"How much time do you think that will take?" Booth said, changing the tone of his voice from urgent to forced nonchalance. He followed his question with a shrug that indicated it really was no big deal. Sweets, of course, saw straight through Booth's efforts and smiled, amused.

"It takes as long as it takes," replied Sweets. "The only way to get through it is to get through it."

Booth panics, his eyebrows shooting all the way up to his hairline. _I've got until Tuesday,_ he thought to himself, knowing how ridiculous his motivation was in comparison to the whole picture. _Crap!_

"When she's ready, you take responsibility."

"So, say everything was my fault? Tell her that?"

"No, that's not healthy for either one of you, besides that's not a winnable battle. She would never agree to let you do that."

"But, I do think it was my fault," objected Booth standing and stretching himself. "It _was_ my fault. Mostly."

"What does it matter if it was your fault? What matters is what you are committed to." Sweets knew that Booth will always be Booth, and he will always have an over-developed sense of responsibility, but if Sweets could get him to go a little easier on himself, just in this one case, it would go a long way toward helping them, Booth and Brennan, move forward with a good chance at being whole enough to build a life together.

"I'm … we're … committed to doing whatever it takes to move forward!" Booth insisted, a slight panic in his tone, wishing this weren't so complicated.

Sweets smiled at Booth's pronoun correction, which he took as a healthy indication that their relationship is a team effort, a cohesive one at that.

Booth stared at Sweets blankly.

_"Emotionally speaking_, when both parties are culpable and a lot has happened, it is better to focus on what you are committed to," Sweets said. "Take responsibility for … for being part of something that ended up resulting in pain … for both of you. Surprisingly, when people are able to break their situation down to what they are both committed to, they usually find that they are on the same side … with the same goal in mind, just different ways of achieving it and communicating about it," he said in a gentle voice. "Choose to let your _stand_ be your steadfast commitment to her despite the ambiguity of what is, _or isn't,_ your responsibility. Then, go tell her; show her."

"Okay. So, then how do I do that?"

"By showing her how much you love her, how long and deeply you've loved her, and that she is not the consolation prize after the blonde got away," he said, wincing at how awful that truth sounds. "Get to work affirming your commitment to your relationship. Tell her that what she is afraid of is false. Show her proof to the contrary."

Booth stared at Sweets, his brain turned to mush after such a long and uncomfortable session.

Sweets came to the rescue. "Her fears are …" he began, ticking them off with his fingers again, "that she is replaceable, that her mark on you was insignificant, and that you will never love her again the way you did before she turned you down." As he finished, Sweets let his arms dangle over the sides of his chair, his fingers pointing to the ground.

"Show her the proof," said Booth, considering this, rolling it around in his mouth. "I can do that. I know how to do that. No problem," said Booth, gaining momentum, his brain already revived and going into overdrive. "Can I go now?" He asked, not caring if he sounded over anxious to get away from Sweets.

"You are free to go, Agent Booth," Sweets said, with a nod. Then he chuckled snarkily to himself.

"What?" Booth asked, grinning hesitantly, hating to admit he wanted in on Sweets' joke.

Sweets chuckled, considering if he should say anything or keep his mouth shut. It would be a shame to get through that whole meeting only to get the business end of Booth's gun as he left the office. In the end, Sweets couldn't resist.

"She called you a 'horse's sphincter', Booth. That pretty much means," he snorted involuntarily, "a horse's ass—"

"—Sweets!" Booth blurted admonishingly, always the tough guy, then softened, shrugged, and chuckled. "Well, if the shoe fits—" he said quietly, in a rare moment of humility, smiling companionably at his much younger colleague. "I have something for you," he said. "Stay right here."

"I got nowhere else to go," said Sweets, throwing his hands up and clasping them, again wondering about Daisy's plans.

Booth ran up to his office and returned within five minutes, a bottle in one hand, a single tumbler in the other.

"You look like you need a bit of this, sport," he said, smacking the glass on the table and pulling off the top of the bottle. He filled the tumbler with four fingers of Glen Livet single malt Scotch Whiskey and replaced the top on the bottle. "You were still in short pants when this stuff was made, Sweets, so don't swallow it all in one gulp."

Sweets chuckled appreciatively and found himself on the receiving end of a rare gift: a full-faced, shiny-toothed, Boothy grin. Sweets thought he might have even seen a sparkle in the older man's eye.

"Oh, and Sweets?

"Yes, Agent Booth?"

"What went on here this afternoon, tonight? It_ stays_ in this room," he said firmly, pointing toward the floor, all joviality gone as if it never existed.

"Doctor-client confidentiality, of course," answered Sweets, donning a serious grimace.

"I mean, anything you—_saw_—here tonight," warned Booth, dipping his chin and raising one threatening eyebrow at Sweets. They both know what he's referring to.

"Oh. Oh, absolutely. I understand. I didn't see anything. _'Believe nothing you hear and only half of what you see, right?'_ Half of nothing is nothing, Booth," he said, wearily, with a slow, tired, grin.

"And, Sweets?"

"Yes, Agent Booth?"

After a pause, "Thanks."

Sweets locked eyes with the older man for a long moment, then puckered and nodded once. Booth returned Sweets' respectful response with an expression of heart-felt gratitude, then turned swiftly and headed toward the elevator.

Sweets sat down on the couch and made a toast to himself with four fingers of Booth's finely aged Glen Livet Scotch Whiskey.

"Thank you for your considerable psychological brilliance which has probably just saved my career and my relationship with Dr. Brennan," Sweets said to an empty room as he raised the tumbler to his lips, took a sip, and coughed. "Woah, that's good stuff," he squeaked, choking a little before taking his second sip.

******::: **::: :::********

**Brennan's imagination conjures Booth again. But something is different about this image of Booth. Something is off … she senses it, but can't put her finger on it until he begins to speak …**

**Now it's a grainy image of Booth hovering over the box.  
>Booth in a suit and white socks.<br>The socks. The socks are wrong, she notices.**

**"I can't love you how I did before we went our separate ways. That was … free … and easy … and simple … and untarnished."  
>"But I want that back," she says.<br>This must be a test, she thinks.  
><em>It's not really Booth,<em> she assures herself silently. _It's not really Booth. It's the fear._  
>"I can't give you that back. I don't have it anymore," he says, smugly.<br>_It's not really Booth. It's not really Booth.  
><em>"You are lying, you son of a bitch!" She screams.**

**She rushes him, and he disappears, but her feet make contact with the box.**  
><strong>The box slides across the concrete floor with a Shhhhhhh shhhh shhh!<strong>  
><strong>She rushes it again, screaming. She kicks it. It rattles.<strong>  
><strong>Without even thinking, she pounces on it, claws at it, grabbing the yellow baby duck-colored furry object and tucking it under her arm.<strong>  
><strong>She stomps on the sides of the box, attempting to flatten it.<strong>  
><strong>It gets stuck on her foot.<strong>  
><strong>"OH NO, YOU DON'T, YOU BASTAAAAAAARD!"<strong>  
><strong>She kicks it off.<strong>  
><strong>It drops from her foot back onto the floor, puffs of soot spraying into the air like toner from an exploding printer cartridge.<strong>  
><strong>She stomps on it. Stomps on it again, all the while emitting a primal growl. "Grrrrrrrrrrr!"<strong>  
><strong>The box, defeated, lies motionless; a tattered, filthy mess. Then, soundlessly, it disappears along with all the soot, grease, smoke, and anything else it emitted while it was in residence inside Brennan's mind.<strong>

**Brennan steps back, spent.  
>She's wearing a trench coat now. Where did that come from?<br>It's not even her trench coat. It's too big. It's black. She knows instinctively whose it is.  
>She realizes the yellow football is cradled in the crook of her left elbow.<br>She holds it out; stares at it.  
><em>I should be wearing latex gloves,<em> she muses.  
>She begins to unwrap it. It doesn't resist, though she knows it could if it wanted to.<br>The furry wrapping falls off, and disappears.  
>There it is, cool to the touch and slightly damp, just as she'd suspected.<br>It is grey in color, like raw ground beef left to defrost a day too long in the fridge.  
>It's not a football at all. It's much smaller. The size of her fist.<br>It smells like raw hamburger – which makes sense, because it is ... _a human heart._  
>Her heart. Her metaphorical human heart.<br>A heart no longer wrapped in a blanket of baby duck yellow R-13 fiberglass insulation batting.  
><em>"You wrapped your heart in fiberglass, locked it away, and tossed the key," Booth had once said<em>.  
>She gently glides her hand over it. It doesn't respond other than to wiggle at her touch.<br>She gives it a more agressive rub. It vibrates a bit, a blush of pink glows, then disappears.  
>For some reason that she doesn't understand, she's not worried about it nearly as much as she thought she would be.<br>She walks off, thinking, with a satisfied smile and an urgency in her step, _Booth will know what to do …_**

**::: ::: :::**

Pulling the Sequoia into what used to be his regular spot in Brennan's apartment parking lot, Booth pauses to say a quick prayer asking the Holy Spirit to guide his words and keep him from worrying and thinking about the past. "Tall order, I know," he says out loud, grimacing. Grabbing his carry-on suitcase from the back seat, he takes the stairs two at a time up to Brennan's front door.

"Bones!" Booth calls out as he unlocks her front door and is plunged into darkness. He can see the LCD display from the clock on the stovetop console in the kitchen and a faint glow from the living room which he assumes is a night light of some sort. "Bones!"

"I'm over here," she calls out from her spot on the floor, relieved that he remembered he had a copy of her key.

Booth peeks into the living room and sees nothing. He turns and heads toward the bedrooms, dropping his carry-on bag on the floor of one of them.

"Marco—," he calls, peaking into the darkness of every room he passes all the way down the hall. Both bedrooms, the library, and her home office are dark and empty.

She smiles, calling out, "Polo—" This was the seek-and-find game Booth knows Russ and Brennan used to play when they were kids. Tonight has been an evening of memories; old ones, new ones, some painful, some welcome, some salve to her tired soul.

Booth makes a 180 degree turn and exits the master bedroom toward the kitchen. He glances in the guest bathroom again along the way. Nightlight, but no Bones.

"Marco—" he calls, rubbing his hands together anxiously.

"Polo—" she responds. "I'm over here, Booth, on the floor!" She calls out, sitting up.

"In the dark?" he says, confused. He takes three strides toward the living room, spying her face hovering toward the floor by the seat of her couch. As he allowed his eyes to adjust, the rest of her became clear.

"It's not completely dark. You just have to let your pupils contract. Right now they aren't able to take in enough light for you to distinguish depth or form. Give you eyes a moment."

"Are you okay?" He asks gently, carefully finding his way over to the wall where he knows there's a light switch. "What happened?"

Watching him braille the wall for the light switch, she calls out, "Booth! Don't turn the lights on!" She says, lying back down.

He stops in his tracks. "Oh … _kay_. What's goin' on?" From where he stands now, he can see that the light in the living room is the ambient glow of Brennan's 1970's tuner. Glancing down to the floor, he realizes that the form lying on the floor perpendicular to the entertainment center is Bones. Her legs are crossed, her arms are crossed and she actually looks quite comfortable, relaxed. On the floor between her feet and the bottom shelf of the entertainment center are two baby blue fluffy balls, her discarded footies, just like the ones she gave him for his flight to Pennsylvania.

_"There_ she is!" It's a pleased call emanating from a pair of smiling alpha male lips.

* * *

><p>Thank you, five million times, to these reviewers who put a smile on my face and a skip in my step when I see the review notification in my email box!<p>

yenyen76 sarahlizlangas Silver Maker tessdancer Dyna63 Cremant mef1013 eire76 JayBee188 DWBBFan Memo3197 erniebeth coterie2 alexindigo AngelBach mariabones kdgteacher7 fofie675 brensfan appiedala elmasuz tessdancer Grandma Bones Rankor01 dovepage justlittleirish TraciM ILuvBonesNDool pasha54 Becksbones caracoleta07 Martreiya jkb1992 sharonm745 cherub123

And, most especially to those who I have not been able to personally thank due to your ff settings ...  
><strong>jenny, smiley, maryfran, Shoulla, dlh, Lady, dd, Michelle, Kimberrn, jsboneslover, fanficauthor1226, SarahSueD, OhSnapItzAmelie, MareBear, Irisrose37, and babyface99f!<br>Keep Lovin' Bones and  
><strong>**Bless you all!**

* * *

><p><strong><em>So - had you guessed what the contents of that black box were? What had you thought it was?<br>How soon do you think you'll be ready for the next chapter?_**

**_~MoxieGirl  
><em>****_~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter_**

_(Twitter followers receive clues throughout the week, btw!) _


	200. Surrender Your Heart

_A/N Greetings and welcome to April 2012! Tonight we get to see Christine Angela Booth born! While we wait ... _  
><em>here's a little treat for you on the momentous occasion of the 200th chapter of <strong>The When and the How: A Bone to Pick!<strong>_

_**Note to reviewers - **It may take me a day or two to reply to reviews because, frankly, I need a nap after posting an update. A long nap. But know that I read every single one as they come in, then again when I sit down to respond. If you don't hear from me - drop me a note ~ because I do try to personally thank everyone. If I ever miss you, it is unintentional - please call me on it!_

_**Welcome to some of our newest readers: **_WinnieKirk, RangeFan (I'm a huge Stephanie Plum fan myself, btw!), girlwonder18, waynet, wandabuck, Tori9226, Fabryne Bastos, wnh7c9, QueenMuffin, queenofthejourney, Tempe4Booth, Valerius, soswimmer13, SMRturtle, LadyBards, LipsRecords, KatiValo, gymnast1454, and Sam Watson.

_**Thank you to my loveliest of readers who blessed me with their thoughts after chapter 199:** DWBBFan ILuvBonesNDool JayBee188 Doctor's Other Companion Oh My Goshness tessdancer jkb1992 jbcrace14 Kimberly01 Grandma bones Dyna63 Someoneslove Martreiya Dad-WEO Kdgteacher7 Aveburygirl Boneslvr38 Daniellejoy07 SarahSueD Mef1013 Jenny almasuz daisesndafidols saralizlangas OhSnapItzAmelie Yoshimi0701 Celheartstv Donna aka Bogie31757 Fluffybird JayBee188 Justlittleirish FaithinBones Shoulla Yenyen76 KatBonescrazy Angelbach Memo3197 Erniebeth Phipjack jameni_

**_Your words motivate me to keep writing ... even when I've run out of diet Coke and chocolate - and that's saying A LOT!_**

_Enjoy!_

_~ MoxieGirl  
><em>_~ MoxieGirl44 on Twitter _

* * *

><p><strong>Surrender Your Heart<strong>

While Sweets, Brennan, and Booth were in the midst of their emotional therapy session at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW, in the very building named after the first and perhaps most famous director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, another three people were having a heated debate in a lovely little countryside domicile in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods just outside D.C. Okay, it wasn't a _little_ domicile, it was a rather sprawling estate. And it wasn't exactly the country, it was a nice residential area on the outskirts of DeadGirlInAShowerStall, Virginia.

Dr. Jack Hodgins and Mrs. Angela Pearly-Gates Montenegro Hodgins had taken pity on an agitated young intern by the name of Mr. Wendell Bray and invited him to have dinner with them. Surprisingly, he happened to be in their neighborhood around mealtime. At least, that's the story Angela was told. In actuality, Jack had been anxious to get out of the house to have a little testosterone-laced conversation after an entire afternoon of looking at paint and wallpaper samples for the soon-to-be occupied Hodgins family nursery when he received Wendell's call.

Jack had also spent the afternoon running up the stairs with all manner of plates, bowls, mugs, jars and bags containing any edible substance ever craved by a woman in the final months of gestational expansion. Later, each dish, utensil, candy wrapper, Styrofoam container, plastic bag and coffee mug had to be disposed of or loaded into the dishwasher lest there be nothing clean to serve tomorrow's meals upon.

Lately, Jack had begun to wonder if, instead of birthing his child, his lovely wife might undergo mitosis and simply split into two full grown identical Angelas instead of one large woman and one very tiny biped from the hominid species. As the predicted birth date grew nearer Jack tried to quash these musings as best he could. The only activity he had found that never failed to distract him from his domestic concerns was the pursuit of truth in the form of a juicy forensic quandary requiring experimentation involving explosions of epic proportions, frozen pig carcasses, murder weapons and torture devices, and the boiling of heinous chemical combinations and materials which inevitably emitted aromas of such personality and repugnance that they regularly drew complaints from neighboring departments at the Jeffersonian. Mr. Wendell Bray's afternoon phone call was an answer to poor Jack's withering domestic brain.

In direct disobedience of Brennan's directive, Wendell had found himself unable to resist the temptation to break into the lab – well, it wasn't really 'breaking in' as he did have a key, but he always found himself humming the theme song for Mission Impossible whenever he skulked through the empty weekend hallways of his second home, the Jeffersonian Institution. Late Sunday afternoon, Wendell had fallen pray to the alluring temptation of an opportunity to impress his idol, Dr. Temperance Brennan, who had made it known that she was in the market for a new number one. Wendell had been ruminating on ideas for possible experiments he and Hodgins might conduct to determine how the odd fracture pattern on the C2 vertebra of the first victim might have been created. He knew it involved two sharp opposite twists of the neck, but that is all he could figure out on his own. Experimentation was really Hodgins' area of expertise.

"Whoa, ho ho, have I got some great ideas for figuring that out, my friend," crooned Jack excitedly when Wendell called him from the lab. "Why don't you find yourself in my neighborhood in about an hour and we'll have a little chat; see if we can get Angie to release me for a couple hours …"

After a lovely dinner including three courses and two desserts, the three began tossing out experimental ideas. Angela was now in the habit of listening to the gruesome imaginings of her husband and his rotating band of forensic anthropologist neophytes who were always more than willing to participate in the recreating of the crimes inflicted by the bloodlust upon the blameless.

Before long, voices were raised, more in excitement than in any other emotion, and Angela finally figured out what her male companions were up to.

"Fine. Go play in the sandbox, boys. But, Wendell, I want him back here no later than 10PM. We all have to be at an early morning meeting by oh-dark-thirty tomorrow," she said with a yawn. Nine fifteen in the morning hardly qualified as 'oh-dark-thirty', but when you're pregnant and exhausted, anytime before you're good and ready to haul your body out of bed is way too early.

* * *

><p><strong><em>:::<em>**

_"There's_ my absolute truth," Booth says in a soothing tone when he finds Brennan's reposing form lying in the middle of her living room floor lit only by the glow from the stereo tuner. She can't see his face as the light is to his back, but she can hear the delighted playful timber of his voice, and feel his presence in her bones as a wave of peace washes over her. He's here. She can breathe now. Somehow she feels lighter.

Booth crouches down by Brennan's feet. "Is this why you called?" He asks, concerned that maybe she's hurt. He reaches out tentatively to touch her foot. "Wow. The top of your foot is really soft," he says in genuine surprise, distractedly caressing the silky skin from her ankle down to her toes and back. "They're as soft as Parker's!" Remembering what Sweets said about giving her physical space, he reluctantly draws his fingers toward her toes a final time and lets them slip off after a gentle squeeze.

"He-hey! That tickles," she chortles lightly, moving her foot away to rub it furiously against the underside of her opposite leg. The warmth of his solid fingers skating over her cool skin managed to titillate her, much the same as hot breath and a low kiss behind her ear might. Yowsa. Now that he's down at her level, she can see Booth's eyes as they follow the curvy line of her body up to her face. He smiles at her adoringly, his cheeks rising as he presses his lips together. The two stare at each other companionably across the glow and the gray for a moment, much like they have many times before; she from the back window of a taxi, he from the sidewalk in front of a bar. In the past there was always the sense that something important came very close to happening, then didn't. However, tonight is very different. Tonight they aren't being pulled away from each other; they are being pulled _toward _each other.

Booth stands briefly and sits down on the edge of the couch by her feet. He leans lengthwise on the seat, resting on his elbows, to look down at her perfect face. Lying on the floor in the glow of the tuner light, she looks young and vulnerable, sweet, innocent. He feels a pang of guilt for everything they had to go through this afternoon at Sweets' office. Well, more accurately, also for everything that led up to their meeting with Sweets, minus this past week.

Tonight they see each other differently, having shared their truths from the past two years; the good, the bad, and the very ugly. Now they find themselves ready to begin a new kind of relationship. What came before seems immaterial; now they will be navigating this new relationship, one as partners, friends _and _lovers. This weekend, even just tonight, they've broken down so many barriers; they've expressed their mutual feelings and desires over and over to each other, both very much in private as well as in front of their therapist. They've stood up for each other, risked being forthright about their own fear and pain in order to allow that pain to surface, be acknowledged and begin to heal. Through it all, neither of them waivered in their steadfast support of the other. Booth is beginning to fully understand that when Brennan says she's there for the duration, she sincerely means exactly that. She will not leave him like his father, or Rebecca, or Hannah, or even she herself did, once upon a time. She is here. With him. For good. And, really, always has been.

Lying on the couch across from this beautiful, courageous woman he loves, he itches to reach over, slide his hands over her hips and up her arms, to pull her up here with him onto the couch, pull her so close that not a single part of them is not touching. He imagines desperate apologies and ardent thanksgivings amid kisses and urgent explorations as their hands glide over the exposed skin of each other's bodies, trying to get as close as possible, pushing all the past pain out of their lives. As his heartbeat quickens, he feels the back of his neck getting warm and his pulse jumping at his temple, but he recalls Sweets' insistence that she is going to need space, physical space, so he forces himself to breathe deeply and maintain control.

Looking up at him from the floor, she gazes into the warm eyes that melt her, and at the prominent zygomatic bones and the strong mandibular formations which she has spent the last seven years admiring as she slowly fell in love with him, and she feels happy. In those dark chocolate eyes, she sees a passion – a shielded burn that used to intimidate her, a gentle fire she shied away from for too long, but now welcomes. She knows he wants her in his arms, and she desperately wants to be there. She aches to feel the weight of him pressing against her. She imagines sinking her face into his shoulder and inhaling that intoxicating promise of Boothy affection. She aches to touch the skin under his tee shirt, to run her hands up his bare chest and around to the back of his shoulders. The thought of his gentle fingertips on her face, in her hair, across her belly, his mouth on her lips and neck, makes her dizzy. _Thank goodness I'm already lying down,_ she thinks, with a chuckle.

She imagines they are inside a centrifuge, a swirling red tornado. It wraps itself around them, trying with all its might to pull each of them to the center. She feels her blood rushing to the front of her body, pushing her toward him. Never in her life did she imagine she could feel such an intense attraction toward another person. If it were anyone other than Booth, she would run in the opposite direction. She'd still like to run, perhaps, but she's chosen to stay because she trusts him to keep her safe.

A small annoying voice abruptly bursts into her consciousness. _What if we careen toward each other but can't touch because Hannah is between us? _This unwelcome thought is as disturbing as the sound of a needle skidding across a vinyl record, but she recognizes it for what it is. Sweets had warned her that this could happen – residual thoughts from the past, arriving at inopportune times to mess with her brain. _Stop the automatic thoughts! They do not pass the reality test, _she thinks, utilizing the metacognitive strategy she read about in Sweets' book. _Evaluate your thoughts. Reject those that do not pass the reality test, which are irrational. Look, she is not here. It is irrational to think she would be between us,_ she tells herself, dipping her chin and sucking in a deep, extended breath.

"I called you," she says in a throaty voice trying to concentrate on speaking, her lips moving into the squiggly line of a coy smile, "because I didn't want to wait until tomorrow to see you." _And because I find myself missing you when we are apart, _she thinks. She smiles up at him, sounding almost giddy.

"You okay?" He asks.

"I told you I would be fine, Booth," she says, assuring him with a gentle smile.

"I know—" he says, guiltily.

"—though—I wasn't being completely truthful—" she admits.

Booth nods knowingly.

"I wasn't at all certain how I would be." She shrugs.

She reaches across the floor toward him with an open hand. He reaches down and takes her hand, letting her wrap her fingers around his. He gives her a slow smile and a half blink, watching listening for her queue as to how to proceed here in the uncharted post-apocalyptic territory.

"Come down here and be with me," she says quietly, her voice as smooth as the molten chocolate she sees staring back at her.

_This clearly qualifies as an invitation_, he thinks. _But take it slow anyway. God, I love this woman. Look at her. She's beautiful and strong, gutsy and sensuous, smart and generous. What was I thinking this past year? Bubble of idiocy, I tell you. I am so freakin' lucky. Dumb luck. Blessed dumb luck … this has good to be … grace_, he continues to think as an image of the Holy Spirit glides by his consciousness in a flash.

The Holy Spirit nods with a smirk. _That's my boy, _Booth imagines the HS saying, _figuring it out without having to be told. You're not as dumb as you think you are, Seeley Booth._

_I don't really think I'm dumb, Big Guy, _Booth insists to HS, meeting his luminous gaze.

_I know you don't. It was a joke. Lighten up! _The Holy Spirit in Booth's mind is cracking jokes. Booth shakes his mental head and snorts.

_She called you a horse's ass, Seeley! _The Holy Spirit guffaws as he fades away. _I love it! _

The Booth in his mind rolls his eyes. _Everyone's a comedian, _he thinks.

_Seeley Booth, I heard that-_

_What? Geez, I thought You were gone,_ thinks Booth, wincing.

_I'm never gone. You are so lucky I love you so much … you're kinda testy, ungrateful._

Booth hangs his head, caught._ I know. Please forgive me. Bubble of idiocy, remember?_

HS says nothing back, just raises a disapproving eyebrow.

_What were you going to say, Lord?_

_I want you to remember something. _

_What? _Booth blurts curtly.

HS shoots him a stern look including a wavy eyebrow raise and a head dip.

_I'm sorry! I'm—I'm tuned-up! I've just spent hours with the boy wonder—and then she left—and then—"_

_I know, I was there, _says HS, sagely_, I was there, my son with whom I am well pleased-_

Booth sighs and smiles. _So, what do I have to remember? _

_This woman, _says the Holy Spirit_, she is a gift. A gift I am willing to share with you. A gift you don't deserve. And, yes, that's called grace, my son._

Booth drops his shoulders, grimaces sheepishly, as his eyebrows make a tee pee across his forehead. He shoves his imaginary hands into his pockets and kicks the dirt. HS rushes at him and gives him a hug that feels like a strong breeze.

_Seeley, you need to pray for patience and a little reverence._

_Tell me something I don't already know._

_Just did._

_What?_

_Tell you something you don't know. You think you know it, _says HS, shaking his head confidently_. You don't._

_Oh, _says Booth, apologetically.

_You may proceed_, says the Holy Spirit as He fades into the background of Booth's consciousness with these words:_ She called you a horse's ass. Ha! _

Sliding off the couch onto his hands and knees, Booth crawls toward Brennan, who holds her arms out toward him. When he's within reach, Brennan grabs handfuls of his tee shirt and pulls him the rest of the way to her, then releases his shirt, slips her arms around his neck and wraps him a squeeze that topples him across her.

"Whoa!" He yelps, but it turns into more of a sigh and a moan. "OhhhhhAhhhh" he chuckles, clearly happy to be able to wrap his arms around her without the restraints of time or an audience. Regaining his balance, he lifts her just enough so he can slide his left arm around her waist, the other arm under her neck and squeeze her to him when he rolls back toward the couch he pulls her with him.

"Mmmmmmnn," she whimpers, giggling. When they break apart after a long steady embrace, he can finally clearly see her eyes and she can see his. He itches to cover her mouth with his, taste their mutual relief at being alone and on the other side of all those revelations. He also wants to do it right, whatever that is. So, he waits.

"I think that's the best greeting I've had since—well, since forever," he says through an almost painful perma-grin as she crawls completely on top of him and burrows in against his chest slipping her hands up the back of his ribcage and under his shoulders. As he begins to melt into the floor, and she melts into him, he thinks, _Thank you, God_, as he raises an arm in a fist bump toward the Holy Spirit._ I am here, and everything is going to be—okay. _He exhales; noticing that lying on the floor like this stretches out his lower back and feels surprisingly good—until it doesn't. When he inhales, he's filled with the scent of his mate. If there was any once of stress left in any dark corner of his being, that wonderful Bones-y aroma flushes it out.

"Mmmmmmm," groans Brennan again, closing her eyes and rubbing her face against his chest as he chuckles at her, "wake me when it's time to go to work," she mumbles sleepily, dragging her cheek up his chest toward his chin then sinking her face into his neck. She giggles. "This is my happy place," she mumbles to herself.

"Well, this isn't exactly what I expected to find when I got here," says Booth, chuckling and sighing, dragging the tips of his fingers up and down her back, then squishing her into his chest.

"I told you I would be fine and I am, for the most part," Brennan says, momentarily lifting herself up on an arm on either side of his head so she can look into his eyes, her hair falling around his face.

"I'm glad," he replies, grinning. _I'm in heaven,_ he thinks. He leans his head to the side, and hooks one side of her behind her ear so he can get a good look at her face, look in her eyes. He's searching intently for a trace of anything to belie her declaration that she's fine. _There is an aura of peace surrounding her now,_ he thinks.

"You seem … I don't know … _peaceful,"_ he finally says quietly.

"If peace is what exists in the calm following a battle, then yes, I am peaceful," she says, with a slow sheepish grin.

He watches her for a moment, overwhelmed by the urge to flip her over and lose himself in her softness. Accessing his sniper-trained reserve, he gently rolls them both toward the couch and sits up, grabbing her by the hand. "We're heading to the couch where it's more comfortable," he says. She allows him to pull her up, but slips her arms around his neck the moment she's upright, making no move to release him or move toward the couch. He bends slightly at the knees and wraps his arms all the way around her and sighs. As she tightens her arms around his neck. Booth hears her muffled sniffle.

"I thought you said you were fine?" He says, curious, but he's only slightly concerned. He attempts to loose her arms from around his neck, but she's not letting go.

"Just hold me for a minute, Booth," she mumbles into his tee shirt, standing up on her tiptoes and leaning almost a whole half of her face into his neck. Just—hold me." He can tell by the sound of her voice that she is not in distress; she's relieved and thankful.

Booth nods. "Okay," he says in a _'Heh, you won't hear me complain'_ tone. Sliding his hands across her back and squeezing her to him, firm chest to soft chest, he sighs and dips his nose into her shoulder right next to her neck. Releasing her with one arm, he drags the tips of his fingers in circles across her upper back, then massages the tissues covering the back of her ribcage and over her waist before giving her a playful slap on the butt. Both arms around her once more, he holds her tightly to him, gently swaying side to side. He hears another sniffle and feels a puff of warm humid breath against his neck. It sounds like a combination sob-chuckle.

"You okay?" Asks Booth. He leans his head back, attempting to see her face, but all he sees is the top of her forehead and her hair. Her face is still buried in his neck and tee shirt.

"That—was—awful," she says, chuckling weakly. "That meeting with Sweets." She rocks her cheekbone back and forth on his clavicle. "That was—I can't even describe it," she says, leaning back and looking at him finally. She's wearing the scrunched expression of someone who just heard a really awful joke. She gives him a cock-eyed smile while shaking her head.

"Yeah," he chuckles lightly. "It—sucked the big one." He returns her cock-eyed smile and kisses her on the nose.

"Hoooooh. It _sucked _like—like Parker sucking through a straw to get that last teaspoon of milk off the bottom of the milk shake glass."

"Ohhhh, yes!" Says Booth, laughing, impressed with the analogy, furrowing his brow in sincere agreement and chuckling for real this time. "It really—really sucked. Loudly!"

"Painfully."

"Disgustingly."

"Like – _'Make it stop or that's the last time I buy you a milkshake, buddy!'" _Brennan says in a deep voice, attempting to imitate Booth chastising his son.

"Exactly," says Booth, chuckling. He bends slightly at the knees and squeezes her so tightly her feet come off the ground for a moment. "Man, that feels good," he says, setting her back down.

"The stretching?"

"The laughing," he says, grinning down at her, searching her eyes for the same sentiment he's feeling. "Us laughing." He plants a quick kiss on her lips. Because, in his mind, it would just be stupid not to.

She smiles peacefully back. "Yes, I concur," she finally says, leaning her head to the side and rolling her eyes. She chuckles, tossing her head back and finally loosening her grip on him.

"And, I am fine, Booth," she assures him convincingly, looking at him through heavily lidded eyes.

"You're really okay?"

"Why would you think I'm not fine?"

"Well, for a minute there I thought you weren't going to let me go," he says. "Not that I'm complaining—" he adds lifting his shoulders up in a shrug that reaches all the way up to his ears.

"I assure you, my desire to touch you without ceasing is an expression of my intense satisfaction at having completed that session with Dr. Sweets," she begins, stepping back and grabbing the back cushions of the couch, tossing them onto the floor behind it, "and my equally intense excitement at the prospect of being alone with you so we can do whatever we want," she finishes, smiling up into his eyes, taking his hand and pulling him onto the couch with her. Grabbing a couple of the smaller pillows, she lays down against the now-bare back of the couch, her head resting on the small pillows, and pats the seat next to her. "So, get over here and let's get on with our lives," she says in a commanding tone, followed by a beguiling smile.

"Well, all right!" He says, laughing and plopping right down beside her. He lays back, raises his arm and wraps it around her, pulling her close, rib cage to rib cage. She rests her head on his shoulder, her palm on his chest, and slips one foot and half her leg between his calves. It's very cozy. They both wiggle around a bit trying to get completely comfortable, but no one's complaining and no one's kissed anyone yet-except the peck on the lips, but that doesn't really count. They are just happy to be done with all that emotional crap. The worst of it, at least.

Having finally agreed upon the satisfactory placement of limbs, pillows, and heads, they lie quietly, locked in a delicious, relaxed embrace; enjoying the proximal sweetness of having weathered the storm together and emerged, not unscathed, but no longer weighed down by the emotional residue of the last several tumultuous years. It would be inaccurate to say that all is forgotten, for it most certainly isn't. Inaccurate, as well, would be the assumption that there would never be future repercussions from the hurt they both experienced as a result of their careless disregard for their relationship. However, no future hurt will ever harm them as profoundly or shake their foundation as severely as this had the potential of doing.

Taking in a long breath, Booth closes his eyes and exhales slowly as the smooth sunset vocals of 'Bread' play softly in the background –

_"Baby, I'm a want you. Baby I'm a need you.  
><em>_You're the only one I care enough to hurt about …  
><em>_Maybe I'm a crazy but I just can't live without your lovin' and affection …  
><em>_Givin' me direction like a guiding light to help me through my darkest hour.  
><em>_Lately I'm a praying, that you'll always be a stayin' … beside me. "_

They lay in silence for the duration of the song, the poignancy of the lyrics not lost on either one of them. By the last line, their amused smiles from before have turned to contemplative ones. Now that they are here, relaxed, their commitment validated, now they can talk about whatever they need or what to talk about.

"Did we win?" It's Booth who speaks first.

"Hm?" She grunts, lifting her head off his shoulder, resting her chin on the hand she's got splayed across his sternum..

"You said earlier, _If peace is what exists in the calm following a battle, then I'm peaceful,_" he reminds her. "So, the battle? Did we win?"

She looks deep into his eyes and sighs several times as a slow warm, good kind of permeating heaviness seeps into her chest. "Booth," she whispers, shaking her head, all humor having dropped from her face, "How could I ever not win with you by my side?" In her eyes he sees a seriousness and depth that is so forthright and intimate, he almost wants to hide from it. He feels a shot of adrenaline shoot through his chest. It feels a bit like fear or panic. _How does she still do that to me? Wow,_ he thinks, feeling a heat wave climbing up his neck and around his throat. He's not sure what to do.

"Are you okay?" She asks. "You look jaundiced suddenly."

"Um … I'm fine," he says, unconvincingly. "I just—I don't know that anyone has ever trusted me so completely, Bones," he says, shyly, looking away for a moment. _Isn't this what I've wanted?_ He asks himself. _It is. It is what I've wanted. I just don't think I thought I'd ever get it …_ Suddenly, he's not having fun anymore. He's not feeling funny or relaxed. He feels like he might cry. She's melted that seed of self-doubt he's been carrying around inside his heart for all these years. She sees right through him and melts him. This is serious. He feels a momentary cold flash of panic across his back. It's fear, and a desperate yearning to get completely naked and melt into her for real. He's felt lustful before, aroused, but this is different. It's a little freaky, actually.

After a long, silent, tension-filled moment during which Brennan isn't sure how she should respond to his comment, she decides to change the subject.

"Earlier today," she begins, rubbing his arm, hoping to relax him, "I found myself feeling unbearably tense, at Sweets' office," she says in a deep Bones-y voice, as if picking up right in the middle of a conversation. "I couldn't catch my breath. I felt my throat tightening and my pulse racing. It was quite disorienting. I knew I needed … some time to myself," she explains, shrugging apologetically. "I felt that being able to process unobserved," she says finally, smiling wanly over at him. "I needed pure uninterrupted focus," she says.

"So?" he says slowly, more curious than anxious.

"So," she replies.

"So, how'd it go?" He asks, searching her eyes.

"Booth—" she beings, then pauses, looking back up into his eyes.

"Bones," he replies, dipping his chin and copying her tone exactly.

"I'm so glad you're here," she says, breaking into a shy smile. This is clearly not what she had intended to say, but it feels good to say it. And it feels good to hear it.

"Wild horses couldn't keep me away," he says, smiling dreamily into her eyes, then clenching his jaw, fighting the urge to lean forward just three inches and nibble on her perfect lips. It's almost unbearable, but he's managing. _Thank God for that sniper training,_ he thinks, _the hours sitting motionless, noiseless, lying in wait before shooting or pouncing. Whoops, don't think about pouncing, _he warns himself._ Fuzzy bunnies, fuzzy bunnies. Breathe. In and out. Wow, she smells good._

"Can I tell you something?" She interrupts his thoughts, with pinched brow and hesitation in her tone. There are some things she wants to get out before she becomes any more intoxicated with dopamine.

"Always," he says, scooting his head a couple of inches to the left so he can focus better on her features, glad for the distraction from his thoughts.

"I'd prefer we not—_deconstruct t_hat session—just yet."

"—Oh, thank you, Jesus!" Booth blurts, chuckling and rubbing his palm back and forth over his face. "My limit is one colonoscopy a day—"

"One?—Oh—that's funny," she says, giggling, grateful for the release of tension laughing brings. _God, I love this man_, she thinks. _Thank you, universe, for giving me a man with excellent comedic timing._

"I mean, I would if you wanted to—" he insists, furrowing his brow and dropping his palm on her hip, pulling her forward and back playfully.

"I would prefer to process for a while, Booth," she says, introspectively.

He nods, pursing his lips. She smiles into his eyes, weary even though his presence has rejuvenated her more than just a little bit.

"Are—you sure you're okay? I mean really?"

"Booth, stop asking me that! My answer hasn't changed in the last ten minutes!" She says, grabbing his tee shirt and rubbing it against his skin. She sighs and leans back against the pillow-less back of the couch, resting her right hand on her own hip. "It is a lot to think about though—"

"I know –I wasn't even sure if you'd wanna touch me—" he says smirking uncertainly.

"What? Why?" She asks, thrown off guard.

"Sweets said you would need some space. I just wanted to give that to you—"

"I needed mental space, not _physical_ space, Booth," she chuffs at the absurdity of Sweets' suggestion.

"I will _always_ want to touch you," she says as if this should be as obvious and constant as gravity. "To be precise, being with you like this—being able to touch your skin, feel your arms around me, breathe in your wonderful mixture of Boothy hormones," she says, "has replaced investigating the cause of death from a collection of bones as my number one favorite activity." She shoot him a goofy grin, then adds, "What about these pumpkins, huh?" She follows this up with a cocked head and an exaggerated wink.

"Really," he says, pleased and not just a little surprised she'd so blatantly admit such a thing. "And, I think you meant to say, 'How about them apples', Bones," he corrects with a hearty laugh and a returned exaggerated wink.

"Oh, thank you, Booth," she says, chuckling as she nods, her eyebrows tenting. "And, you should not be surprised to learn that I have an extraordinarily healthy libido. One would expect no less in consideration of my exemplary physical characteristics, my rigorous cardiovascular exercise regimen, my meticulously healthy diet, and my extraordinary intellect. You are a rather pleasing specimen yourself," she says with an affirming chuckle, "not to mention your symmetrical features and the addictive quality of your kisses. Aside from your diet, whose logic and nutritional value remain illusive to me, you're the perfect alpha male," she says, "—for me, at least. I expect that you have an equally robust libido."

"I find you equally pleasing," he says, chuckling before leaning forward and giving in to the urge to nuzzle her neck, planting a wet raspberry there. "And I'm tired of thinking," says Booth, yawning. "My head hurts—"

"I'm tired, period," she says, snorting and giggling as his lips tickle the sensitive skin of her neck. They rest in silence for a moment, then Brennan pushes herself to broach the topic that has been foremost on her mind since she left Sweets' office—other than the furry yellow woodland creature from the black box from hell, of course. "Booth-?" She looks over at him and into his eyes when he looks back at her. "I find that I remain uncertain as to how you thought you were in love with Hannah, and how you can definitively assert that what you feel for me—is the real thing?" She bites her bottom lip, hoping this doesn't frustrate him too much.

A sympathetic high-pitched cry slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. "Bones," he says, shaking his head slowly, his voice sweet and full of affection, "I am _not_ in love with Hannah." His heart breaks for her that she would even feel she needed to reassure him of that.

"But—you _thought _you were—" She swallows dryly, trying to sound as unemotional as she can, her lips puckered as if she just bit into a lemon. Her pinched expression says, _I just have to know … _

Booth sighs, Sweets' voice ringing in his ears: _Show her how much you love her, how long and deeply you've loved her, and that she is not the consolation prize after the blonde got away._

"I can't deny I thought I was—" he begins. "What I realized Monday morning, all week in Philly with you, this whole weekend, and especially today, is that there is a chasm—an actual Grand Canyon—of difference between that," he says, jerking a thumb away from them, "and this," he says, pointing at the two of them. "She may have spent some time here—but she only scratched the surface," he finishes, assuredly shaking his head once for emphasis.

"She scratched you?"

"Figuratively, Bones. You are the _only one_ who's gotten into my soul—Bones."

"I don't believe in a soul which indwells the sentient being, only to become discorporate upon physical death only to fly toward the sky, grow wings, and play a harp for all of eternity sitting next to a creator who plays with the world the same way we play with Monopoly pieces."

"Okay, new analogy. You are the only one who has infected me with a disease that infiltrates all 206 of my bones, plus all the muscles and all other goopy gunk inside me, including my metaphorical heart. I'm infected, and there is no cure. I am done. Whipped. Finished. Down for the count," he says, then whispers, "in love with you, Temperance Brennan and there is no way out."

"Aw," she mewls, making a sweet sympathetic face complete with furrowed brow, smiling puppy-dog eyes, and a downward turned lips that aren't actually frowning.

"I don't want out," continues Booth. "Everything that was Hannah washed off in the shower—left no permanent mark. It's all you in here that's left," he says, clutching his chest, "when you're ready to have me."

"—But you were convinced before—I don't mean to belabor the point—"

"Yes, you do. That's what you do, Bones. And it's fine—"

"—I just want to know—what makes you think this—with me—us-?" She interrupts him, thinking; _Please understand how important this is to me__. _Then she begins to doubt herself._ This sounds so weak! What has happened to me? Stop that, Temperance! _She challenges her argumentative subconscious self._ This is what you need to know if you are going to live outside the box … with an open heart. It is not weak. It is healthy to want to be sure that this is __a permanent and real love for him, not just another romance, or the last in a string of whimsical infatuations. If you need to have it spelled-out between the two of you, asking is the appropriate way to get that need met. You have a legitimate right to ask for his truth!_

"Woah, okay. That is a fair question—" he says, realizing that this is what Sweets has predicted. She's asking for assurance that she's not just 'number next' after the breakup with Hannah. She wants to know that this is significant; that her mark on him is palpable and indelible.

"Fair or not, Booth. It is my question," she says confidently with a nod and a turn of her head.

"And that's what makes it legitimate as far as I'm concerned," he says, sensing that she's embarrassed for asking. "So, here we go," he says, pausing introspectively. He shakes his head, raising his eyebrows as if searching for the answer a question whose explanation is so enormous it could easily become overwhelming. Which actually, it is.

After a moment, he clears his throat, confident that he's stumbled upon the perfect analogy. "Bones, what's the difference between the sciences of anthropology and psychology?"

"What?" She's caught off guard by this absurd question.

"You heard me," he says prodding her. "Anthropology and psychology. Now, _go_!" He nods to her once, as if pushing her onto a stage.

"Everything, Booth! One is real, the other is a poser among the sciences. One is based upon irrefutable facts, the other on a collection of subjective observations, which are both supported and rejected equally within the community that holds them. Practitioners of one cannot perform double blind tests whose results are sequentially repeatable due to the inconsistency of any population sample. Practitioners of the other. Meaning anthropology, a real science, produces reproducible testing methods and consistently repeatable results. I'm beginning to see your point."

He smiles at her. "Imagined versus real. Irrefutable versus irrepressibly questionable. Steady and constant versus unreliable."

She lifts her head, props it up on an elbow so she can look straight at his face.

"I have a couple more. One is timeless, the other a passing fancy. One is the real deal, the other, a mere shadow. "

"Look, at Sweet's office today, you said I see right through you, right?"

She nods, expectantly.

"Don't you remember I said almost the exact same thing yesterday on the plane back from Philly? You know me. You know the _real_ me, Bones. I can't hide from you. And for a guy like me, that's kinda scary," he says, pausing to shrug with his eyebrows, and chew on his bottom lip for a moment before continuing. "But, it's also exciting—and addictive. It's—" He shrugs. "It also feels—" he chuckles, "really_ good_ to know that … that I am known, you know? That somebody really sees me, knows me, and I'm not really all on my own. Any more," he says, sheepishly. "I've thought about this for a really long time, a really long time, Bones, he says, brushing some loose hairs out of her eyes, then running his knuckle along her jaw line to her chin.

"Remember yesterday," he continues after an intense moment of looking from one of her beautiful cool eyes to the other and back, "when I told you about ….. the pit. I don't feel that with you. I don't feel like I have to pretend or hide anything. I feel, you know … free – like I can breathe.

"You didn't feel like you could breathe with her?"

"No," he says, shrugging. "I didn't know it … but this is so different. My God—"

"As different as psychology and anthropology?"

"Way different."

"Hm," she grunts, squinting. "That's lovely prose, Shakespeare, but where's your proof?"

"Proof?" He asks, chuckling. "Man, you are incorrigible!"

"Hey," she says, regarding him dubiously, "I need to see your proof. Your scientific proof. I recommend you employ social science to construct your thesis rather than natural science, which would require use of scientific method. You will be theorizing about the behaviors of sentient beings."

He looks at her like she's just grown horns. His eyes bug out, his brow furrows, his lips form a downward horizontal semi-circle.

"It's a more critical and analytical approach to gathering qualitative and quantitative data," she explains.

"How do I provide proof—?"

"You gather information through testing," she says, impatiently, as if this should be obvious.

"You want me to point to examples of how I can tell that this is the real deal, and that Hannah—was not?"

"That's what I just said," she says, feigning exasperation, following it with a grin. "A feeling about an enormous crevice in the earth's surface just isn't definitive enough for me. This is our lives we're talking about Booth. Make an effort," she says, following the last comment with a wince, hoping it didn't come across as harshly as it sounded once it was out of her mouth.

He looks at her, raising one sly eyebrow and producing a pucker which morphs into a devious grin.

"Then that's what you're gonna get," he says with a hint of arrogance, dragging his fingernails slowly back and forth over the exposed skin on her forearm. "Get yourself comfortable, lady. The list is long and very interesting," he says, his voice rising in pitch as he nods and shoots her a confident grin.

"Don't oversell yourself, Romeo. I'm a very sophisticated buyer," she says, challenging him with her own cocked eyebrow and a smirk of equal temerity. She scoots further down so she can focus on his face, lays her palm flat on his chest, and rests her chin on her palm. "Now, _go!"_ Blurts Brennan. It's her turn to push _him_ onto the stage.

Booth gives her a sly glance, clears his throat.

"Ready?"

"With night crawler breath," she says, smiling then attempting to don a serious, scrutinizing expression, but failing miserably. There's still been no kissing between them, but neither of them seems to mind.

"Ewwwww! What? Do you mean …_ bated_ breath?"

"Oh, I thought it was about something you put on the end of a fisher hook-?" She says, twisting her lips to the side. "Hm."

He cocks his head to the side and grimaces indulgently, then continues. "Okay—don't be surprised if you're hearing some of these things for the first time, because, you know, I was a very stealthy Bones lover for a very long time," he warns.

Brennan rolls her eyes, and bites her lips between her teeth to stifle a grin.

"Okay. This relationship we got going here," he says, dipping his chin and gesturing between the two of them once more. "This is most definitely the real kind of love, the kind people write poetry about and make movies about and live happily ever after with. I realize now that I have to add that it's the kind never ever _truly_ experienced before by participant number one, meaning yours truly. I intend to prove—"

"In science we never prove anything, Booth. What we do is predict, test, and see if our theory holds. But we continue—"

"May I continue, skeptical young student in the first row to the right?" He asks, giving her a playful stink eye.

She bites her lips once again, then twists her mouth to the left and nods.

Booth adjusts his shoulders a little, gives her a little squeeze, then peers above her head as if reading a list. When Sweets had said, _'Show her how much you love her, how long and deeply you have loved her',_ Booth had immediately begun constructing what he decided he'd call, 'The Story of Us', which he would then tell her every night until she asked him to stop. So, right now, he's more than a little prepared – and feeling pretty good about it.

"These are the quantitative and qualitative examples of things I have done in this relationship and as a result of my—feelings about you—that I never—" he says, shaking his head and poking her arm with his index finger, "I never even _considered _doing for anyone before you," he says, smiling, then lifting his head to bend a bit and kiss her on the nose.

She smiles warmly, and waits.

"I spent almost a year, after out very first case, thinking about you and looking for cases to call you in on. When you refused to talk to me, or accept a case, I finally had to have you detained by airport security so you'd speak to me. That's how badly I wanted to see you again. I've never done that for anyone else."

Brennan shrugs with her eyebrows, her smile broadening at the memory and how far back he has chosen to go. "This is going to take all night if you start at the very beginning, Booth. I'm really most concerned with—the most, uh, recent relationship you thought, at one time, was worthy of a marriage proposal."

"Okay … fair enough," he says, nodding. "I never took a bullet for her. Never gave her silly little gifts that wouldn't make sense to anyone else, but us … just because I was thinking about her—"

"Like what?" Brennan asks, tiny vertical sharp lines jumping between onto the skin above the bridge of her nose.

"Let's see," he says, staring off into the distance, accessing his mental rolodex of things he's done for the love of his life. "Jasper the Pig, Brainy Smurf, and how about a Christmas tree outside a conjugal trailer at the prison, to name just a few? How about a personalized cell phone ring tone with my own voice on it singing our song, huh?" He says, sweetly as she rests her chin back on her hand. "She and I never even _had_ a song," he adds, circumspectly.

"Hm. You're right. And probably hundreds of cups of coffee," she adds, not even hearing his comment about he and Hannah not having their own song. "And if you think about it, there are several more than that if you count—"

"I know," he says, dipping his chin and cutting her off, "but we have an early morning meeting, remember?"

"And there have been many things I have given you. I've even dedicated several best-selling novels to you, made an entire scrapbook of our partnership for you—" she adds, wonder in her tone. Of all the data she'd collected when trying to empirically assess the continues existence of his love for her, it never occurred to her to catalog the many little social contracts they'd entered into along the way through their exchange of small meaningful items and thoughtful gestures. "Hm," she grunts, delighted.

He smiles, watching the glow in her eyes, the delight in her voice, and muses that she had been in love with him for a very long time without even being aware of it. He knew long before she did, which was part of the reason it took him so long to make that first request, ill-timed though it ended up being.

"Do you have any idea how crazy you make me, Temperance Brennan," he says, glowing peacefully into her beautiful cool blue eyes as he presses his palms into her back, squeezing her to his chest.

Brennan feels her capillaries freaking out and shrugs sheepishly, twisting her lips to the side, returning his affectionate glance. She sighs contentedly. "Continue," she says, in a childlike voice. _What else did you bring me for Christmas, Santa? _She seems to be saying.

"She was never the number one name on my speed dial—"

"Even when you were together?" She asks, surprised.

"Nope," he says, grinning proudly. "You have always been my number one on speed dial."

"See, even you thought she was temporary," she says smugly, poking him gently.

Booth smirks and continues. "I never kissed her under mistletoe, then relived that kiss more times than I can count. For that matter, I did the same thing with that time we kissed during our first case, the one outside the pool hall, remember?" he asks, smiling into her eyes. "Wow. Now _that _was a kiss," he chuffs, shaking his head, then whistling.

"Ohhhh, yeah. I—I did some reliving of both of those myself," she chuckles.

"Never held her when she cried. Never taught her how NOT to plumb her kitchen sink. Never cried in front of her – I got a little teary on Monday, but that doesn't count."

"You cried in front of her on Monday?" Brennan sits up a little.

"Well … yeah. She told me about all those things you did for me—" he says before Brennan interrupts him with a quick kiss on the lips. "Never created fake reasons to visit her at her place of business."

"Booth!" Brennan yelps, her eyes flying wide open. "You did not do that!"

"You have no idea—" he says, shaking his head slowly and snorting. "Never pulled her out of a rocky grave. Never drove to Timbuktu to find her estranged brother so she could reconnect with him. Never encouraged her to give her own father a chance, even though he was a criminal, albeit, an honorable criminal. Never went to her house in the middle of the night to make sure she wasn't alone after finding out her mother had died. Never introduced her to Pops or Jared. Never invited her for a sleepover with Parker. Never told her the complete truth about my childhood," he says, smirking guiltily. "Never wanted her to be by my side while my head was cut open to make sure the surgeons did everything right. Never dreamed I was married to her and woke up hoping it was true. Oh! Never spent hour after hour in therapy with her! Never enjoyed myself even when having unnerving arguments with her, huh?" He grins, tapping her on the nose.

Brennan lays her head directly on his chest, wrapping her arm around him, tucking it underneath his ribcage.. She is lulled by the vibrations of his voice as he continues with his list of proof of his love.

"I never solved a crime with her," he says pensively, his voice softening. "I never considered giver her, you know, my stuff, so she could have a baby. I never changed her into her pajamas when she was asleep, just so she'd get a really good nights sleep." Booth pauses, thinking about their evening with the Larrinagas. That seems like it was months ago. So much has changed, even since then. This reminds him of some items he hadn't included in his list as he was driving over here tonight. "I never carried her panties around in my pocket. Never sat in a bar all night with her—kissing, talking, dancing, wishing it would never end," he says, his voice trailing off in a whisper. "I never sang 'Night And Day' in her ear while I held her in my arms," he says, those pesky black tingles of heady excitement warming his neck and chest as he remembers how—_sexy_—among other things, that whole night with Brennan was. He blows out a gust of air, jostling the tendrils around her face.

"You two went out—" Brennan insists, "I _know_ you did!"

"We went out," he says, tentatively, introspectively, after a moment. "But, it felt kind of like a series of dates, you know? Ever had one of those relationships?"

"Sounds like all of my relationships," she snorts.

"Even though we were living together … we never seemed to be part of each other's lives. _Part of each other at all,_ actually. She was never _in my head,_ Bones, like, _constantly_," he says, caressing her cheek with his thumb, then lifting her chin so he can look in her eyes. "She was never the first thing that popped into my mind in the morning, or all throughout the day, every day. She wasn't the first one I thought of whenever I had something to share with someone. She wasn't the last person I thought of at night," he says quietly, grimacing and swallowing dryly, suddenly feeling once again the seriousness of the mistake he came very close to making by marrying her.

"She may have been here, Bones,' he says, laying an open palm on his chest and continuing, "– and we may have shared some—physical intimacy. But—you've said yourself," his voice deepening and becoming softer, almost at a mumble, "the largest sex organ is the brain, Bones. She was never in my brain. Even when I was with her, it was you—" he says without censoring himself. He immediately flushes, embarrassed.

"WHAT?" She blurts alarmed, lifting herself up.

"Whoa—I'm sorry—God," he says, closing his eyes slowly, feeling a wave of shame and covering his eyes with his hand. "I didn't mean to say that out loud. Oh, God," he whines in distress. This is the antithesis of cool in Booth's mind. It disrespects the sanctity of—of someone else—of something, he's sure. It is just wrong. "Please, please forget I said that. That was—so disrespectful," he says, pulling his fingers down his face to cover his mouth. He looks down at her beseechingly. "Do not ever bring that up," he says, shaking his head and grimacing, roughly running his hand back through his hair.

Bones watches all of this, acutely aware of his discomfort, and not intending to make it worse, but there's something she has to know.

"Do you ever think of anyone else," she says in as gentle a voice as she can muster, holding her breath and hoping she'll be able to tell if he answers her honestly, "When we're—when you're with—" she looks down at his chest, unable to say, 'with me' out loud.

"Never," he says, lifting her chin and boring into her eyes. He shakes his head, emphatically. "Never," he says again, emphatically. If she didn't know him better, she might think he was angry, but she knows he's not: he's just deadly serious. "When you have your fantasy in your arms," he says, looking at her lips, then back in her eyes, then whispers, "why would you ever think of anyone or anything else?"

Brennan can't breathe all of a sudden. She feels like she might explode if she doesn't kiss him. She inches her way closer to his face, never once losing eye contact. Her heart is beating fiercely and she's flooded with so much dopamine, she's in serious danger of crying or passing out. Booth watches, appearing to be experiencing the same sensations she is. _I need to kiss him_, Brennan thinks, swallowing, a panicked expression on her face, but it isn't panic, it's raw, unbridled desperation to get closer to this man she never thought she'd be allowed to like this._ Even if Hannah is there, I need to,_ she thinks, _and just maybe … she won't be. _She looks at him longingly.

"Kiss me, Booth," she whispers up against his lips, softly. He looks from one of her China blues to the other and back. He has to be sure that _she's_ sure. It's clear that she couldn't be more. He can taste her breath as his eyes slowly close and he moves a millimeter closer to press his lips and tongue against hers. She moans into him and goes completely dizzy with a heavy sensation in her chest that not even she can describe.

They kiss slowly, languorously. They take their time, not wanting to rush, not wanting to miss a single moment of its tenderness, its sweetness.

"Booth," she gasps, not even stopping to open her eyes, her breaths coming out is short puffs of warm air against his lips. "Booth, did you ever think we'd get here?" She asks, dragging her parted lips against his, intoxicated by the sensation of his stubble against her skin. He lays completely still, barely able to move or breathe himself. It's Defcon One and he can't find his voice. Even if he could find it, it wouldn't matter because he's forgotten how to use it. He moves his head side to side dragging his jaw against hers as he pulls her more tightly against his chest, then covers her lips and half of her chin with his mouth. "Oh God," she gasps, realizing she's gone completely limp, unable to move except to respond to him, and she can barely do that, she's so inebriated. Booth, on the other hand is energized. Wrapping one arm tightly all the way around her and reaching out for the back of the couch with the other hand, he lands her on her back and leans back to look at her. "Wow," she rasps, trying to catch her breath, her voice catching in her throat as she swallows, trying to control her breathing.

_Sweets said to take it slow,_ he remembers with his last two rational brain cells. She feels his hesitation and reaches out to grab the neckline of his tee shirt, pulling him to within a centimeter of her lips, and stops.

He kisses her once more, his eyes wide open watching her as she gives in to what she promised herself she'd do if they ever made it out of that confining office of Sweets'. His kisses remind her of how good it is be surrounded by him and she can't help letting a soothing, delicious sound escape from her chest. "Oh, God," she sighs, losing herself in the heady sensation of head-to-toe contact with the man who takes her breath away. Her brain goes numb and all she's aware of is the warm skin of his back still under her fingers. How her hands got under his tee shirt, she has no memory of, but damn, he feels so good. She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back and pulls him closer to her where they meet in the center, all four hip bones rubbing against each other.

She opens her eyes and watches him while he's kissing her. This part of him is hers. Definitely. He feels fantastic, and the lips, tongue, stubble around his mouth; they scratch an itch she'd temporarily forgotten she had. She sighs, feeling that sensation in her chest that she's about to cry, it feels so right. He opens his eyes to find her looking right at him.

"What are you thinking?" He says, dazed, his breath labored.

"That I love you," she whispers hoarsely, breathlessly. Raising her fingers to his face, she traces his lips with her middle and ring fingers as she licks her own lips. He puckers and kisses her fingers, then bites one gently while watching the transformation of her features as she focuses on his mouth and her fingers. A smile flashes across her lips before she takes his face in both of her hands and initiates another kiss that puts their bodies on full alert once again. She leans into him, pushing him onto his back again and crawling on top of him.

Booth's arms fly around her once again, then fumble around, his thumbs searching for her hipbones.

"God, I love kissing you," she says, gasping for air. She suddenly realizes her skin is on fire and the rushing in her ears isn't the ocean, it's both of them gasping for air between kisses and tastes and wet tickles. "Oh. My. God. This is fun," she breathes into his ear shakily, then pulls away to look in his eyes, her pupils the size of black olives, her face and chest mottled in red.

Booth meets her gaze with a dazed one of his own.

"I don't know anyone that kisses like you do, Bones," he whispers hoarsely, amid licks and tickles up and down her neck.

She half chuckles and smiles like a fool, leaning far enough in the opposite direction that she starts falling off the couch onto the floor, reaching up and pulling him down with her. _I'm about to lose it, _she thinks, not really caring. _I'm losing it. We're going to have accidental pie all over the place, _she thinks, not realizing that she actually said some of that out loud.

"What?" He blurts, chokes, then swallows. "What did you say?" He sounds drugged. He's almost slurring. "You taste so good!" He moan-exhales, licking a trail over the curves of soft, supple cleavage rhythmically rising and falling just above the neckline of her tank top.

"What?" Brennan asks, sliding her hand up his chest and around his neck, pulling him closer again. "I didn't say anything," she says absently, focusing on his bottom lip before nipping at it.

"You just said something about pie. Accidental pie!"

"No, I didn't," she insists, still not really invested in the conversation because her attention has been hijacked by the hieroglyphics he's slowly painting across her chest.

"Uh, yes, you did," he says, stopping to look at her.

"Oh," she says, bending down to tattoo his forehead with open-mouthed kisses. When he returns to his cleavage painting project with renewed vigor, she buries her nose in his hair and fills her lungs and sinus cavity with that delicious Boothy scent, sending up a prayer to Mother Nature for the brilliant invention of the _corpus amygdaloideum_, those temporal lobe bundles of nuclei responsible for the chain reaction resulting in the release of dopamine, norepinephrine and epinephrine—all those fabulous chemicals responsible for all kinds of physiological reactions to the scent, texture, sound, vision, and taste of one's lover. "Well," she says on a throaty exhale, "Sorry. Didn't mean to say that out loud."

He looks up at her again, pauses, then covers her face with kisses, sliding his arm under her neck and around her shoulders. Finding her hip, he squeezes so hard that she yelps in surprise as she wraps her legs around him and pulls him as close as she can, the weight of him making her high all over again. He squeezes her hip again, sending a flush of heat straight to her bikini area.

"Booth! Whew! I-I didn't know it could be like this—"

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't—get me—Agh, _woah, _that was good, do that again!" She interrupts herself when he reaches his chin as far down the bodice of her tank top as he can without strangling himself. Then her mind goes blank as he drags a squiggly path back and forth along the pleasingly plump inner curves of her breasts on either side of her sternum, then straight up her throat and onto her lips.

"Don't get," he kisses her again, "you what?" He breathes onto her neck, licks it like an ice cream cone, then blows gently against the damp proof of his enjoyment of her skin.

"Aaaaaaaaaaa!" she cries. "Making out, Booth!" she finally gasps with a throaty laugh. "I've had my share of—" she drags her tongue around the curve of his ear before planting a salty kiss half over his ear lobe, half on his neck, then up his jaw and back to his lips. "I've had sexual intercourse, my share of it, at least" she says, as he slides his fingers into her hair up the back of her neck, pulling her mouth back onto his where he makes a valiant attempt to inventory her teeth – just to make sure she has all of them, of course. "But, making out just always seemed—" she says when he comes up for air. "Booth, you are quite good at this. _Too good!"_ she cries. She sinks her hands in his hair and holds him off for just a moment so she can finish her thought. "Anyway, as I was saying, making out just seemed… anti-climactic," she says, chuckling.

"Well, maybe," he answers coquettishly, "maybe you weren't doing it right!"

Brennan screams and giggles, throwing her arms around him. "I never knew it could be this—fun!" She exclaims. "This—_hot!"_

"You ain't seen nothin', baby," growls Booth, flipping her onto her back. His warm stubble scrapes against her skin as his kisses travel down her neck again, over the soft parts of her chest that are straining over the top of her tank top. Before traveling further, he bites her—right there—on that fabric-covered spot that was begging to be bitten or raked over or squished by something masculine and warm. You know the spot. Actually there are two, right across from each other. And unlike earlier this afternoon, she doesn't jump up and object. Instead, she arches into him and prays he doesn't stop except to maybe repeat this treatment about eleven inches to the left where she's straining and aching to be touched, bitten, kissed, etc. Whew!

As if reading her mind, he breathes moist heat between her breasts as he travels left and covers another mouthful of aching fabric-covered anthropologist sweetness. He can't help thinking that it would be so easy to yank this tank top right off and have full access to wallow in his happy place.

Brennan finds her hands underneath the sleeves of Booth's tee shirt as he's taking his time pushing all of her buttons on a southward joyride into oblivion. She's squeezing his biceps and dragging her nails across his trapezii. Rising as she arches toward him, she presses her fingertips further down his back and wants more than anything to rip this tee shirt off of him and taste his skin where she's never been able to. That skin on skin would be heavenly. She can't stop thinking about it! _Can I please just—Agh—Oh, just—get this—off! But I know what will happen then and what about what we've said and woahhhhh my—GOD-! _He bites her again on the chest and she sees sparks across her field of vision and is convinced there's got to be smoke flying out of the top of her yoga pants. _Smoke! Smoke! The black box! I have to tell him about the black box. Or, is this how we get that heart to start pumping? My circulatory system is running a marathon through my system_, she thinks in alarm.

_Go away,_ she says to that reminder of the unforgiveable black cube, mentally pushing at the air as if to shove something. _Haven't you caused enough trouble for one night?_

Booth is still at work, but now he's flipped up the hem of her tank top and he's making a path of hot wet kisses across her rib cage just below her breasts, then continuing toward her mid section where he presses his mouth into the flesh of her belly. Now she's aching to be touched. And it's starting to be a painful ache. A hot, seriously painful aching that could only be sated with pastry. The kind of pastry that usually involves cooked fruit and a crust, metaphorically speaking, that is.

While she's trying to ignore her own thoughts, Booth is battling his own conscience. _Accidental pie? This could easily become accidental pie. Do I—want that? Have we done all of this—just to end up—like every other relationship—jumping before we're ready? So close, so so so close, but not ready. She's already mentioned accidental pie, so she's thinkin' what I'm thinkin', but she hasn't said anything about the fiberglass-wrapped heart! I GOTTA STOP! Ohhhhhhh! I don't WANT to STOP! She feels so good, tastes so good; she's warm and soft and she loves me and trusts me_, he thinks, slowing down. Whoops. There it went. _Trust. She trusts me._ More than anything, Booth would like to continue what he's doing, what _they_ are doing, but he knows it would catapult him to the end of his restraint. He's already tied a knot at the end of his rope and is hanging on for dear life, but that drive to perpetuate the race is gaining on both of them. Any moment, it's going to run right over them.

"Oh. Oh, my God," Bones gushes as he presses his lips to her belly button, then peaks up at her. She is surfing on a wave of dopamine that's threatening to explode all over the place if one of them doesn't call a halt to this frenzy of passion, but so far, no one has volunteered to referee. Sparkly heat tingles down her spine and results in a couple other bodily reactions that have been programmed to ensure the perpetuation of the race. That's when she gets uncomfortable as thoughts of blond hair pop into her mind, putting a serious damper on her enthusiasm.

"Booth," she whimpers, placing reaching toward the top of his head with a shaky hand. She doesn't push him away. She knows she won't have to. "I—I set up the spare bedroom for you," she says, apologetically, biting her bottom lip, hoping he's not crushed by this announcement.

He crawls back up and hovers over her, resting his damp forehead on hers and chuckles. They both begin to laugh a laughter of relief, anticipation, and submission to a commitment that they both know they really want to keep. She reaches up and touches him gently along his jaw, following it to his chin. Mandible, she thinks, closing her eyes and dragging the back of her fingertips along the very warm stubbly skin of his jaw back toward his ear.

"AGGGHHHHHHH!" He groan yelps and laughs, his hands diving under her so he can squeeze her to him one last time, as he energetically kisses her all over her face. Before releasing her, he rests his nose on hers and they look in each other's eyes for a long moment. Brennan closes her eyes and lifts her lips to him for one last long smiling and happy kiss. "Thank you," he whispers, smiling. Then his brow furrows and the mood changes as he looks away for a moment. "Bones," he says, swallowing, then shaking his head.

"Mmm?" She grunts, reaching up to run her fingers through his damp hair when he rests his forehead on her nose. She breathes in the scent of all things good and safe and feels dizzy once again. "What, my love?" She asks, smiling into his eyes when he looks up.

"Thank you for trusting me," he mouths, making barely a sound. "With your happiness. And your heart.

She rewards him with a lop-sided smile and a nod. Then another nod. "I find that it may not be a fully surrendered heart just yet, Booth," she says, but she's not worried about sharing this information with him, though she's not sure why she isn't.

"I know," he grunts with a big toothy smile. "Tomorrow," he says, standing up and turning toward the guest bedroom. "Tomorrow you can tell me about the fiberglass-wrapped heart." He winks at her and disappears.

She smiles, then realizes she never told him what was inside that box underneath the furry yellow material. "Booth? Booth!" She shouts. "How did you know-?" But he was already in the shower. The very. Cold. Shower.

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><p><em>Hope that wasn't too hot for you. *Wink, wink!*<em>

_Is the story over? **Hell, no!** Is there more case on the way? **Hell, yes!**  
>Is there more romance on the way? Come on, you know me better than that!<br>*Left brunette eyebrow arched and raised in your direction*  
>When will the next chapter be posted? I have learned that when I<br>provide a date, sadly I NEVER, not once, have able to meet it._

If you are in need of more MoxieGirl Bones Love,  
>Go reread some of your favoriste TWATH:AB2P chapters,<br>or check out The Meaning in the Episode series

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><p><em>Here's what's being said about<br>**The Meaning in the Episode:**_

**_I absolutely love these. They complete the story so well. You are amazingly talented and creative while still staying true to the characters. You have the perfect blend of humor and romance in each story and your idea of the character's thoughts and feelings are very accurate to what I imagine myself. Can't wait to read your other story!_**

_~Boneslover29 _

__**"These were wonderful little snippets of B&B time - them dealing with being in love and day to day things.**  
><strong>Great writing! Thank you so very much and as you say, if you keep writing I will keep reading and loving it!"<br>**  
>~ TraciM<em>_

_Up Next ..._

_MADMAN IS ON THE LOOSE, WENDELL AND HODGINS MAKE A DISCOVERY, AND ANGELA NOTICES SOMETHING DISTURBING._

~ MoxieGirl  
>~ MoxieGirl44 on Twitter<p> 


	201. Booth's Nightmare

Author's note: **Oh. My. God.** You came back! You came back to read the next **The When and the How: A Bone to Pick** chapter! What a relief! I thought for sure I'd be here all alone after over a month of not posting a chapter to this, my most beloved story! I can't tell you how happy I am to see you *smash tackle hug*.

While gone, I wrote five chapters for **The Meaning in the Episode**, as you probably already know because I haven't been AT ALL quiet about it. Well, I am back here for another good long while and I couldn't be happier.

My original plan for this chapter was to get us to the Jeffersonian and on our way to the airport - but it just didn't work out that way. I even have a fabulous title for the next chapter and a great little fluffy scene - several maybe - but they will have to wait until chapter 202: _A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes._

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><p>67/2012  
>To <strong>SharonM745<strong>: Got your review tonight. Unfortunately, I can't respond directly to you when the review isn't attached to your FF account, if you have one ... but your question is an important one. Please see my answer at the end of this chapter. And, thank you so much for continuing to read ... and to review - it means a lot to me! ~MoxieGirl

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><p><strong>Some fun facts for you, now that we've reached two centuries in chapters despite the fact that we've only made it through seven days in story time:<strong>

**Fox Broadcasting Company "The Boneyard"  
><strong>* **The When and the How: A Bone to Pick** went public in the FOX Broadcasting Company Bones Community 'Boneyard" on June 2nd, 2011 at 1:28PM  
>* The very first review was logged in at 1:40PM that same day by someone you may all know as "Tess" or "Dyna63" who has faithfully reviewed almost every single chapter since then.<br>* While published in the FOX Boneyard, The When and the How: A Bone to Pick garnered a total of 171,905 hits until the site was removed for renovations around October 13th, 2011. That does not include any of my own comments or chapter posts.  
>* TWATH:AB2P, while at the Boneyard, received as many as 2,300 hits a day.<p>

**Fan Fiction (dot) Net**  
>* TWATH:AB2P began posting on FF on July 13, 2011, receiving 3,000 hits from 448 individual IP addresses within its first 24 hours online.<br>* Today, TWATH:AB2P receives about 7,000 hits from about 1,300 individual IP addresses within the first 24 hours of a new chapter debuting. However, they may significantly decrease after such a long hiatus! *crisses fingers that it doesn't*  
>* Chapter 198, <em><strong>'Broken and Beautiful'<strong>_, about Brennan's confession to Booth of her painful experience during the year of Hannah is the highest reviewed chapter of the entire tome at 67 reviews to date.  
>* Chapter 197, <em><strong>'Trust Me'<strong>_, wherein Booth explains the decisions of his tortured year to Brennan received 61 reviews. Chapter 200, _**'Surrender Your Heart'**_, sits in third place at 60 reviews. The last ten chapters have received an average of 48 reviews per chapter.  
>* To date, TWATH:AB2P has received 522,631 hits and 1,678 reviews here on FF.<br>* Combined reviews between FF and The Boneyard and are estimated to be around 6,000, based on the webarchives on my harddrive.

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><p>So - here it is. Enjoy! And thank you for sticking around to see if there was more to The When and the How: A Bone to Pick.<br>~MoxieGirl ~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter

****Booth's Nightmare****

"Wait! Waaaaait—It's not too late!" He screamed.

At 4:22 in the morning, Booth awakens in the middle of a scream. He sits bolt upright, his hand darting toward the bedside table for his Glock-17. He deftly assumes a seated aiming position as he points, arms outstretched, and squeezes the trigger safety, so he's poised and ready to shoot if necessary. He's disoriented at first, having forgotten where he is. As he aims about the room, he notes that his pulse is elevated, his breaths propelling out of him in short shallow bursts. His eyes feel like they are caked with sand and he's sweating. Grinding his palm into his left eye with one hand, his gun extended in the other, he surveys his monochromatic surroundings as his brain tries to put the pieces together. The window is in the wrong place. The sheets feel funny, scratchy, stiff. The dimensions of the room are off – the sound of his breath as it reverberates inside this space is different than in his own bedroom.

Booth takes a deep breath, and inhales a fresh crisp scent, recognizing it immediately. "Bones. I'm at Bones' house," he says to the empty room. Fairly confident that he isn't in any danger, he releases the trigger safety and drops his firearm to his lap where it lies loosely in his right hand as he rubs his face with his left. Returning the Glock to the bedside table, he lowers his right shoulder, and massages his trapezius with his left hand. Closing his eyes, he licks his lips and exhales shakily and forcefully, surprised at the state he finds himself in.

"Geez, why am I so tense?" He mumbles, rolling his shoulders back and then forward several times before pinching, then squeezing and massaging each trapezius. Stumbling toward the guest bathroom in the early morning haze, Booth can't shake the anxious feeling clinging to his chest.

Then he remembers.

He had been dreaming. No, not just dreaming; he had been in the middle of a frighteningly nasty nightmare.

A cold roiling wave, followed by a hint of indigestion overtakes him as he recalls the details.

Brennan had gone to Afghanistan in search of him, but couldn't find him. Devastated by her failure, she sat in her hotel room and stared at the walls for four days barely eating or sleeping. On the fifth day, she had begun to cry silently. This went on for three days.

The only thing in the room that moved was the sunlight traveling across the floor like the minute hand of a clock, then dimming as it was swallowed by the night.

In the dream, Booth was in that dingy room as well, but she wouldn't look at him, didn't seem to know he was there. When he tried to touch her he could sense her warmth, but couldn't connect with her body. She never flinched, never blinked. He desperately tried to rouse her, shake her, but she remained unresponsive.

When he looked into her eyes he saw nothing; her pupils were tiny and empty as if she were hollow, a cheap plastic Halloween mask with pinholes for eyes. When he talked to her and eventually screamed in frustration, Brennan couldn't hear him. He wondered if perhaps the screams he released were only inside his own head. But he could feel the vibrations in his chest; he felt the bulbous noises erupting from the back of his throat. Why couldn't he make contact?

This dream was similar to a recurring dream he used to have involving the Corporal after whom, he'd named his son, Parker. In that dream, no one responded to his screams for help either. He was able to see his old comrade lying wounded on the ground, but he was unable to touch him, pick him up, and carry him to safety—no matter how hard he tried.

I must be dead, disembodied,he decided. My body is somewhere else, but my soul is here without it! He thought, exasperated. _How did I die?_ He'd wondered. "Why can't I remember anything and, if I'm a disembodied soul, where's my body?" He yelled and paced the dingy hotel room wild with desperation like a panther in a cage.

In a fit of rage and frustration, he ran from the room in search of his body. It had to be somewhere. In a morgue, a hospital, the back of a barroom lying among broken glass or in a puddle of stale tombeik water from a broken Hookah water jar. If he could just get to his body, he knew he could climb back into it and force it to wake up. He had to; he had to get back to Brennan, make her see him.

Like a scene change in a movie, he found himself wandering down an alley-like crevasse between buildings. He recognized the heavy stillness in the air, the shuffle of his boots in the dirt. He was in the sooty hardscrabble slums of an Afghan shantytown filled with the stench of over a thousand deaths. He knew this area; he was in Dehkhodaidad outside Kabul City once again.

Booth reached the other side of the clay-walled crevasse and found himself standing on a sidewalk in front of a bustling open-air café. Everything about the café was ethereal and uncomfortably wrong. The sun was shinning too brilliantly. Everything glowed, the entire scene a dichotomous juxtaposition to the stark, dingy beige and dirt-smudged off-whites of its surroundings. Patrons wore colorful crisp clothing. The umbrellas providing shade looked brand new, their white and yellow panels so bright that their colors appeared to extend past the fabric by several inches before feathering into the sky.

The scent of strong coffee, saffron, kabuli and lentils hung in the air. As bright as the scene was, the sounds were the opposite, inexplicably muted, as if Booth was wearing firing range earplugs. The only sounds he could hear clearly were the _'huh-heh, huh-heh, huh-heh'_ of his own breaths, the shuffle of his own feet, and the low hum of the refrigerated glass display cases at the back of the café.

Across the café, a woman sat alone. She glowed brighter than all the other patrons. Her face was hidden by a curtain of blond bangs until she looked up to greet her newly arrived companion with a warm hug. This woman Booth recognized. It was Hannah Burley.

Hannah's companion wore a dark grey suit, a stark crisp white shirt that glowed and bled opaque onto the lapels of his suit coat. He wore a maroon tie with dark, button-sized paisleys on it—and a red cocky belt buckle.

"The hell is this? And what the hell is he doing?" Booth screamed to himself, seeing red before his eyes.

The skin and bones version of himself greeted Hannah, kissed her on the cheek, and held her chair out for her.

"What the—hell?" Booth choked as he watched the couple take their seats and begin to peruse their laminated menus. "Is this some kind of a joke? Is this some twisted version of 'A Christmas Carol'? Am I looking at the ghost of Christmas past?" He gasped. A chilling shock sliced into his chest, piercing him through the heart. "What the fu—!" He yelled frantically. The Seeley across the café turned and looked around, seemingly in response to disembodied Booth's exclamation. Seeing a sharply-dressed version of himself calmly having lunch in the sunshine with Hannah while Brennan wasted away enraged him.

Booth watched as the other Seeley reached inside his jacket for his gun and held it under the table. Booth instinctively felt for his own gun under his left arm, his ankle, and the small of his back. He didn't have one.

"Hey, you!" Disembodied Booth shouted over the café patrons' heads. "You, over there! Seeley!" No one acknowledged his presence because, of course, in this nightmare, he didn't have a presence. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he screamed, "Seeley Booth!"

Hannah's companion tried to look inconspicuous as he scanned the crowd, his eyes finally landing on disembodied Booth who was now staring him straight in the face. After a moment of shock, Seeley quickly looked away, shrugged awkwardly, and forced himself to focus on his conversation with Hannah.

"Hey!" screamed Booth, agitated and irritated. "I'm talking to you! **I KNOW YOU CAN SEE ME!"**

Booth rushed into the crowd carefully at first, respectfully weaving between tables and chair legs, server stands, bustling waitresses. The other Seeley sat, forcing himself to laugh at something Hannah had whispered into his ear. He then flicked a glance up at disembodied Booth and clenched his jaw several times as the blood drained from his face. He hoped that if he ignored the now pissed-off disembodied Booth, that Booth would cease to exist. But pissed-off Booth didn't disappear. He continued advancing through the crowd, a crowd that appeared to have grown twice as dense and twice as deep as it was a moment ago. Each time Booth shouted to his better-dressed doppelgänger, an increasingly agitated Seeley glanced toward him from his table then looked nervously away, stuck, like cornered prey staring at death advancing slowly toward him.

"Son of a copulating bitch!" Disembodied Booth mumbled harshly as he dove into the crowd. "To hell with it. I will not be ignored!" He growled, no longer caring who or what he ran into or knocked over. He looked down for a moment to disengage the handles of a purse that had gotten wrapped around his foot. When he looked up, he saw Seeley leaning forward, his hands gripping the arms of his chair as if he were preparing to bolt.

"Oh, no—you—don't!" Disembodied Booth bellowed as he barreled up to Hannah's table and yanked the other Seeley up by his lapels and got in his face. "I know you can see me, pal!" Booth growled, spittle landing on the other man's cheek. "And I know you can feel me—I just yanked your ass right out of that chair!"

"Look, I don't know what your problem is, Pal," snarked the other Seeley, glancing nervously down at Hannah's shocked face. "But, you need to simmer down and get your own freakin' table." Seeley shoved pissed-off disembodied Booth away, rolled his eyes, smoothed his lapels and his tie, and bent at the knees to return to his seat. This had enraged Booth. In a flash, he relieved Seeley of his firearm and slapped a palm onto one of Seeley's shoulders, yanking him vertical so forcefully that his chair and the table in front of Hannah flew in opposite directions.

"You're comin' with me, Pal!" Pissed-off disembodied Booth grumbled and spit through clenched teeth into Seeley's stunned, exsanguinated face. "Bones needs you, dumb ass!"

"I'm not going anywhere!" Resisted the other Seeley awkwardly as he tried to wriggle out of pissed-off Booth's iron grip.

"What—is—your—pansy—ass problem, dick head?" Spit pissed-off disembodied Booth, incredulous. _What the freakin' excrement is wrong with this ass hole?_ Thought pissed-off Booth maniacally. "I've got your freakin' gun, idiot!"

"Let go of me!" The other Seeley grunted. "Or—"

"Or what?" Screamed pissed-off disembodied Booth, his face red, the veins at his throat and temples popping out of his skin. For a split second, disembodied Booth loosened his grip, shoved the gun into a holster that hadn't been there a moment ago, and grabbed hold of the front of the other man's clothing, taking skin along with each fistful. The other Seeley winced in pain and shrieked involuntarily as disembodied Booth maneuvered backward dragging a much weaker version of himself out onto the sidewalk.

Once out of the crowd, Seeley twisted, trying to free himself from pissed-off Booth's talon-like grip.

"I didn't want to have to do this!" Bellowed disembodied Booth, "But now you're just pissing me off!" He wound up and let loose an iron fist that landed against Seeley's jaw with a juicy crunch. When the other Seeley staggered backward, Booth's hand swooped out and grabbed him by the hair at the top of his head and yanked him back. The possibility that he would later regret any damage he inflicted on this body when he reclaimed it didn't matter to disembodied Booth. He had to get back to Brennan with something she could see, hear, feel—even if that meant bruising this body in the process.

Writhing and wiggling, the two Seeley Booths stumbled through the crevasse like an inebriated four-legged spider and were transported back to the dingy hotel room where Brennan remained seated, unmoving, on the edge of her bed. Booth released the Seeley in the gray suit and glanced over at Brennan.

"What the hell is this place?" The other Seeley spat disgustedly, delicately pressing his fingertips into his tender scalp when disembodied Booth released his hair-hold. Seeley winced, his shoulders cinching against the pain.

"Shut up!" Rasped disembodied Booth, before walking over to Brennan's slumped form. She appeared even older than she'd been before, thinner. She was wasting away.

"And what, or who, is that?" Seeley demanded annoyed, tossing a hand toward the bed. "Your grandmother?"

Booth clenched his jaw and puckered his lips into a white ring. He felt his fingers curling into fists, his fingernails biting into the skin of his palms. He had been angry before, but now he was murderous as he glared, seething, at his suited twin. Disembodied Booth jammed his eyelids shut and forced himself to take several deep breaths lest he pummel his doppelgänger once again. He knew he couldn't kill the other Seeley. He needed him alive. He needed to_ get his body back! Focus on the prize …! Pretend we are all alone,_ disembodied Booth heard a voice in his head say.

His blood thundering through his ears drums, Booth forced himself to calmly step back toward bewildered Seeley. He took his twin by the arm and dragged him in front of Brennan. The other Seeley was too perplexed to resist. He stood staring at this vaguely familiar withered form. The woman—or was it a girl, she was so slight—she looked up, unaffected, then away to the side. Disembodied Booth couldn't tell if she could see either of him.

"Talk to her!" Booth spit desperately into the other Seeley's ear. "Tell her it's you. Tell her it's Booth!"

Seeley's face became panicked. He didn't know what this was about, and he didn't want any part of it. He swayed backward a step, only to be yanked forward again be a desperate disembodied Booth.

"Bo—Bones?" Seeley said, his voice cracking. Ugh, he thought, gasping. "What's happened to you?" He bent down to get a closer look, to confirm that it really was his old partner. When Brennan looked up again, soulfully, into his eyes, he winced, startled, almost tripping back over disembodied Booth's foot. "Bones—it's—" He cleared his throat twice, passing his tongue between his teeth and his swelling lip where an irate Booth had punched him earlier. "It's me—Seeley—", he said uncertainly.

"Tell her it's Booth, Moron!" crowed Booth.

"It's—Booth," the other Seeley tried again. Brennan stared blankly up at him.

"It's too late—" she said in a hoarse, hollow monotone. "It's too late, Booth. I—I can't—there's nothing left—." She said, her eyes slowly dropping to the pale hands lying loosely on top of several small pieces of torn paper in her lap.

Booth roughly shoved the other Seeley out of the way and crouched in front of Brennan, who looked past him, focusing her eyes on the other Seeley who remained stunned and speechless. Her eyes were tired and empty, her face drawn and expressionless.

Booth took the scraps of paper from Brennan's lap just before they fell to the ground. He recognized this paper. The pencil drawings were familiar. It was the 'I love you, Booth, with my whole metaphorical heart' footie note! Out of the corner of his eye Booth watched as his incorporated doppelgänger took three steps backward, then slowly disappeared.

"Oh, God—No!" Disembodied Booth screamed, dropping to his knees. He tried to grab her by her arms but he couldn't feel her, make her see him. "Wait! Waaaaait—It's not too late!" He screamed as the last grains of hope fell through the neck of a bottomless hourglass.

It is the cold tile of Brennan's guest bathroom floor rising up to smash into his knees that jars Booth from the memory of his nightmare. When his hands hit the toilet seat, he lurches forward and throws up into the bowl.

"Oh, my god! It was just a dream. Son of a mother-effing bitch! It was a dream," he gasps, spitting bile into the toilet. "A dream—" he slumps back against the wall and becomes aware that he's covered in a patina of sweat. Rising on shaky legs, Booth flushes the toilet, splashes cold water on his face, chest and arms, then roots through his Dopp kit for his tooth brush, paste and travel size mouth wash. Leaning against the sink, he vigorously brushes his teeth and tongue twice. Taking his travel size mouth wash in hand he pours it straight into his mouth from the bottle. After swishing and spitting, swishing and spitting, he gently lowers the toilet seat and lid, and slumps onto the pedestal to sit. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees and drops his face into his hands.

It doesn't take a shrink to figure out the meaning of that nightmare, he chuckles sarcastically, pinching his brow between the thumb and fingers on of one of his hands.

The dream had Booth—present, but not present; anguished, desperate and unable to communicate anything to anyone, not even to himself. Then, Brennan, a constant in the background, searching, waiting, despairing, enduring four days of near-catatonic silence, followed by three days of crying—exactly how Sweets' described Brennan's behavior immediately after Booth proposed to Hannah.

Finally, there was the misguided, deluded, incorporated version of Seeley Booth at a sunny, superficial café with Hannah—refusing to admit he's lost, continually battling against the truth.

The torn-apart footie note represented the destruction of a uniquely and carefully crafted declaration of love from a woman with a crushed heart to the man whose heart she once crushed.

Now that he's alone in the dead of night, Booth has a lot to think about: what this last year was like for her, why he did everything he did, what he truly wants now, and what it's worth to him.

Booth sighs and stands, flips off the bathroom light and heads back into the guest bedroom. He grabs his tee shirt and pulls it over his head. _That dream seemed so real,_ he thinks. _The anger and fear felt so—huh—real. The sweat and the vomit were certainly real._ He needs to see Brennan; he needs to confirm that he didn't dream that session with Sweets, that it really had gone is a good direction considering what they'd been forced to discuss. He strides past the bed, and walks into the hall that leads to Brennan's bedroom.

Brennan is curled up on her right side, her back to the bedroom door. Rounding her bed, he quietly bends down on one knee and looks at her face in the dark. He carefully leans his elbows on the mattress, unafraid of waking her as she's such a deep sleeper.

As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he's able to make out her features in the dim light provided by her alarm clock display.

He finds himself smiling wanly as his eyes wander over her soft clear cream-like skin; her distinctive, square jawline; her tiny, skin-colored mole to the left of the gentle cleft in the middle of her chin; her perfect, expressive lips that disappear when she presses them together in concentration; the gentle slope of her nose; the fullness of her cheeks; the fringe of chestnut eyelashes paired with perfectly matching arched eyebrows; the nearly imperceptible vertical line that divides the two sides of her beautiful broad forehead; her perfectly curved hairline interrupted in the middle by a very small widow's peak. He sighs. _She's so beautiful,_ he thinks, and sighs again.

He inhales deeply, then exhales slowly and silently. His breath disturbs a hank of hair which then falls over her forehead. He reaches over to tuck the loose hairs behind her ear, then trails the side of is finger gently down her jawline. She stirs, rubs her nose, and rolls from her side to her back. He smiles humbly and thankfully and clenches his jaw. _Wow,_ he thinks, exhaling and shaking his head with a smirk._ Wow, she's so beautiful and most definitely real. What a nightmare that was!_ He shrugs and shakes his head, astounded at all that has transpired this week. On the back of that thought returns a broad slice of anxiety over what she's gone through because of him and the fact that he almost lost her completely.

_What if Hannah hadn't met with me on Monday?_ He wonders, then shoves that thought away. _But she did meet with me. She told me things. And Bones, thank God, she was receptive and responsive at the exact same time I crawled out of my hole. Wow. And it has been so good between us, just like the old days, but much better,_ he muses. _Is it good enough to survive the potential backlash from everything we've recently learned about each other though? _He wonders, then nods. But, he can't dislodge the image of her, destitute, sitting on the edge of that bed in his nightmare as he tried, desperately, to tell her it wasn't too late for them. He huffs and intertwines his fingers, resting his chin on them as he leans on her bed, staring at her silhouette.

"I am so sorry, Bones," he whispers in a prayer, shaking his head, and feeling a sting in the inner corners of his eyes as he gazes at his slumbering partner. He doesn't know how he'll ever forgive himself for putting her through this past year. "I am sorry for—abandoning you, losing faith, letting my resentment color my judgment, allowing myself to fall into that hole." He squints, then taps his hands against his pursed lips. "I'm sorry I hurt you unforgivably, flaunted Hannah in your-" His voice trails off as he gets lost in thought for a moment. He's visited by images of the occasions when he and Hannah departed together from somewhere leaving Brennan behind to watch them go. He closes his eyes again, drags the fingers of his right hand across his forehead several times, and finally drops his chin into his hand as he leans, elbows still on the mattress, and mutters an expletive that would have gotten him suspended from grade school for at least one week. "I let you down when all you wanted was—"

"Mmm-mm, Booth?" A dusky whisper floats into the darkness. It's so faint, he thinks he may have imagined it. Brennan had been pulled out of her deep non-rem sleep stage by Booth's nightmare scream twenty minutes earlier. "Booth?" She whispers again, clearing her throat and rolling onto her side to peer into the gray.

"Bones, sorry. I didn't mean to wake you—" He says quietly as he stands up abruptly, embarrassed, deciding this was a bad idea; he shouldn't have come in here.

"Wha—is it time to get up? Why didn't my alarm—," Brennan says yawning drowsily.

"It's—no. I just—go back to sleep. It's still early." He bends over and gives her a quick kiss on the cheek and turns to leave.

"But—what's wrong? D'you need something?" She rises slightly, leaning back on her elbows and groggily squints at the blurry alarm clock. "Mmmmmm. What time is it anyway?" she blinks several times, trying to clear the sleep from her eyes and the cobwebs from her brain.

"Uh, it's 4:47," he says, apologetically.

"It's-four forty-seven? Okay-," she says in a confused tone. "What's going on?"

"Oh-nothin', Bones—" he says guiltily with a shrug, crossing his arms, holding them tightly across his chest and raising his shoulders as if he were chilled.

"Why did you say it like that?" She cocks her head to the side, keeping her eyes trained on him, her eyebrows low and pinched in concern. She has the sense that she should know what's going on ... but she doesn't.

He shrugs and sits down on the edge of the bed facing her. He crosses his right leg over his left, his arms and shoulders still tense.

"You had that little—catch in your voice. What are you not telling me, Booth?" she says with an inquisitive grimace as she pulls herself into a sitting position and squints at him. She reaches over and lays her hand on his shoulder while leaning her head to the right. Her gesture is welcoming, her posture is open, unguarded, generous - the exact opposite of his posture.

He sighs. "I didn't actually say anything. I just—" he shrugs again—"I shrugged."

"And you sat. That suggests that you are not finished with whatever you came in here for. What's going on?" She asks more softly. "Are you sure you're okay?" She asks, sincere concern in her voice.

"Agh. I just woke up and couldn't get back to sleep, that's all," he says. He uncrosses his legs, bends over and rests his elbows on his knees, his shoulders still not relaxing. He rubs his forehead, then drops his face in both hands.

She considers his body language, watching him silently for a moment. What might this mean, she thinks. She reaches over and squeezes his right trapezius muscle. "Geez," she sighs. "You're trapizius is as hard as granite."

He lifts his head and stares back at her.

"And, you look a little jaundiced," she says, noticing for the first time that his cheeks appear waxy and drawn.

"It's the middle of the night and it's dark in here, Bones, how can you tell?" They can see each other fairly clearly by now, of course, but skin color would be a challenge in the monochromatic air of early morning, he thinks.

"I can tell," she says knowingly, leaning forward to look more closely at his face. "This is not your usual skin tone. Do you feel okay? Physically, I mean?" She asks, taking his wrist and unfolding him from his bent over curled-inward position. His eyes follow hers as she turns his face left to right by his chin and examines his skin. The sensation of her fingers on his skin sooths him somewhat. He closes his eyes and relaxes slightly, his shoulders falling a bit.

"Look at your face. Booth—"

"I can't look at my own face—" he objects, smirking.

Brennan leans toward the bedside table and clicks on the lamp. Placing her hand gently along his jaw, she turns his face toward the light and purses her lips once again.

Taking him by the wrist, she takes his pulse and examines his eyes, her brow creasing more deeply with every pass across his features.

"Okay, I'm convinced," she says, "you're physically fine. But you are in some kind of distress. Have you been ... _sweating,_ Booth?" Her voice is laced with a sense of incredulity.

He shrugs. "I splashed cold water on my face—" He offers evasively as he twists his lips to the right and shrugs with his forehead. She can't tell if he's actually worried about something or simply expecting her to do something which she hasn't figured out yet.

"So—?" She asks, looking over the rest of him for any clue to the puzzle of his unease.

"I don't know," he answered, swallowing and rubbing his face with both hands again.

"Why did you feel the need to splash water on your face?"

"Oh," he says, and shrugs again, tilting his head briefly to the side in the process. It's almost as if he's saying, I wish you knew, but I don't know how to tell you.

"Booth, I'm not very good at these guessing games and it's not even five o'clock in the morning. You're going to have to be direct with me," she says. "I wish I could put my arms around you and make whatever this is go away, but I sense somehow that it wouldn't be sufficient to assuage whatever discomfort you are experiencing." She follows her comments with a tilted soulful expression as she squeezes the wrist still resting in her right hand from when she took his pulse.

She squints at him, chewing on the inside of her bottom lip. She raises her eyebrows in a question. What is going on, her look says. She can tell there's a three-way battle going on inside his head between his emotions, his pride, and some yet-unrevealed anxiety. She slides her left palm soothingly up and down the inside of his arm several times while rubbing her thumb over the back of the hand she's still holding.

Booth exhales heavily, shakily. This was much easier eleven hours ago when they had the Doogie Howser of relationship whisperers coaxing and translating for them. He doesn't want to say the wrong thing. He remembers the lyrics from a favorite David Wilcox song called _'Farthest Shore':_

_We were there in the woods by the water._  
><em>We left our packs up against that willow tree<em>  
><em>We dove right in, keeping just what we were born with<em>  
><em>Our Memories, Knowledge and Dreams<em>

_As I swam away from our possessions_  
><em>I imagined that they were gone forever more<em>  
><em>And for once I was glad that all I treasured<em>  
><em>Would still be with me as I reached other shore.<em>

_When my time to live this life is over_  
><em>I'll tip my hat when I think about that swim<em>  
><em>And of all the things that make a life worth living<em>  
><em>That only come to those who dive right in<em>

_So...Let me dive into the water,_  
><em>Leave behind all that I've worked for<em>  
><em>Except what I remember and believe<em>  
><em>and when I stand on the farthest shore<em>  
><em>I will have all I need.<em>

_So, what is my deal, here,_ he wonders to himself. _Come on. I did great in Sweets' office, even on my own, right? I did great alone with her in that hotel room when she was freaking out. I'm good at this, right? What is there to be afraid of? Dive right in, Booth. But don't scare her. Go easy._

"I had a—dream—and it woke me—and I just couldn't get back to sleep," he says in a small, noncommittal, 'it's no big deal' tone, but he's still looking at her with those soulfully expectant eyes.

"So—you felt lonely and thought you might as well wake me up?" She asks, releasing his hand and resting her own on his leg right above his knee, giving him a gentle squeeze. She smiles, consolingly at him then chuckles, thinking maybe some gentle teasing will loosen him up. "Misery loves company trick, huh?

He doesn't laugh. He doesn't even smile. The smile falls off her face like a wrinkle being steamed out of a skirt.

"Okay. Tell me about this dream, Booth," she says quizzically, furrowing her brow in concern. "It is clear by your behavior and your anxious expression that you want to tell me something. But, you're looking at me like I'm supposed to know what to do or say."

"It was nothing … I don't even remember it." _What is wrong with you, man?_ He admonishes himself. _Spit. It. Out._

This earns him a smirk and a disbelieving raised eyebrow from her. That's a lie and you know it, her expression says. She crosses her arms and stares at him admonishingly.

Booth exhales, his shoulders falling dejectedly. He looks around the room briefly. He knows he can't stay here and not say anything, but he doesn't want to leave either. He can't shake the queasy feeling the nightmare gave him. He wonders if he might need to throw up again. He has the nonsensical feeling that as long as he's in here with her, he won't have to throw-up again. He hates, absolutely hates, throwing up.

When he looks back up at her, her expression has softened, but she is clearly nonplussed. He can tell she wants to help, but isn't sure how.

"Well, you should get some sleep," she says finally, starting to lay back down.

"Bones—" he says, closing his eyes and swallowing resignedly, his brows knitting together anxiously as his knee begins to pump up an down like a jack hammer.

"Yeah?" There goes the knee, she thinks. Let him gyrate if that's what calms him down. Just hope he doesn't vibrate me right out of this bed.

"I was lost, you know, in the dream. Well, I wasn't lost, really, you just couldn't see me—even though I was there in the room with you the whole time. I must have been invisible or dead or something and I couldn't touch you except that there was another me who you could see, but he was an ass and I had to hit him-to make him come with me."

She stares at him silently and slowly sits back up, takes his limp hands in hers, and rests their joined hands on his thigh, then nods. Go ahead, it means. I'm listening. She can see this was quite disturbing for him and her heart skips an empathetical beat. She knows he's not comfortable showing any kind of weakness, but he's going to have to get used to that if they are going to succeed at this relationship stuff.

"Then, you said it was too late—" he continued, an anxious lilt to his voice.

"Too late at night?"

"No. It was too late, you know, for us. The note you gave me—with the-that you drew in little tiny Bones? The footie note?"

"The note I put in the blue socks I gave you as you were leaving for Philadelphia, right?"

"Yes. It was in pieces," he says, sounding lost and confused. "You were—nearly catatonic and you said, It's too late, and I can't, and there's nothing left," he sighs. "I tried to get a message to you-you were worn out, miserable — I am so, so sorry, Bones," he says, laying his hand on top of hers and gently massaging it. He looks down, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. It's a weight that presses on his chest, making only shallow breaths possible. He knows now what he really wants. He wants her to wrap her arms around him and tell him everything is going to be okay. He wants her to forgive him.

"Booth? Hey look at me," she says, leaning down to catch his eye. "It was a dream. You don't have to apologize to me for a dream. Remember my dream where I was making you bleed? I apologized to you then, right? You said it wasn't necessary. It was a dream."

"No, I know. I'm—sorry—" His voice trails off as he shakes his head, feeling ridiculous. And stupid. "It's not the dream I'm sorry for."

"Then, for what?" She whispers.

"For—" he starts, then stops and looks away nervously. Why am I freaking out over this? Jesus! He thinks and knows exactly why. Bringing it up means thinking about what an ass he was. He doesn't want to discuss that really, but he desperately wants her to know he sincerely regrets—everything. Hates himself for it. He feels pathetic, and looks a little tortured. Her heart goes out to him, and she waits for him to continue.

"For last year—for everything," he says finally, closing his eyes momentarily and shaking his head. He feels like he's perhaps not supposed to say this. They've already been through it with Sweets. He feels like he's repeating himself, saying again what he already said tonight, and sounding stupid. She already said she didn't want to deconstruct that session right now; the things they shared, learned about each other. So he feels like he's breaking some agreement by bringing this up, but he can't help it. "I'm sorry, Bones. I know you said you didn't want to talk about this—"

"Nooo!" She says, her voice rising and falling as she says it. She squeezes his hands and presses on them so they dig into his thigh for a moment. "It's ohhh-kay. You can say whatever you want or need to. I specifically meant that I require time for processing my own thoughts. Besides, one colonoscopy a day is a good limit to adhere to, right?" She chuckles lightly. "This nightmare was quite disturbing for you if it woke you out of a sound sleep, sweating and uncomfortable, unable to resume sleeping. So, talk." She grimaces invitingly.

Booth considers her for a moment. Then dives in.

"Sweets told me about your sessions." He blinks at her and swallows, grimacing apologetically. "You know, right after Hannah—after I—" he couldn't finish the sentence. "Anyway, I am—I wish I could take that all away from you," he says in a pained tone.

"Oh," she says, pressing her lips together and nodding sagely. After a moment she continues. "Booth—It's over. Okay? And, contrary to what my likeness in your dream said, it is most definitely not too late. Not for us," she says consolingly, her brow wrinkling in committed assurance. "I don't know what I can do to convince you of that," she says grimacing. "But if you look at the evidence you will see that I am correct. We are here, aren't we? Together. We've begun a dialog, which Dr. Sweets assisted us with. We made it through an obnoxious therapy session during which we—I mean, we really—" she shakes her head at a loss for how to describe it. "I've never been through anything like that before in my life. And look at us, Booth. We're still good, right? We don't need Sweets to be here and hold our hands. You are so good at this, Booth. So good at providing an environment where I can, we both can, discuss what is important to us. And I know that some things are difficult for you to admit or talk about, but you haven't let that stop you before, right? Access that strength now and don't let it stop you. It's just me here, Booth, just your partner."

"I'm—just—so—so—sorry," he says, shaking his head for emphasis and squeezing her hands. "I had no idea—"

"Booth," she says, shaking her head and sighing. It's almost as if she's saying there's nothing to forgive, but that wouldn't be entirely accurate. "Listen—If you feel the need to be punished for what I went through, then you are going to have to do it yourself, though I do not see how that could be productive. I certainly don't want to punish you. How could that be good for our relationship?"

"Bones, I don't understand how you can just-forgive-and forget," he says, but it comes out as a pained question.

"I don't understand the question," she says flatly after a moment of searching his face.

"If what Sweets said really happened—" he begins turning to face her more squarely as she continues to stare at him awaiting her own enlightenment about what he wants to know. "Four days—saying nothing—in Sweets' office. Then three days—in tears," he says, shaking his head, aghast.

Brennan looks down at their joined hands and shrugs. "It wasn't 168 hours, Booth. It was seven sessions, seven hours in total—at his office at least," she admits.

"So, then it's true?"

"Of course, Sweets wouldn't fabricate facts in order to—well, for any reason."

He searches her eyes, looking for a trace of residual anguish, finding nearly none.

"How did you get over that?" He asks, aghast, knitting his brow and shaking his head, disengaging their fingers and laying her hands flat on his thigh where he pats the backs of them gently.

"I didn't" she shrugs.

"You didn't?"

"No. I didn't get over it. I moved through it, Booth. As much as I was capable with my limited knowledge of the facts. Part of the pain was in not understanding what you were going through; the when and the how of your behaviors. And the why. So, I looked for whatever evidence I could find and based theories on it. Even though they were erroneous theories, poorly informed theories, it helped me to begin processing, and then to form a strategy to move forward with my life."

"What evidence?"

"Your behaviors, the quality, content, and frequency our interactions."

"Oh," he says, recalling Sweets mentioning her calculations that led her to the conclusion that he didn't love her anymore. "What was your conclusion, or, theory?"

"It doesn't matter now, Booth. I was wrong, and we've moved forward. Let sleeping kittens play."

"Sleeping dogs lie. Sleeping kittens don't play, Bones."

She smirks at him, then smiles and shakes her head before continuing.

"Besides, tonight I learned so much about what you were experiencing, your thought process, your mental state at the time. I understand why you did what you did, behaved how you behaved. It's not what I would have done or how I would have behaved, but it has a certain— 'Boothy' logic to it," she said, shrugging with her eyebrows. "With knowledge comes understanding. Through understanding comes compassion."

"With compassion comes grace, and grace makes forgiveness possible," continues Booth. "And it all comes out of love."

"Precisely," she says, smiling warmly into his eyes. "Though, my father says loving means never having to say you're sorry."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I am not exactly sure. It sounds counter-intuitive to me. I think it means that when you know someone well enough to understand their reasoning — or the underlying impetus for their behaviors — you already understand why they did what they did, even before they apologize. The apology then becomes perfunctory and perhaps unnecessary."

"Well, like what reasoning?"

"Well, it could be acute personal anguish-like it was in your case —or self-preservation, or a commitment to an ideal, or maybe the desire to protect someone or something they love. Perhaps when you understand the genesis, the root cause, if you will, of their behaviors, you become able to recognize that what may appear on its face to be malice is simply a reasonable response given the person's history. This, of course, does not excuse the malicious behavior, but it provides access to understanding which can lead to compassion. I believe that is how mothers of murderers can still feel love for their criminal children despite their heinous behaviors."

"Hm."

"I suggest that perhaps it is much easier for a flawed person to heal or change and reconcile when they are surrounded by understanding and compassion from their loved ones rather than by punishment, anger, and violence. I'm not talking about criminal behavior, Booth. I'm talking about forgivable behaviors - hurt feelings, disrespect, manipulation, retaliation - the petty crimes all people commit against the ones they love."

Booth is smiling at Brennan as she speaks. It's a proud smile. A loving smile.

"I can't say that I understood all of what you just said," he tells her, an amused glow in his eyes, "But, are you saying that in such a situation, when given understanding and compassion, a person no longer needs forgiveness? Is that what you are saying?"

"Parker told me yesterday that humans have a need to forgive and be forgiven, right? That's what your faith teaches. Am I correct?"

"Yes," he says, nodding.

"Even if one person has compassion for another, there is a benefit to the requesting and the granting of forgiveness. I believe it has to do with restoring equilibrium, wholeness, dignity, if you will."

"There is plenty of willful malice in this world. It takes a hell of a lot more than forgiveness or a restored equilibrium to make up for that, Bones."

"Not between us, Booth," she says. "There's no malice between us, is there?"

He's staring at her in amazement, his head cocked to the side. He loves watching her take something common and turn it into something beautiful. "No," he says, as the left side of his mouth curls up into a grin.

"And you said earlier that people who have willfully and horrifically harmed each other have lost the grace between them, correct?"

"Or, they are just psychos," he smirks, nodding his head.

"I concur. Regardless, what we learned tonight in our discussion with Sweets is that there is a substancial amount of grace between us. And, in areas where perhaps the grace is only superficial or insufficient, there is at least an intention of grace, a willingness to work it out, correct?"

"I love you," he says, leaning forward to kiss her on the lips.

"I know," she says, resting her forearm on his shoulder and sliding her fingers into his hair as she returns his kiss. "And I am so tired, Booth. Do you want to crawl in here with me?" She asks, nodding to the unoccupied side of the bed.

"I thought you said you need to be alone—"

"I've already had about six hours of solitary sleep," she offers, yawning.

Booth ponders for a moment.

"No, I'll go back over there," he says, looking up and nodding toward the guest bedroom. "The nausea has pretty much subsided."

"You were nauseous? Maybe you are ill," she says, feeling his forehead once again.

"No, I was just—" He shrugs and pauses. "Seeing you helped a lot," he said, with a gentle sigh as he placed his hand on the back of her neck to pull her closer for a quick kiss on the lips, then the forehead.

"Then, do you want me to come and be with you until you fall asleep?"

"What am I, five years old, Bones?" He says, chuckling, and remembering how his mother used to sit with him or rub his back until he fell asleep on those nights when his father had gotten out of control. That was precisely the kind of comfort and affection he'd ached for later in life when he no longer had either parent in his life. "No, you don't have to—" he said reluctantly, though his appreciation for the offer was apparent in the gentleness of his tone. However, he makes no move to get off the bed and leave.

"Would you like me to braille your vertebral column?" She offers, sensing he's not quite ready to go back to bed.

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "Really?"

"Sure," she says, lifting her legs out of the covers and placing them on the floor about a shoulder's length apart as she motions for him to get off the bed. She throws two pillows on the floor between her feet. "We'll make our own little massage chair right here."

"Wha-huh?" He stares at her skeptically.

"Kneel on these pillows," she commands.

"Is this going to end up being kinky? 'Cuz," he says, slyly, "It's sounding a little kinky, if you ask me. Not that I'm opposed to -"

"Booth! This is not a 'Happy Ending' massage. This is a simple exercise whose sole purpose is to provide comfort and relaxation for my agitated mate."

"Oh, I see. It's all for me, huh?"

She smirks at him. "Now, lean the top of your cranium against my chest. Booth!"

"What?"

"Get that ridiculous smirk off your face or you can forget it. Listen, this is not erotic. I used to do this for Russ when he was stressed before tests. My mom use to do it for me when I had menstrual cramps—or couldn't get to sleep."

"Your mother knew the names of all the vertebrae?"

"Yes, she did, in general, at least. Why does that surprise you? She went to college."

Booth shrugs, but he can't erase the amused smirk from his face. He kneels down on the pillows in front of her and rests his hands on her thighs. She rests her hands on his shoulders and looks at him reproachfully.

"She'd start at the superior aspect of the cranium, palpitate the cervical atlas and cervical axis then move laterally across the scapulae then medially, then follow the vertebral column distally to the sacrum, then laterally to the iliac crests. Then she'd continue the process proximally, focusing on the muscle groups from the Gluteus Maximus to the gluteus medius, laterally to the latisimus dorsi, then the trapezii, and finally, laterally to the deltoids and tricepts. What's with the pinchy face?"

Booth snorts. "I'm not an adolescent nervous about a test, and you, most definitely are not my sister, or my mother." He stares into her eyes and leans forward to kiss her, but she backs away. "What's more, I think you enjoy this little game where you pretend it's not erotic or suggestive but you know full well that it is." His left eyebrow arches, rife with amusement and and accusation.

"What?" She says in a voice two octaves higher than her usual. "Everything is about sex to you, isn't it?"

"It's all foreplay, Baby," he says, sliding his palms up her thighs, rib cage, and snaking an arm around her back. He yanks her forward against his chest. "Everything is a prelude to a kiss." Leaning his full weight against her and pushing her flat on her back against the bed, he sears her lips and the skin below her ear with a kisses that could impregnate Mother Teresa. Then, he bites her on the breast, breathes more heat on her neck, landing a wet kiss at the intersection of her throat and the tender underneath of her chin. He then crawls right over the top of her and over the other side of the bed not even slightly slowed down by the white knuckle grip she has on his tee shirt. The last thing she hears is his bedroom door closing.

"Now, how am I supposed to sleep after that?" Brennan mumbles to herself, then rolls toward her pillows, and screams into one.

Booth pauses inside his bedroom door, his hand still on the doorknob when he hears her muffled scream. A grin pulls at the corners of his mouth as a satisfied chuckle slips out of his throat. "Touché," he snickers, "Touché—until Tuesday."

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><p><strong>Thank You for coming back, Dear Reader. Until next time ...<strong>

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><p><strong>Thank you, Boneyard Readers:<strong> Amanda29, Ren from Virginia, yatobu, Helen, 4boyz, Natalee, Mary born in Kentucky, Tamara, booth4ever Dallas, J from Texas, Kim from North Carolina, Tess from the Pacific Northwest, Alison, Mazin', Bluey, Grace from Texas, Maria, Akhesa, Candice, iaku, Kathryn from South Carolina, Pepper, Ruth, Edwina, Linda, JET, Michelle, Miranda, alexsmom, The XWP people, sally, LookAtFemurs, Bonesnut, jonzn4bonzn, Kevan71, Que3n, Hailey, dmnic from Florida, Rosemarie from Washington, Malerie, Christina from Kansas, Alex, Jane, Jamie Sue from New Hampshire, Andrew from Colorado, Gabriella, Libby, Mackenzie, Number1BonesFan!, Astrid50, Bonesfan158, juls0704, Emma, Emily, Angelena, Tiffany, Sharon, Anna, Another Mary, Yboria

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><p><strong>Thank you, Chapter 200 Reviewers:<strong> Dyna63, yenyen76, sarahlizlangas, Silver Maker, tessdancer, Cremant, mef1013, eire76, JayBee188, DWBBFan, Memo3197, erniebeth, coterie2, alexindigo, AngelBach, mariabones, kdgteacher7, fofie675, brensfan, appiedala, elmasuz, tessdancer, Grandma Bones, dovepage, justlittleirish, TraciM, ILuvBonesNDool, pasha54, Becksbones, caracoleta07, Martreiya, jkb1992, sharonm745, cherub123, jenny, smiley, maryfran, Shoulla, dlh, Lady, dd, Michelle, Kimberrn, jsboneslover, fanficauthor1226, SarahSueD, OhSnapItzAmelie, MareBear, Irisrose37, and babyface99f, brightandshiny02, okbones, soxgirl69, MichiUssi, lildeedee80, Alicia9876, geraghtyvl, boneslover29

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><p><strong>Thank you, Twitter Followers:<strong>...Cysvital ...mickeyBoggs ...flute1952 ...Officiallyneil ...PurpleFlurry031...greer7 ...nico_chas ...helenamile ...pie12299 ...DWBBfan ...kate_victor ...DianeWesley ...imarielle ...sarahlangworthy ...cheysma2000 ...njacob86 ..._dharmamonkey ...Dyna63 ...ErynGrace ...nannygs ...MaliBearsBuddy ..._Alissita ...RayleenW ...andreuuchis ...dovepage ...wellsbones ...aveburygirl ...mef1013 ...KatieW1129 ...tinkmygirl ...SouthunLady ...BabyBones_S7 ...beckaboo4 ...Farrerosa ...marce_lucia ...Eva_Anderson ...Kimber3333 ...clausalami ...tokyofish ...Boneslvr38 ...NatesMama ...Seraphine96 ...DeyKathleen ...2minds1ride ...Liz_chang ...Bonesfan12 ...LizDebelzen ...Boneslover17 ...merry_traci ...lizziesplaace ...amazin_grace88 ...samnickmike ...smonosky ...ILuvDooINBones ...caracoleta07 ...OhSnapItzAmelie ...BrennanNBoth ...AndreaMaramara9 ...Beth_winter ...weeceline ...peacelovebones ...some1tookmename ...rynogeny ...crayon_Clown ...david_boreanaz ...emilydeschanel ...Erniebeth07...FangirlMona ...corrnaya ...isjustme_ ...HeHasthePen...musingteacher ...Zoyacat...appiedala ...dbGrannyfan ...AvaniHeath ...adrisousac ...n_bjorklund17 ...chtyagi ...MeganHalvonik ...baileyjane13 ...Lillu38 ...proudloudlib ...Stella_UH #Bones ...Jennifer_G9885 ...hillhappy ...bostonlegalgirl ...kdgteacher7 ...BoNeS_FaN ...Brennan_Booth11 ...farchester ...Crystauxx ...AkhNefer ...sabrina_Demily ...sabrina_Demily ...temper_temper ...buhcula ...Martreiya ...queenofthelab96 ...karinvburkart ..._serenefire ...Leesa02 ...cescacetta ...zee0076 ...justlittleirish ...pie12299 ...Erniebeth07 ...yoshimi0701 ...flacadelgado ...BethAnn621 ...gellar1973 ...scrubalette36 ...daniellejoy07 ...kate_victor ...mariagalician ...MiaWermuth ...Joanneh1987 ...faith_brennan ...OkBones ...fofie675 ...Tanee2003 ...Dancing_maddie ...Med1917 ...maddie_morrow ...bogie31757 ...welmorebetterer ...BlogFanfiction ...JupiterJay ...ciaomichaella ...MichiUssi ...jazzyproz ...writerinmydrea ...tiger_eyed_girl ...newenglandmom03 ...ohhellznaw ...katyrosek ...Sharon_M745

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><p><strong>Now, SharonM745: Your question was as follows:<strong>

_"__What made you write that Brennan had PTSD? I agree but every time I mention it everyone disagrees."_

Again, thank you for the question. There are varying degrees of PTSD - levels of severity. I am not an expert on PTSD ... and to be honest ... I am not sure that what Brennan has experienced is what would be considered PTSD. PTSD is defined by the U. S. National Library of Medicine as:

_"A potentially debilitating anxiety disorder triggered by exposure to a traumatic experience such as an interpersonal  
>event like physical or sexual assault, exposure to disaster or accidents, combat or witnessing a traumatic event."<em>

In my story, I have Brennan's fear of attaching to another person put her in the emotional and psychological position of reliving the fears created in her by the abandonment of her youth. The Website I referred to when conducting research about PTSD for this story defined it as an event that happened unexpectedly and made the victim feel powerless to prevent it. That is a very simple and non-inclusive description (there was more to it). However, it appears to me (this is conjecture on my part, not fact) that PTSD usually results from specific incidences of trauma ... like experiencing or witnessing emotional or physical abuse or violence over which the person has no control. The disorder of PTSD appears to be the traumatic and involuntary revisiting of that trauma such that it may limit the person's ability to function fully or enjoy life as they would be able to had they not been subjected to either the trauma or its after affects.

Was Brennan's abandonment during her youth emotionally and psychologically traumatic? You Betcha. Has it informed and defined how she developed emotionally and socially after that first traumatic event? Well, we do not know for certain if her cool demeanor and apparent detachment from the intimacy of interpersonal relaitonships was part of her personality profile in advance of her parent's abandonment, or if it erupted as a result of that abandonment.

What we have been shown and led to believe, however, is that she has been unable to intimately and romantically attach herself to another human being for fear of the same thing happening again as a result of that earlier abandonment. Or, is that simply a choice she has made based upon how she chooses to experience the world? We do not know.

The incident in the hotel room, in my opinion, was a manifestation of her anxiety over facing her abandonment fears while working through allowing herself to be vulnerable and intimately attached to Booth. I have Booth and Sweets refer to her experience as PTSD ... as perhaps a professional might categorize it as a very minor case of PTSD. However, whether or not is is a diagnosable case of PTSD, it certainly was an emotionally and psychologically traumatic event.

I hope that answers your question!


	202. A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes

_Author's Note: WOW! I did it! I'm on a girlfriends' weekend in a cabin in the woods for four glorious days. While the other eleven women here are furiously and gleefully documenting the lives of their families, printing and ornately adorning pages of adorable photos of brand new babies and weddings, I have dedicated myself to the art of crafting fiction. Woot, woot! As some of you know, I gave myself a challenge to write a short chapter (a TWATH:AB2P snack, if you will) in one day's time. Well, it has taken more than twenty-four hours, but I did it! It may not have been worked-over and given all the nuance you are used to in a MoxieGirl fic, but it's a fun little ride. And here it is for your reading pleasure._

_Thank you to Kimber3333 for giving it a once-over from one to two o'clock this morning ~ you rock, lady!_

_Marebear - I read your review last night ~ so glad you are reading this today! It's a shortie ... but it's sweet and I think you will enjoy it, because a dream IS a wish your heart makes ... *wink*_

_So - enjoy, my friends!_

_~MoxieGirl ~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter_

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><p><strong>A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes<strong>

After Booth left her room, Brennan chewed on her pillow, pounded her fists into the mattress, then tossed and turned for a good three minutes before finally drifting back to sleep. However, once she finally achieved a dream state, what met her in her subconscious didn't provide her with much rest.

She had prepared herself for the possibility that she might be revisited in her dreams by the nasty black box. It had tortured her through several hours of that session in Sweets' office. It had smoked, puffed, jumped, jiggled, sputtered and bounced. It had spoken to her, sent up messages written in newsprint and whispered in silent screams. She had stared at it, picked it up, kicked it, and poked at it in Sweets' office, then eventually stomped it to pieces here in the privacy of her own living room. She had even unwrapped the furry yellow fiberglass covering that shrouded the seemingly lifeless human heart underneath. As frustrating and traumatic as that whole ordeal had been, Brennan was no longer afraid of the box or its contents. If it appeared in her dream, she knew she could handle it.

What she hadn't anticipated was the havoc her subconscious would play on her once it dropped into a dream state and was allowed the freedom to roam. Like a middle child left at home alone for the first time, Brennan's subconscious mammalian brain was ready to throw off the shackles of reason and propriety to run its toes through the warm sands of self-indulgence. However, this dream had nothing to do with the wretched black box, or even the lifeless heart it had sheltered for who knows how long.

In her dream it was 4:47 again. Booth was telling her about his disturbing dream. This time, however, he'd come to her room without his tee shirt on. Yowsa! She tried valiantly to focus on his words rather than his chest, but it was a tough battle. _What was he thinking?_ She'd asked herself. She'd warned him this was her weakness: chest and arms and bare skin. _Oh, my! _She whimpered silently. _Focus on what he's going through and just look at his face, look in his eyes. _Focusing on his eyes didn't help much either, they could turn her into a pool of jelly with one glance. _Focus on the words coming out of his mouth. But don't look at his mouth! _That would lead to trouble as well. _Shit!_ She thought. _Should I throw a blanket over him? Or maybe put a bag on my own head?_

Knocking her head against an imaginary wall inside her dream imagination, she chanted to herself: _He needs me. He needs me. Focus on his words. He's obviously upset. Get your excrement together and be here for him. Stop undressing him with your eyes! Wait a minute - he's not wearing much to take off - crap!_She forced herself to look at his nose, the one safe spot on his body at a time like this. But then she felt like she was being rude, so she had to look up in his eyes. Once he started talking though, she was able to compartmentalize. She focused on his anguish, his fear, his remorse.

He'd already told her how sorry he was, but he still appeared agitated and reluctant to leave her until he was convinced that she didn't hate him for what he put her through by proposing to Hannah.

Her bed, bedside table, lamp and doors were all in the same place in this dream, but there was a set of French doors along the wall that ran parallel to the bed. The doors were framed in chestnut-stained Indonesian teak reminding her of a set of doors that had opened onto a balcony in a hotel she once stayed in briefly when she'd first arrived in Maluku. The doors were hung with translucent gauze curtains that ended in eight extra inches of fabric that puddled at the base of the door. This is how she knew it must be a dream: it was highly improbable that she would ever hang puddling curtains on a set of French doors which would drag the curtains over the floor every time she opened or closed them. Ridiculous.

Booth was still quite disturbed by his dream and was having difficulty telling her exactly what it had been about. For some dream-reason she was unaware of, he was already kneeling on the pillows on the floor as she sat with her feet on the ground, her knees on either side of his hips, facing him. She had her arms around his shoulders and she was telling him that whatever happened in his dream couldn't hurt them. It had been a dream, a misfiring of neurotransmitters in his subconscious mind. However, he insisted on apologizing repeatedly. Nothing she could do would convince him that it wasn't too late for them to go forward with their relationship.

She sincerely had not intended her offer to braille Booth's vertebral column as anything other than an offer to … what? Soothe him? Assure him that she sincerely felt no desire to punish him for all they had gone through this past year? Being an expert at compartmentalizing, she was adept at suppressing her mammalian brain so that her frontal lobe was able to fly into high gear while processing critical information, making decisions, and formulating hypotheses.

Despite her attempts to calm him, he'd been so distraught that she found herself hugging him to her chest, his forehead buried in the crook between her shoulder and neck. His arms were around her as well, holding her tightly around her midsection. He didn't seem to be crying or sniffing, but he wasn't lessening his grip around her after the usual duration of a conciliatory embrace. He was exhaling in loud puffs, trying to calm himself.

"Do you want to crawl into my bed and just sleep here?" She'd asked, concerned.

Booth shook his head against her shoulder in response and tightened his arms around her.

"Do you want me to come over there, keep you company until you fall asleep?"

He rocked his forehead against her shoulder again. "No, just give me a minute. That was such a crappy dream, Bones. And it was so … _real. _It reminded me of those dreams I've had about not being able to help Parker."

"Ohhhh. Corporal Parker? The ones where you couldn't pick him up or get anyone to listen to you. Those dreams?" She began pressing massage-quality vertical lines from his trapezzi down along his latissimus dorsi on either side of his spine.

"Yep," he mumbled against her neck, sighing. The pressure she was applying to his back felt really good. "I'm sorry. I feel like some stupid kid," he said, chuckling sardonically. "I just can't seem to shake this … pukey feeling in my gut. My brain knows it was just a dream, but my gut isn't buying it."

She continued to massage his knotted muscles. Then she had an idea.

"Hey, d'you want me to braille your vertebral column for you? You've said how much that relaxes you."

He hadn't moved at first, but then she felt his facial muscles lift and fall in a shrug against her neck, then he nodded against her clavicle. "Are you sure you're not too tired," he said quietly, wanting assurance that she really meant it.

"Not too tired to help you get back to sleep," she says, consolingly.

"What do you want me to do?" His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. She could hear a minute degree of tension beginning to ease out of his body now that he knew total relaxation was on its way.

"Just … here, loosen your arms. I can't do this if you've got a death grip around my ribcage, Booth. Just rest your arms on the bed on either side of me, okay? And, sit back on your gluteus maximus."

He relaxed his arms and laid them on the bed on either side of her, his hands extending past her at first. He leaned back, his calves on the floor pillows, his gluteus maximus resting on his heels. Brennan scooted closer to the edge of the bed.

"Okay, now just rest your cranium so your coronal suture lands right here," she said tapping her fingers on the skin just above the lower edge of her sternum between her breasts, "against my sternum."

At first he stared up at her disbelievingly, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Do all your guests get this treatment?"

"Only the FBI agents who already own a pair of my panties," she said quietly and soothingly.

"Whoa," he said in a low voice before planting the top of his head in the lower middle of her chest where she'd indicated. "I'm so glad I qualify," he murmured, sighing.

"Okay," she said, leaning over the top of him and running her fingers all the way down his back to ensure she had access to all twenty-four vertebrae as well as the five that are fused to form the sacrum at the base of the spine above the coccyx, or tailbone. "Do you want me to name each bone and muscle group as I go along?"

"Ungh," sighed Booth, entering the zone of tranquility, surrounded as he was by the scents, softness, and sounds of the woman who loves him. "What if I fall asleep?"

"I'll just let you slide onto the ground, then I'll toss a blanket over you," she teased, chuckling lightly. "Just don't drool on me."

"Ungh," he grunted.

She started by sinking her fingers into the hair behind his ears giving him a brief yet thorough cranial massage. Next, she slowly and firmly applied pressure to his C1 vertebra in small graduating concentric circles with her middle and ring fingers. After making it down his five cervical vertebrae, she moved her fingers laterally to traverse his scapulae.

From the scapulae, she moved medially again and spent a minute or two applying digital pressure to his trapezzi. Unfortunately, she wasn't able to loosen the knots in his trapezzi no matter what she did, but she wasn't surprised as she knew that was where he holds most of his stress. After a moment, she abandoned his shoulder area, making a mental note to try again upon her return.

"I think I may have died and gone to heaven," he mumbled from his little cave in the vicinity of her belly.

"Well, that is certainly preferable to being invisible and unable to communicate with me, wouldn't it?"

"Most definitely," he mumbled after a moment, inhaling deeply, then exhaling with a protracted groan.

"Does making noises like that help you relax?"

"Ungh huh," he groaned, then followed it with a higher protracted groan as he felt her abdomen shake with noiseless chuckles.

"Well, I'm glad," she said, smiling broadly even though he couldn't see her face. "You are so very much like a child. It's been said that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Evidently, it may very well be through the manipulation of his vertebral column and the massaging of his superficial trapezii as well."

When she reached his thoracic vertebrae, around his T1 or T2, she smiled and chuckled to herself when she became aware that his forearms and hands which had been lying flat on the mattress on either side of her, were now pressed up against her thighs, his palms up, his fingers partially sunk between the mattress and her gluteus maximus.

When she was halfway down his lumbar vertebrae, around his L2 and L3, she felt him shift his weight from one knee to the other then slide his palms from the outside of her thighs down her legs almost to her knees, then back up toward her gluteus maximus, but this time they slid inside the fabric of her pajama shorts. When he did that, she stopped breathing and her cheeks began to get warm.

His thumbs then began pressing circles into her flesh. She knew exactly what he was doing; he was searching for his favorite parts of her 206 bones, the iliac crests of her innominates - her hip bones. This hijacked her ability to think for a moment, spreading a wave of heat deep into her lower limbs and to places as yet unexplored by present company. She gasped when she realized she'd been holding her breath for way too long. She closed her eyes and took several slow deep breaths, trying to focus. Her ability to compartmentalize was being slowly dismantled by the man-child wrapped around her waist.

At the base of his vertebral column she laid both of her palms flat over his sacrum for a moment, then bent over and pressed her lips into the skin covering his C5 vertebrae allowing her hair to fall across his back. Dragging her mouth back and forth against his skin before kissing him again, she sighed, then turned her head to the side and laid her cheek and ear against his back, closing her eyes, and melting against him. _I could sleep here, _she thought. _God, I love this man. He feels like an extension of myself._

Having located and fully explored her hips a moment earlier, Booth had begun to knead the sweet softness of the tops of her thighs, but stopped when he felt her lips, then her cheek and ear against his spine. For a moment, she thought he'd stopped breathing. Then she felt him swallow, then hold his breath as if he were listening for his own heartbeat which she assumed was pounding in his ears like her heartbeat was pounding in her ears.

For a moment longer, Brennan lay over him with her eyes closed as her breathing slowed and she began to feel drowsy, or drugged. _Oh, _she thought, _it's most definitely the doopaaaamiiine and oxxxxyyyyytoooooociiiiin. Aghhhhhhh! _

She wanted more than anything to simply bask in the warmth, softness and scent of him. Giving in to her baser instincts, she tasted his skin, then kissed him again before sitting back up to begin walking her hands up his back.

Before making a proximal trip up the superficial layer of his back muscles, she allowed her fingers to roam laterally, exploring and slowly kneading the muscles of his gluteus medius. She brailled the iliac crests of his innominates in almost the same way he had been probing hers. _All is fair in love and war, after all, s_he told herself. However, she noticed that her brailling had become more languid, more like caresses than explorations. _The pheromones are slowing my thought processes, _she told herself.

She continued, her fingers sliding from side to side along each of his ribs, brailling the two floating ribs, followed by the three false ribs, then the remaining seven true ribs. Glancing over at the French doors and noting the puddle of fabric at the foot of the frame, she was reminded that this was, indeed, a dream, and anything could happen.

Having reached the top of his ribs, she lazily made a second pass over his scapulae and then massaged the superior aspect of his trapezzi which seemed to have softened slightly on their own while she was focused elsewhere.

As she was drowsily massaging his shoulders, she noticed Booth's hands were now pressed against the skin of her back under her tee shirt and were kneading the tissues between her hips and her twelfth rib. _Oh, God! When did he switch from … wasn't he just down by my thighs and pajama shorts? What the heck...?_

If body parts could scream, hers had just entered into a shouting match with mother nature, and her capillaries were throwing an absolute temper tantrum. This activity, brailling Booth's vertebral column, was meant to calm her mate, but it was rapidly becoming a dance toward the biological imperative and the perpetuation of the human race.

As Brennan was logging these things and attempting to make sense of them, Booth raised his head to rest it on her chest just below her chin. As he rocked his forehead side to side slightly, he found that his lips were pressed up against the tee shirt covering the soft slope of her left breast. Without even thinking he kissed her there and exhaled, spreading heat across the surface of her tee shirt. Brennan sat completely still, her eyes closed. _This is a dream, _she said to herself, opening her eyes and searching across the room for those French doors with the curtains that are too long. _Yes, this is a dream. Anything can happen, _she assured herself. However, her self-assurances didn't assuage the mounting thrill of panic that was building inside her.

Booth kissed her again, and exhaled sharply. She inhaled in fits, her chest rising and pressing further into his lips. His next kiss met skin as he traveled over the neckline of her tee shirt. The kiss after that came with hands that traveled down her back once again squeezed her butt, pulling her closer to the edge of the bed, his rib cage pressing against the inside of her thighs.

On the third or fourth glide up her back, instead of returning to the small of her back, he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her to him as tightly as he could without suffocating her. She dragged her palms up his back and through his hair.

"It worked. I think I'm over it," he breathed into her neck as he held her, painting a trail of kisses and licks up her jawline all the way to behind her ear where he breathed, "The nightmare? You are a miracle worker, Bones. I'm over it."

"Good," she breathed quietly, closing her eyes and leaning her cheekbone against his mouth, dragging it back and forth just a little to indulge in the sensation of his stubble against her skin. If she weren't already sitting, she would have fallen over from how intoxicating that simple sensation was for her. Her fingers still wrapped up in his hair, she pulled him away from her ear, looked in his eyes and kissed him truly, madly, and deeply. Then, as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and leaned backward, she pulled him with her onto the bed.

Neither of them said anything as she crawled backward into the middle of the mattress and he followed her. Unlike the exodus of earlier tonight, Booth crawled over Brennan and stopped, hovering over her on his elbows. She waited anxiously to see if he'd leave. _This is my dream, _she thought. _And I want you to stay. _Though she hadn't said it out loud, he read it in her eyes and smiled down at her, diving his arms under her rib cage and squeezing her as she giggled in delight. It felt like a victory to her for some reason, the rewriting of the ending of a fairy tale.

Throwing her arms around his shoulders, she wrapped her legs around his hips and arched into him. In response, he went crazy kissing her up and down her throat, up to and behind her ear, back to her mouth, then down her neck again and toward her breasts.

She kissed him back with equal fervor. She needed to feel his teeth against her tongue, taste his breath, feel his lips on her skin. Their coming together like this felt like a celebration. She arched into him once again and closed her eyes allowing a deep sigh to escape from her throat as she decided she didn't care about anything else in the whole world in this moment except being one with him.

As her hands travel over his body, he still had one arm wrapped around and under her, but his other arm was free and found its way to her hip where he squeezed so forcefully that she gasped. In that moment it became clear to her that he wanted her just as badly as she wanted him. The rules they had set up were worthless against the tidal wave of their need for each other.

When he stopped to catch his breath between kisses she began to move underneath him. When he bent to kiss her on the exposed skin between her breasts, she wrapped her fingers around his biceps and sank her nose into his hair, breathing in that heady Boothy scent that made her feel like she might pass out. Pulling gently on his hair, she lead him back up to her face where she covered his mouth with her own and tried to crawl inside him.

He slid his arm back underneath her and they started moving against each other, finding a pace and a rhythm that resulted in them both beginning to breathe in short hot bursts against each other's necks and faces.

In one forceful move, Booth rolled over toward the bottom of the bed and pulled her on top of himself. She landed on him and pressed her aching chest into his, dragging it back and forth trying to fulfill an urge to relieve the pressure that had been building since the first time he kissed her through her tee shirt. His hands dove up her bare back under her shirt as he sunk his nose into her neck and nibbled on her skin. As she moved against him he looked in her eyes and held her gaze, melting her from the inside out, then rolled over once again. This time they slid off the foot of the bed and onto the floor with an uncomfortable thud.

Brennan looked anxiously over at the opposite wall to find the French doors. _Yes, this is still a dream, _she said out loud. When she turned back to look at Booth, he was gone. She sat on the floor in a daze. _Did that really happen? This is still my dream, right? If this is my dream, then anything can happen, dammit. _Pulling herself off the floor, she walked toward the French doors and ran her fingers through the flowing gauze curtains, pulling them away from the wall and the door frames. She lifted fistfulls of the delicate gossamer panels off the floor to see how much extra fabric puddled there. About eight inches, she decided. Dropping the fabric, she crossed her bedroom and went straight out into the hall not stopping until she was standing next to Booth's bed.

When she came into the room, Booth looked up at her wordlessly. He was still wide awake. He was covered in sheets up to his waist, lying right in the middle of the queen sized bed.

Brennan reached down to the hem of her tee shirt and lifted it over her head, dropping it on the floor. Booth stared at her as she stood before him wearing nothing but the moonlight that shone through the window. After a moment, he lifted the sheets and she slid in beside him, then wrapped her arms around him and lost herself in him. What happened next broke all the rules of time and space. As far as they were concerned, it had to be Tuesday somewhere, and that somewhere might as well have been right there and right then.

Brennan awoke in a panting, gasping panic.

"I blew it! I blew it!" She blurted, snapping her head around to look at the opposite wall. The French doors were gone, no gauze curtains hung from the door frames and puddled onto the floor. Brennan ran her hands vigorously over her face and scrambled across the bed toward the bathroom where she smacked the light switch and flipped the handle of the cold water, then thrust her mouth under the faucet. She gulped the cool water for what seemed like five minutes, then looked up into the mirror, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Oh, holy cluster ducks! That seemed so real!" She gasped, clutching at her tee shirt and forcing herself to breathe deeply, hoping to slow the pounding in her ears. "And I almost blew it," she squeaked, then ran her fingers roughly through her hair. "Oh, oh … holy crap!"

Smacking the light back off, she walked over to her bed and sat down. _What do I do now? _She asked herself. She wasn't sure why, but she felt compelled to check on Booth. She missed him, and she was relieved that what she experienced was only a dream. Not that that would make any difference to him. It was just a dream, right?

Grabbing the blanket off of her bed, she turned and walked out of her room and across the hall. In the guest bedroom, Booth was sleeping soundly on the right side of the bed. Without a sound, she pulled her blanket over her shoulders and wrapped it completely around herself, then slowly crawled onto the bed and knelt over her mate. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, admired his features for a moment, then turned and laid down with her back to him.

Smiling to herself, she sighed and fell into a dreamless sleep for which she was very, very grateful.

* * *

><p><strong>These are the heavy lifters and hard rockers who keep this boat afloat by telling me what they thought of the last chapter. <strong>  
><strong>m\ Standing ovations for all y'all! /m\**  
>Dlh, Michelle, coterie2, Lillith, ILuvBonesNDool, Kimberrn, Fluffybird, daisesndaffidols, daniellejoy07, grandma bones, OhSnapItzAmelie, chosenname, crys82, pasha54, Alicia9876, Memo3197, yoshimi0701, Eryngrace94, Jenny, erniebeth, fantasyfanatic13, Dab fan, Lady, Martreiya, FaithinBones, mef1013, boneslover29, Boneslvr38, eire76, TraciM, kdgteacher7, Aveburygirl, sandyholl, Dyna63, Shoulla, KatBonesCrazy, yenyen76, ifawishofwonder, flute1952, cheysma2000, bostonlegalgirl, DWBB Fan, mariagalician, appiedala<p>

* * *

><p>Yes, I know this chapter was too short for your taste.<br>And, no, it is not yet Tuesday.  
>This was a SNACK, a chaplet, a nibble, an hors d'oeuvres.<br>If it's titillated and entertained you, then good.  
>If it's left you hungry for more, great.<br>That was its job.  
>If we stuck to the usual production schedule,<br>you wouldn't be seeing anything from me for another four days, so consider this a bonus!

Tomorrow I go back to work on Chapter 203: The Sense in the Sensibility.  
>That chapter will be a full meal ... in length, not pie.<p>

What I want to know ... is was this hot or what?  
>It isn't Tuesday ... Tuesday will be hotter.<br>But was it hot?  
>You gotta let me know!<p>

~MoxieGirl  
>~ MoxieGirl44 on Twitter<p> 


	203. The Sense in the Sensibility

_**Author's note:** _

_**Has a friend or stranger recommended this story to you when you were already reading it?**  
>A good friend of mine, OfficiallyNeil (Australia), was discussing BONES with a stranger while standing in line to get some caffeine. The stranger said to him, "Well, you should read this great fanfic called The When and the How: A Bone to Pick." Well, Officially Neil about fell over ... because we are such good friends and, of course, he's read ... well ... most of this story. When Officially mentioned it to me on Twitter, another reader said the same thing happened to her! How freaky is that? <strong>Has that ever happened to you in regard to TWATH:AB2P?<strong> You gotta let me know these things, folks. I could be high for a week on that kind of juice! So DM me - or stick it in your review. Please! Oh, that would make me so happy! = D_

_**The Bones Finale. OMGoodness! DB warned us. He was right.**  
>Whew. What a whopper it was, wasn't it? Holy Mary, Mother of God and all the Saints Above. It had me reeling for DAYZ, I tell you. That acting, *whew*, the plot - yowsa! The anguish *Ugliest crying I've done in years*. The directing (DB did that, btw, *speechless* BRAVO!) I couldn't write my TWATH chapter. Couldn't think of anything else. So ... what'd I do? I sat down and wrote about it. I wrote a 'behind the scenes ... fill in the blanks' first chapter for a short series during the hiatus. It has the usual MoxieGirl interpretation of what I think could have been going on. It's called,<em>

_'**Chasing Cars: A Season 7 Finale Retrospective Story'**_

_Who but HH, the Squarechicken, David Boreanaz, and Emily Deschanel could send the entire BONES UNIVERSE reeling from such a powerful finale? THere is simply NO WAY anyone could improve on that__. Chasing Cars is a meagre attempt to guess what our favorite couple of all time might have done between the lines to keep their home fires burning ... because we KNOW that they are! They will prevail! They will catch that bastard, Pelant! But while you wait, and if you crave a bit of Bones love between now and September ... check out Chasing Cars ... _

_But, for now, I give you this ... Chapter 203. Enjoy!_

_~MoxieGirl_  
><em>~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 203 The Sense in the Sensibility<strong>

"_If you don't have humor, you don't have life."  
>~ S. Booth.<em>

At six A.M. he'd awakened lying on his right side facing the bedroom door, just like he would any other day. Unlike last night when he was disoriented by the vestiges of that nasty nightmare, he remembered exactly where he was. However, he noticed that the room had a different _feel _about it.

As a sniper, he'd been trained to use all of his senses to gather intel about his environment. Being aware of the slightest change, especially upon waking in a strange place, could mean the difference between life and death. _Something is different in this room this morning. It smells different; warm and a little sweet, _he thought. The space sounded different; there had to be another significant mass absorbing the sounds of morning along with his own body. There was also the faint slow rhythmic whisper of human respiration.

Without even rolling over to survey the rest of the room, he knew he wasn't alone or in any danger, except perhaps in danger of being snuggled with. So, when he silently and stealthily peeked back over his shoulder, he was not at all surprised to find Brennan passed out on top of his bedspread.

She'd brought her own blanket which she'd wrapped around her like a cocoon as she lay on her left side. She looked like a butterfly partially emerged from a chrysalis. _How appropriate, _Booth thought to himself, thinking of all the changes over the last year. As far as he could tell from the rhythm of her breathing and her lack of movement, she was sleeping soundly.

_This is what it's going to be like for the rest of my life, _he mused. _If I play my cards right. _He noticed an odd sensation in his chest. He felt an exhilarating levity that he recognized, though hadn't felt in quite some time. Yes, he felt _good. _The past couple of days had brought excitement and joyful anticipation, but today he felt young, alive, free of the shackles of the past. It had been a long time since he'd looked forward to anything with this much enthusiasm and confidence.

Yes, Tuesday was definitely something to look forward to, but Tuesday was to their relationship as a wedding day is to a marriage. Tuesday would just be _one day; _the first of many in a lifetime of days. A sigh escaped from his throat before he could stop it. He held his breath for a moment and listened carefully.

Her back was to him; her bare shoulder peeking over the top of her cocoon. She remained motionless; her breathing constant, even-paced.

He considered snuggling up behind her, wrapping his arm around her mid section and pulling her close where he knew she'd fit perfectly. For now, before the world rushed in around them, he decided he'd rather lie there serenely and bask in the quiet togetherness of waking up in bed together. So, resisting the urge to wake her up, he mentally ran through the day's agenda:

******O-****7:15 AM HIV testing at the Hudson memorial medical Annex.**

He chuckled to himself as he recalled their conversation on the plane back from Philly.

.

.

.

_"Hey, have you been tested?" She'd asked  
><em>_"Are we going to go through this again? No … I have no idea what my I.Q. is. Happy?"  
><em>_"Not your I.Q. Have you been tested for HIV?"  
><em>_"What?" he'd said, taken aback.  
><em>_"AIDS …. HIV?"  
><em>_"I don't have AIDS!" he'd said.  
><em>_"How do you know?" She'd persisted.  
><em>_"I don't have AIDS, okay?"  
><em>_"You do know how it's transmitted, right?"  
><em>_"Uh, ye-ah … through blood, saliva, kissing under water … look, I promise you … no AIDS has ever been introduced into my blood stream," he'd assured her.  
><em>_"It's a perfectly legitimate question, considering where our relationship is heading. Don't act like it's not, Booth. How do you know for sure that you have not been infected?"  
><em>_"Okay, let's just get this over with," he'd chagrined, rolling his eyes and agreeing to go with her to the clinic Monday morning._

.

.

.

He continued reviewing the agenda.

****O- **8:00 AM Brennan had to be at the Jeffersonian to meet with Wendell.  
><strong>****O- **9:15 Team meeting to review the case  
><strong>********O-**** **11:00 AM Grab a bite somewhere on the way to the airport.  
><strong><strong><strong>O- <strong>**1:35 PM Flight 3490 on US Airways from Ronald Regan.  
><strong>******O- ****One hour and ten minute layover in Philly.****

_Is there any need to use that time in Philly for contact with Officer Benton or anyone else associated with the case?_ Booth ran his tongue over his teeth and got lost in his head searching for loose ends he could tie up during that brief amount of time. _Perhaps. Note to self: Check with Officers Benton and Scarpeti about having acquired photocopies of Dr. Hubbard's travel journals listing the dates and events of department trips. Oh, and return Bob Grimes phone call!_

******O- **** 6:51 PM Arrive at Seattle-Tacoma International on Flight 1547.**

This second leg of the flight would be on an Airbus A321 which seats 143 passengers—all in economy-grade seats, rows of three by three. _Ugh, _he thought to himself, feeling green around the gills. This flight would be just a little over six hours. That is a long time to be in a small space breathing recycled air and trying not to be annoyed by the person in front of you leaning back into your space.

For a moment Booth waxed nostalgic about sitting on a bench inside an aircraft carrier with only nineteen other guys. When he realized what he was actually yearning for, he mentally slapped himself. _Being cramped into a seventeen inch commercial airplane seat and eating crappy twice-warmed food on a flip-down table the size of a postage stamp trumps having to worry about being shot out of the sky by the enemy any day, _he decided.

_What is the difference in time between D.C. and Seattle?_ He wondered, his mouth puckering as he did the math in his head. _Three hours going backward in time. So, a 7 PM arrival in Seattle is equivalent to 10 PM in D.C. Holy Excrement. Brennan's going to want to go straight to the coroner's office and examine the remains of Banty Solicious. Note to self: Call Sheriff Restovich and confirm access to the coroner's office for the remainder of the evening._

_Total travel time—eight hours and sixteen minutes of flight and layover, followed by … taxi … ME's office … we'll be lucky if we hit the sack before 2 AM! Note to self: talk to Cam about hotel reservations. No – can't talk to Camille about the hotel! Can't talk to anyone about the hotel!_

Booth had made reservations in Seattle at a place called Hotel 1000. He reserved two separate rooms on different floors for Monday night. For Brennan, he reserved a third floor single they called a 'Luxe Room' because it had a king size bed and a free-standing "fill from the ceiling" pedestal tub. He thought she would find a hot bath relaxing after a long day of travel and examining Banty Solicious' exhumed remains-though perhaps now she wouldn't have time. He shrugged at the realization.

_Then again, _he thought, _maybe even at two o'clock in the morning she'd need something to relax her before she can fall asleep. A hot bath would be perfect for that_. _There are a lot of things we still don't know about each other. We've been together, what? Almost seven years, _he thinks, peeking over his shoulder at her once more._ I could probably make some fairly accurate guesses about just about anything._

_What kind of tooth paste does she use? Probably organic. Does she wash her face or brush her teeth first? Probably washes her face first-with scent-free organic soap, heh," _He chuckled as one side of his mouth twisted up into a grin.

_Does she open her mail everyday, or pile it up until it falls over onto the floor? Nah - she opens it right away. Bet she uses a letter opener, too! Does she always wear the same pajamas, or put on a clean set every night? Never wears the same sleepwear more than two nights in a row, I'll bet. Pajamas ... Hm. _At that point he wondered what she might be bringing to wear Tuesday night. _Maybe something short and sheer with little bones dangling around the fringe … nah!_ He couldn't see that, even for Brennan._ Maybe something long and shiny, soft, delicate? _He realized he had no idea what Brennan would consider sexy. This is something they'd never talked about. She'd never said, _I feel sexy in this dress … or these pumps make my ass look great. _

Booth bunched his lips to the right and chewed on the bottom one while pondering this question. Then, of course, he got lost in thoughts about what _he_ thought looked sexy on her. _Practically everything, _he decided, feeling what he assumed was a fairly goofy grin spreading across his face. Then he thought about the pajamas he changed her into at the Larinaga's house. Then he thought about her panties. Then he couldn't help thinking … well … things just went south from there because he is a man after all … and she is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen or ever loved.

Eventually he jammed his eyes shut trying to clear his brain and forced himself to focus again on his hotel reservations.

The room he reserved for her was a single on the third floor. For himself, he reserved 'The Grand Suite' on the eighth floor which touted a double-sided fireplace facing both the bedroom and the living area, a king sized bed with a panoramic view of Seattle, and a shower for two _plus _a fancy bathtub like the one in Brennan's single. From Tuesday forward they would continued using his room only, though it would then be their room together. But until Tuesday, he didn't want her to even see it. Hence the separate floors. Booth couldn't help a satisfied grin from stealing onto his face. It would be perfect. And she would be completely surprised.

_We'll have to make up an excuse for not staying at the Holiday House Inn and Suites the Bureau and Jeffersonian have reserved for us. Maybe an infestation of bedbugs … or a broken water main. Something. Note to self: Confirm Hotel 1000 reservations before leaving D.C. _

Quietly rolling onto his side toward Brennen, he scooted up beside her as close as he could without touching her. He carefully and quietly sank his elbow into his pillow and rested his temple against his open palm. Leaning forward without making a sound, he let his eyes drift closed as he inhaled, filling his nasal cavity with the intoxicating sent her hair, the skin of her exposed shoulder, and the knit of her blanket which was drenched in Bones-y sweetness. His head swirling, he sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes and smiling contentedly. For a moment, he thought he'd gotten away with this little indulgence.

"Did you just—_smell _me, Booth?" This was the wide-awake full-volume deep voice from a body that had yet to move a muscle except those involved in breathing.

_Busted,_ he thought to himself chuckling lightly. "_Yep," _he responded with a quick rakish lift of his eyebrows that she couldn't see, but heard in his voice.

"Hm," he heard her grunt. "Well, you know what they say about turn-about," she said, "It is only fair." Brennan slowly turned over and propped her head up on her fist. They were close, but not touching. This arrangement reminded her of another such morning a mere week ago. That was the morning after Vincent Nigel-Murray's death, and the first time she'd brailled Booth's features. _That was a very different morning than this one,_ she thought to herself. _The world was monochromatic then; tenuous, fragile._

"Are you saying you want to—_smell _me?" Booth asked with an amused snort.

"Booth," she said adroitly, raising a perfectly-shaped eyebrow, "primates employ all five senses when collecting data to evaluate potential mates. It ensures not only compatibility, but successful survivability of their progeny."

"Hm," Booth grunted, amused.

"The sense of smell plays a particularly significant role in mate selection in that it detects pheromones which are associated with emotions and sexual attraction. Also, and perhaps more importantly, researchers have proven that women prefer kissing partners whose immune system proteins are different from their own. Hence, whatever immunities one mate may lack, the other could potentially provide. This ensures their offspring will receive a well-rounded genetic profile most conducive to fending off all manner of contagions."

"Interesting," grunted Booth, more amused by the depth of her knowledge on this topic than the content itself.

"Yes, _very _interesting," she responded with a nod, her eyes widening. "As a matter of fact, scientists believe that as a female inhales the scent of her potential mate while kissing him, she is able to detect these proteins and it informs her level of interest in the candidate," she continued eagerly.

"Wait, so, if a person is stinky, does that mean they won't be able to find a mate?"

"On the contrary, Booth. Someone will be attracted to that scent, even if the majority find it repugnant," she said. After a moment, she stared at him soberly. "Why? Am I emitting an unpleasant aroma?"

"Nope," he says decisively as he leaned forward and passed his nose in front of her a centimeter from her shoulder, her neck and her cheek without touching her even once. "Definitely not," he grinned.

"Well," she said, content with his answer, but shooting him a quizzical glance. "As I said, input from all five senses are taken into consideration in the selection of viable mates."

"Is that so?" His lips twitched into an amused grin. "And—how's that?" _I love you, _he thought. _I am never bored with this woman._

She shrugged with her exposed left shoulder as she considered her response.

"Yet another of your little anthropological mating rituals?" He grinned, clenching his jaw, then pursing his lips, feeling a tickle in the bones below his ear lobes.

"Absolutely," she confirmed with a confident nod and a dry tone, her own amusement evident in the sparkle of her eyes. _Good Lord. He's not wearing a shirt. His sheet only covers half of his body! Delicious, _she thought, using one of her own five senses to evaluate him visually. Clenching her jaw, she allowed her eyes to graze over his chest and shoulders … willing herself not to indulge in other sensory explorations … those of touch and taste, to be specific.

Finally, she looked back up lazily into his eyes as carnation-sized blotches bloomed on her cheeks and spread down the sides of her neck. _Frontal bone_, she thought, letting her eyes wander over his forehead,_ zygomatic process of the temporal bone, _then his strong cheekbones_. Mandible, mental tuberocity._

"You just brailled me with your eyes," he accused her quietly as he watched her turning crimson as she looked him over. _"You _are checking me out," he chortled, cockily.

"Just evaluating you for—compatibility," she teased him defensively, finally allowing a smile to spread across her face.

"Hm," he grunted. "So—remind me again what the five senses are?" He asked, feigning ignorance, as his lips curled at the corners in a tantalizing smile.

Brennan stared at him for a moment, noting his smug enjoyment of her involuntary physiological reaction to his near nakedness.

"Audition, gustation, vision, tactition, olfaction," she said rapidly in a clinical tone, then smirked. "Hearing," she said, pausing to drag a finger over the curve of her left ear. She continued repeating the list more slowly using more pedestrian language. "Tasting." Inserting her index finger into her mouth and resting it in the center of her tongue, she closed her lips around her finger and extracted it, making a smacking noise when the finger passed backwards through her lips.

_Jesus, _he thought, swallowing loudly, his stomach doing somersaults as his neck began to heat up. He recalled that he'd told her Friday that she was way out of her league where teasing was concerned. That was when he'd conducted his first panty raid after she'd whispered in his ear that she may have forgotten to wear any panties that day. This morning proved again how very wrong he was about that! He shook his head in awe.

"Touching." She continued, running the nail of her index finger down her own jawline from in front of her ear to her chin, then continuing down her neck and across the exposed skin peaking over the edge of the front of her pajama tank. This, of course, caused an impressive wave of goose bumps to sprout across her chest, not to mention the much larger and more pronounced bumps that became evident a couple of inches south of the neckline of her pajama tank. She was still wrapped in her cocoon, but when she'd turned over some of the blanket had loosened, giving her room to move more freely and giving Booth a decent view of the gifts mother nature had bestowed upon Temperance Brennan in the curves department.

_Oh. My. God. _Booth thought, closing his eyes for a moment, and shaking his head slightly. _This is going to be a Very. Long. Day._

"Seeing-" she said in a sultry tone when she continued again, raising an eyebrow and brailling him a second time. She took her time. Booth began to squirm, his own neck getting hotter by the minute. "And smelling," she said, leaning forward right up to, but not touching his neck. She inhaled fully, exhaled with a serene smile, and said, "Mmmmmmmm. Eau de Morning Booth. Yum."

"Oh, I'm in so much trouble," whined Booth, teasingly, covering his eyes with his free hand. "You are not going to make this day easy for me, are you?" He said rolling backward with a mock worried grin, his eyes still covered.

"You wouldn't have it any other way, Booth, admit it!" She cajoled him coyly with a quick eyebrow raise and a dip of the chin.

He looked over at her, gave her his own coy half-smirk and said, "If this were 24 hours from now, I'd unwrap you like Christmas present and take you on the sensory experience of your life."

"Oh, yeah?" She asked, chuckling, amused by his swagger.

"Hoh, yeah," he nodded confidently with a smirk like a rock star getting down with his bad self, complete with the squinty eyes, furrowed brow and the jutting puckered lips.

"Promise?" She said in a droll tone, without skipping a beat.

He shot her an exaggerated, wide-eyed surprised and pained expression. It said, _What? You don't believe me? _Rolling back onto his left side toward her, he leveled her with a determined stare. "You may have forgotten that two can play at this game," he said, almost threateningly. It was most definitely a gauntlet being tossed to the ground.

"Oh ... _I _haven't forgotten."

"Then you better prepare yourself, because … I'm very good at this," he said with a mysterious air. "It's one of my super powers."

"Bring it, baby," she said confidently without flinching, jutting her chin in challenge. "If you dare."

Leaning forward, he lifted her chin with the knuckle of his right index finger. "Whoa," he chuckled in a low tone. "You're on," he whispered as he dragged his lips across hers, then covered her mouth with his and tasted deeply with the third of his five senses. In response, Brennan got so lost in the kiss that when he pulled away, she fell toward him until he caught her with a hand on her shoulder and righted her. She had to shake her head to get her breath back.

"Three down, two to go," he said, enjoying the affect his kiss had on her.

"Three of what?" She gasped, still reeling.

"Three out of five senses," he said. "I have two senses left in my evaluation of you as a suitable mate."

"Oh, no. You're done," she said, leaning back. She wasn't giving him any more opportunities to win points in this little game of cat and mouse.

"What? I've got two more senses left!" He insisted, clenching his jaw, the corners of his lips curling into an amused sneer.

She shook her head and smirked at him teasingly. "No, no, no. You've already smelled me, seen me, and tasted me. You are listening to me right now, and a moment ago you touched me with your lips and index finger." She wiggled her eyebrows and shot him a sly grin. _Gotcha! _"You are done!"

"Oh, no, no, no!" He parried, shaking his head. "You … are mistaken, Princess. These examinations should not be taken lightly. They should be conducted carefully and thoroughly, one by one. The choosing of one's mate is a very serious task. The success or failure of the Booth family line is at stake here—" He had adopted a mock serious tone, one that was not going to back down.

She puckered her lips and turned her head away from him, squinting back through her eyelashes. "Hm," she grunted. "You make a valid argument," she conceded thoughtfully, one side of her lips curling up in amusement. _There are no losers in this kind of competition. I'll let this one pass._

"Right," he said, slightly surprised that she agreed with him so readily. "So, I still have-let's see," he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling contemplatively. "I've heard you, that's true. I've seen you. I've definitely smelled you," he ticks each one off on a finger. "I've kissed and tasted you. You need to brush your teeth, by the way," he tossed toward her with a chuckle before continuing.

"Me? Ha!" She gasped as she pinched his cheek and playfully gave him a little slap, then rolled her eyes and gave him a stare that said, you shouldn't be picking on other people's breath first thing in the morning. "Your decreased volume of lactoferrin and lysozyme-producing nocturnal saliva, Booth, has allowed perhaps as many as eighty species of bacteria to proliferate and metabolize sulphur-containing compounds which produce what some consider a distasteful odor as well, pardon the pun. I hope that will not deter you in the future from early morning intercourse involving kissing, because I find starting a day with a generous dose of oxytocin in my bloodstream to be quite satisfying."

"Okee dokee, then. So," he said, rolling his eyes and moving on, "I still need to touch you," he chuckled, bringing a palm to his mouth, breathing into it, then smelling to test his breath. He shrugged.

"Hm. What did you have in mind?" She stared at him suspiciously. This could get very interesting, she thinks. "What time is it anyway?" She tried to peek past him, but couldn't see the clock on the bedside table to his right.

"It's 6:12," said Booth, glancing to his right. "Plenty of time for what I have planned."

"Oh, right," she grunted sarcastically. "Just like a man to think five minutes is enough time to complete a task that deserves forty-five minutes at a minimum!" She chuffed, rolled her eyes again, and shaking her head in mock disgust.

"Oh, now _that,_ of course," he agreed, raising his eyebrows and knowing she meant _Tuesday pie_, _"That _would most definitely require more than five minutes. However, I was thinking more along the lines of this," he said scooting closer then rolling right on top of her. He rocked her side to side so he could get his arms completely around her, pinning her arms to her side.

Looking straight ahead, he stared at her clavicular notch. If he looked up, he could kiss her neck and the delicate underneath of her chin, unless she dipped her head toward him, in which case he could land a delicious kiss right on her lips. And, of course, la pièce de résistance— if he dipped his own head he would find himself two centimeters above the mountainous holy land which was fairly significantly augmented by the pressure he was applying to her mid section with his boa constrictor-like full-body grip. "Oh, how I love my life," he murmured, chuckling.

"Agh!" She yelped, giggling and screeching when he sunk his nose into her cleavage. "You! I'm certain this is not what the elders of the Timü-tu tribe had in mind when they recommend their progeny wisely choose the vessel for their future generations. Agh!" She yelp-screamed. "You bit me, Booth!"

"Oops! I guess I did," he said unapologetically, licking then kissing the red mark he'd created right in the middle of the soft, creamy, squishiness straining over the left side of her pajama tank. He grinned up at her as he chuckled as if to say, _Oops! _Then, dipping his head back down into her cleavage, he bit her on the other side!

"SEELEY BOOTH!" She screamed. It almost hurt, but didn't. It actually felt kinda good. Actually, it was stinkin' hot! She swiftly turned red all over, her entire chest, neck, face and ears on fire. "I am not sure, hah, how to respond to what you are doing. Ungh! Do you intend—AGH!—" He'd done it again. "Do you intend to draw blood?" If they weren't being so silly, this situation might have caused her tank top to burst into flames, but as it was, the heat was well matched with a great deal of frivolity. They were just having too much rambunctious fun to focus on getting all hot and bothered in a serious way.

"Think about _**that**_ during your 9:15 meeting at the Jeffersonian," he hissed toward her ear before planting his nose in her cleavage again and groaning happily.

"Aggggghhhh!" She screamed. "That TICKLES!"

He scooted up further and rubbed his chin and jaw all over her neck, throwing in several wet kisses and a nibble or two. An onlooker might say he looked like a mother cat giving her kitten a bath, but with kisses, so thoroughly did he cover her in love nibbles. When he took a moment to breathe and look up at her, their eyes met. She was still chuckling. He smiled rakishly, sunk his face into the crook of her neck and landed several loud, slurpy, raspberries, earning him several shrieks, groans and giggles from his prey.

With that, he jumped off of her and headed toward his bathroom.

"You, _Temperance Brennan_, have been thoroughly evaluated," he tossed back just before closing and locking the door.

"Wait! Booth!" She yelled, wriggling out of the cocoon that was wrapped around her. "Did I pass? Booth?"

Her question was drowned out by AC/DC playing on Booth's travel radio. She chuckled and rolled her eyes as she heard Booth's falsetto singing along over the din of the shower spray.

_"She Was A Fast Machine_  
><em>She Kept Her Motor Clean<em>  
><em>She Was The Best Damn Woman<br>I Had Ever Seen …"_

_If I were a betting person,_ she thought, _I'd bet $50 that he's also playing air guitar in there._

_"Knockin' Me Out With Those American Thighs …"_

_And I would win, too, _she chuckled to herself.

_"Taking More Than Her Share_  
><em>Had Me Fighting For Air<em>  
><em>She Told Me To Come But I Was Already There..."<em>

Rolling her eyes, she snickered as she headed for her own bathroom to take a shower.

The last thing she heard before crossing the threshold of the guest bedroom was Booth singing at the top of his lungs:

_"'Cause The Walls Start Shaking_  
><em>The Earth Was Quaking<em>  
><em>My Mind Was Achin<em>  
><em>And We Were Making It <em>  
><em>And YOU ...<em>  
><em>Shook Me All … Night … Long!<em>  
><em>Yeah, she shook me!<br>Yeah, YOU! Shook me all night long …!_

When she heard Angus and Malcolm Young slide into the guitar riff with a drawn out bow, wow, wow, she sent a prayer to the universe that her partner didn't slip in the shower and crack his head against the porcelain ledge of the tub if he tried to do a lunge along with his electric slide air guitar.

.

.

.

Once they'd arrived at the Jeffersonian after being tested for all manner of undesirable sexually transmitted nasties, tests which they both passed with flying colors, Brennan headed briskly toward her office with Booth right on her heels. Once seated and ready to get to work, she turned to Booth and attempted to dismiss him in a very proper tone.

On the drive over to the Jeffersonian, Brennan had become preternaturally quiet. She'd barely looked in his direction.

"Remember," she'd said in a hollow tone, _"this _is just ours," she gestured, waving her hand between the two of them. "When we are working … we are just Booth and Bones. Partners. Friends. Nothing more." She had paused and looked over at him, seeking agreement. She wore a forced blank expression, the only smile she gave him was the one reflected in her eyes as she reached across the console to slip her hand in his, squeezing his fingers quickly, then looking out the passenger-side window as she pulled her hand away.

He knew this was important to her. All joking aside, he could respect that. He had reached back across the console between them and taken her hand back. He'd pulled it to his lips, and quickly kissed it, saying, "You got it," then released her. She had been staring out her window, a mild smile playing on her lips as he kissed her hand. When she turned to face him, he smiled and winked at her. She had nodded slightly in response. She'd decided that if she didn't look at him for long, she could keep a straight face. This was going to test all of her powers of concentration. But she could do it. This was one of _her _super powers. What she wasn't sure of, however, was whether or not her mate would be able to act calm, cool, and collected while in heat.

"The meeting is at 9:15, Booth," she said clearing her throat and regarding him coolly as she sat primly at her office desk.

"Are you inviting me to leave?" Booth stared at his partner and chuckled.

"It's not an invitation. The implication was that you are not needed in my office at this moment. It is up to you what you do between now and 9:15. You will see me then. I expect you to be prompt for our meeting with the team." She said all of this in her usual haughty academic manner, but Booth could see the gleam in her eye that belied how much she enjoyed him being there. She was trying to remove temptation from her vicinity, and trying to be inoffensive about it … but maybe not trying hard enough.

"What, so now you're the boss of me?" He pointed to himself as he chuckled incredulously.

Noticing him interpreting her expression, she blinked away the gleam and glared at him, to which Booth then tented his eyebrows and gasped, then chuckled sardonically.

"Why?" He asked teasingly with a smirk. "Why am I not needed here?"

"You … there … isn't there something case-related … Booth, I need to focus!" she stage whispered, her lips barely moving as she tried to maintain a facade of indifference.

"What does that have to do with where I choose to spend the-" he glanced at his watch, "the couple of minutes between then and now?"

"You know very well what, Booth," she said in a low tone, as she looked away from him toward her computer monitor and input her password. She inhaled and paused as if she were going to say something more, but then exhaled, saying nothing. Booth planted his hands on the edge of her desktop and leaned toward her.

"Go away," she said, clenching her jaw as she turned away from him and clicked open an email. "Go throw a ball in the air." She pressed her lips between her teeth so she wouldn't laugh or snort. She continued to stare hard into her monitor, seeing nothing.

"What if I don't want to?" He'd said under his breath, taunting her.

"Of course you don't want to. You can't resist me. That's why you have to go. Now go!" Again she spoke quietly but firmly, but now she couldn't help responding to the tickle in the back of her jaw forcing her to grin from ear to ear into her screen. When he didn't move, she turned partway toward him and gave him the stink eye which she couldn't sustain for long, so she swung back toward her monitor.

Picking up the phone, and without breaking eye contact with Booth, she dialed Cam and waited for her to answer.

"Good morning to you as well, Dr. Saroyan. Booth is on his way to discuss something about the-something about the case. I will see you at 9:15?"

She hung up the phone.

"Wha-?" Booth's jaw dropped.

Brennan smirked and released a low chuckle. Game. Set. Match.

"What if I'm _not _on my way to Camille's office?" He challenged her attempt at controlling him, his brow wrinkled in disbelief. "What if I really do have other important things to do?"

"Like what?" She countered, raising her left eyebrow, challenging him back.

"Well," he stammered, searching his brain for something clever; coming up empty-handed. "Um, I have to use the facilities."

She stared at him quizzically, crossing her arms and leaning back, then tilting her head to the side.

"I have to make a pit stop at the john," he said quietly out of the side of his mouth. "And-and I have some calls to make," he said smugly.

"Please," she said softly, closing her eyes. "Please go, Booth. I need to concentrate." She looked up at him, pressing her lips together. "Please?" She whispered, biting her lip, trying not to smile again. She turned back toward her computer screen.

Booth glanced toward her office windows ensuring they weren't being observed. He then rounded the desk and came up behind her chair. She sat up straight in a alarm, her eyes bugging out. She scanned her entire wall of windows, seeing no one, and exhaled nervously.

Bending slightly, Booth grabbed hold of the arms of her chair, and whispered into her ear causing a tingling sensation to shoot through her like a heat-seeking missile. "I think _you're_ the one who can't resist _me_," he cajoled quietly in a confident tone. "Wow, from here I can see right down your blouse, smell you, taste you, hear you, and kiss you all at the same time," he said then grazed her earlobe with a sweet little nibbling-peck as he inhaled the unique mixture of shampoo, soap, lab coat, and sexy anthropologist all at once.

"Oh, my God. You love toying with me."

"Yes," he sighed into her ear, "I do." He then slowly stood up, jutting his chin to the left and then the right as he adjusted his tie. Turning toward the platform, he sauntered over to the door. "You might want to button that blouse up one more notch," he tossed back at her.

"What?" She gasped. "Don't think you are going to influence how I choose to dress myself just because we're-" she began somewhat indignantly.

"Go take a look in the mirror," he suggested tolerantly as he stopped in the door way, made a 180 degree turn, braced himself against both sides of the door frame, and leaned back into the room. Catching her eye, he sent her a twinkle that felt like a cool, soothing kiss against her hot cheek. His lips pressed together in the suggestion of a sweet yet sincere smile, he winked at her, leaned back and forth one more time, then turned on his heel, and walked away in the direction of Camille's office.

"Whew!" She'd exhaled completely after he left, unaware that she'd been holding her breath. Swiveling her chair so she was facing the back wall, she closed the Banty Solicious file folder and fanned herself with it. She'd always found Booth rather pleasing to look at and be around, but the pheromones pulling her toward him now were much more concentrated, an elixir or perfume, rather than the watered-down cologne of only a week ago. _This might require more concentration than my usual dogged focus on work, _she murmured to the empty room.

Remembering what he said about her blouse, she glanced down at her chest and almost choked when she saw two distinct red blotches on either side of her chest. Bite marks. Just inside the open sides of her blouse. THere was a third and smaller one, but further in where only she could see it. "Holy epidermis!" She choked, grabbing at her buttons and pulling the sides of her neckline together. Putting her palm to her forehead, she closed her eyes and did her breathing exercises. _I can do this. I can do this. I have to do this, _she repeated to herself until she was completely calm.

.

.

.

"Hey Bren! Where's Booth?" Angela waddled into her best friend's office at 9:05, shooting Brennan her customary broad grin. Angela had every intention of getting to the bottom of the story about Hannah's note. She was also curious what romantic inroads might have been made between Brennan and Booth during their little trip to the city of brotherly love.

"Angela, our meeting isn't for another ten minutes," replied Brennan unemotionally, glancing up from the Banty Solicious file in front of her with a slightly quizzical expression on her face. Having been deep in case notes for the last twenty minutes, Brennan had established an unshakable focus. "I assume the skeletal matrix for our rogue proximal phalanx is ready for the meeting? We'll need that as well as the full skeletal, and augmented images of both Aleesha Grimes and our mystery female who may, or may not, prove to be Miss Banty Solicious."

Looking away from Angela and gathering all of the case folders, Brennan continued flatly, "This morning's meeting can only last about forty-five minutes as Booth and I have a plane to catch at 1:35—why don't you sit down? The additional stress on your first through fifth lumbar vertebrae is most significant during this trimester of your pregnancy." Brennan stood and dipped her chin, the corners of her mouth turned down, her eyebrows pinched together. "Fortunately, the vertebra most affected by your additional girth possess neither facets nor transverse foramen." She stared expectantly at her best girlfriend.

Angela stared back, smirking, but made no move toward Brennan's couch or any of her chairs.

"Angela, I assure you, sitting will in no way increase the likelihood of either Spondylolysis or the crushing and pinching of your vertebral arteries, veins, and sympathetic nerves. Besides, the excess volume of estrogen and relaxin released from the placenta into the bloodstream has softened your joints and ligaments to facilitate the changes your body is undergoing. But, again, those ligaments remain very strong, virtually guaranteeing the continued alignment of your lumbar vertebra during a multitude of possible activities you may engage in during your pregnancy." Once finished, Brennan pinched her lips together making them disappear altogether against each other.

_"Oh, hello, Angela!" _Exclaimed Angela with a mocking smirk for her best friend. _"How have you been, Ange, my BFF with whom I share all my most intimate secrets?_" Angela said, cocking her head to the left. "Oh, I'm pregnant, Bren," she answered herself, cocking her head to the right. "There is no way to be anything except enormous, hungry, and tired. And how are you, Bren?" She cocked her head back to the left. "_Oh, I'm wonderful because Hannah is out of the country and I had passionate mind-blowing monkey sex with Booth in Philadelphia." _

"Oh, I see what you're doing," said Brennan nodding slowly, controlling the pace of her breathing which elevated only slightly in response to the mental image Angela just shot into her brain. "You're holding both sides of the conversation, right?" She broke into a soft smile and forced her shoulders to relax. "And you are trying to remind me that social pleasantries and the possible sharing of intimate secrets between friends is expected upon return from several days of abstinence—uh—absence," she said, shaking her head slightly as she blinked. "Is that accurate?"

Angela nodded as a droll smile-smirk slowly inched its way across her broad amused perfectly-glossed lips. She caught Brennan's eyes, which had been evasive up until now. Neither woman said anything for a moment. "So?" She prodded Brennan eventually, one lovely black eyebrow arching delicately toward her hairline.

"So—why don't you sit?" Brennan pointed toward the conversation pit by the coffee table in her office.

"Sweetie, there's no guaranteeing you'll ever be able to get me up once I sat down. No, I'll just stand. I'm just here for a minute anyway," she said, placing the back of her other wrist on her hip. Angela considered her friend. _Something definitely is different. She has more color. Was she out in the sun? No—it's not that kind of color. She kinda—glows. Holy crap they did the nasty! They did the nasty! Wait until I tell Jack! _She said to herself biting the inside of her lip on both sides to squelch a delighted grin.

"So—what?" Brennan feigned innocence, her expression controlled and blank. She swallowed and cleared her throat before taking a sip from the coffee Booth bought her on the way in this morning.

"So, confirm or deny. Let's hear it," said Angela commandingly. "You. Booth. Philly. Alone in a hotel. What gives, sister?"

Brennan clenched her jaw, trying to prevent the hint of a sly smile from peeking through. Her capillaries had already revved their engines quite early this morning and had already been visited by a marathon of blood cells chasing each other through her system like children playing a game of Tag.

"Are you—Sweetie!" Exclaimed Angela. "I do think you are looking a little pink," she observed with a delighted lilt in her voice. "I don't think I've ever seen you spontaneously just—burst out in full bloom like this!" Angela took a step closer to Brennan, alarming her. Brennan leaned back to maintain the distance between them. "Wait, this isn't one of those episodes that you went to the doctor for before you left?"

"Well—"

"You aren't sick are you? Don't tell me you really ARE perimenopausal! " Angela's shoulders dropped as she looked on in concern. "Nothing's wrong, is it? Are you sick? You aren't sick—are you? Or, is this about Hannah? What did that stinkin' Barbie doll write in her note? If she was lying to me, I will break her dainty little—"Angela didn't stop long enough for Brennan to answer as she swept a glance over Brennan's features and made an assessment while trying to keep her Hannah-centered frustration under control.

Brennan stared back at Angela, blushing, speechless, trying to swallow a medium-sized ball of panic in her throat. In a flash, she reviewed her options and their potential consequences.

_1)Tell Angela everything—but, no, she'd want all the details. The privacy I want to preserve would evaporate like the morning mist when hit by the clear summer sun._

_2) Tell her something did happen, but that I'm not ready to talk about it just yet. No, Angela will want more details. Telling her that, and then cutting her off would be the worst kind of tease!_

_3) Tell her nothing at all. Avoid the topic of my relationship with Booth. Put the whole thing off for just the next two hours, then leave for the West and don't worry about it until we get back. But the topic will come up; that's the problem!_

_There has to be another option._

_4) Lie. Booth says people tell white lies all the time. Interesting option …_

"I swear sometimes, Sweetie, trying to figure you out can be like the game of Twenty Questions or Charades," Angela said, shaking her head disappointedly. When she got no reply, she sighed and leaned against Brennan's desk.

"Okay, here goes. Sounds like manna," began Angela in an exaggeratedly friendly voice as if speaking to a child. "Like with Moses in the Old Testament—falling from the sky. Manna—rhymes with Hannah. See how that works? Then, uh, float—and boat—I know—Mote! What rhymes with all of those—_note! _Hannah—note—see how those go together?"

"Yes, Ange," Brennan blurted finally. "Of course, it's about Hannah." _This isn't a complete lie,_ she assured herself, though it still felt uncomfortable. Her philosophy has always been never tell lies, and you won't have to worry about keping track of them. Even this small lie gave her a feeling of discomfort in her upper chest.

_This is exactly what I was afraid was going to happen,_ she told herself. _Dammit, Booth! Now I have to lie! Dammit, excrement, bovine testicles wrapped around a frost-bitten pole. AGH!_

This entire internal dialog happened in a matter of seconds, but it felt like minutes to Brennan. Practicing her breathing technique, she continued. "It appears Hannah's note was a concession speech of sorts. She is leaving for Afghanistan. Not simply for an assignment—she's leaving for good."

"I see. And—" Prodded Angela.

"Uh, and—" Brennan nodded slowly, buying time to censor her words lest she accidentally reveal something she didn't want to. "And—she, she wanted me to know that she appreciated borrowing my sunglasses."

"What?" Angela's jaw dropped in astonishment, her shoulders slumping. "Is that all?" She looked at Brennan who was avoiding her gaze. "There's more to it, isn't there, Sweetie? Come on, I tell you everything. You gotta let me in. Look, I'm as big as a house and twice as miserable. I eat a gagillion calories every day and I still go to bed hungry," she pleaded in a pathetic tone. "And I'm driving my poor husband crazy. I need something to be excited about that doesn't require me having a twelve inch needle shoved into my spine!"

"Angela," relented Brennan, furrowing her brow compassionately, "Hannah said something about the sunglasses not really suiting her … or, that they never felt like they were really hers in the first place. I'm paraphrasing." Brennan knew this wasn't the exciting news Angela was digging for, but it was all she was willing to give her. _I have a right to my privacy! _

"Well. Huh," said Angela, her tongue touching the roof of her mouth as she absently considered the possible implications of Hannah's words. "Clearly, she wasn't talking about the sunglasses, Bren. She meant Booth." Angela paused, her mouth hanging open. This is new information for her. She shook her head in disbelief. "Damn! She must have some pretty nasty karma to make up for. Who does that? Who-sends a 'he's all yours' note to an ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend? I mean, this is a woman who's even still in love with said old boyfriend, I might add. That is messed up! Where's the note? Lemme see the note," she said, wiggling her fingers at Brennan excitedly.

Disoriented slightly for a moment over the fact that she just lied to her friend about why she was blushing, Brennan started to reach for the note.

"Ange—I have it right here," said Brennan. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out several pieces of paper, none of which were Hannah's note._ Booth has it!_ She remembered. Brennan had written her reply to Hannah on the back of Hannah's note and Booth had asked if he could keep it. _It's probably in his back pocket right now, _she mused. This thought put a little light in her eyes, though she hoped Angela didn't notice. Brennan stood and attempted to shove the pieces of paper back into her pocket, but one fell onto her desk. Before she was able to retrieve it, Angela saw the handwriting and recognized it as Booth's chicken scratch.

"What is that?" Angela's eyes grew large in surprise and delight as she scooped Booth's note off the desk. Before she was able to see anything more than_ 'B-OX'_ through the thin paper, Brennan grabbed it out of her hands and jammed it deep into her pocket, carefully extracting it without any paper sticking to it.

"Oh, it appears I am mistaken. I don't have that note after all," stammered Brennan. "Booth must still have it. I showed it to him. It is probably that he threw it away. _That isn't entirely a lie. There is a .5% possibility he threw it away, right? _Brennan assured herself, self-consciously fingering the top button of her blouse, hoping the bite marks were hidden from view.

"Was Booth pissed?" Angela rasped with a gasp as she covered her mouth, her eyes large and impish. "Ho! I would have loved to see that. Was he? What did he say?"

"Uh, _no," _stammered Brennan again. _Should he have been? _She wondered suddenly. _What did it matter now? _She mentally shrugging off that thought.

"Well?" Angela stared at Brennan with rapt attention. "Spill, Mamacita. Dish!"

"Angela, it appears I've gotten lost in the colloquialisms of your command. What is it specifically that you want me to do?"

"Details, Sweetie! Cough up the deta- I mean, _share_ the details with your BFF here who weights two thousand pounds, eats twice that weight for breakfast, and hasn't had any decent drama to keep her entertained since she dropped her keys in the parking lot right outside her car door and had to call her husband to come pick them up for her because she was afraid that if she bent over or stooped down to get them she'd tip over and land on her head thereby not only being alone and in distress, I'd also be mooning my pregnancy granny panties to an entire flock of blue jays and the cable guy down the street who was up in a bucket fiddling with wires.

Brennan stared at her blankly, unsure if this was a joke, or if Angela really dropped her keys in the parking lot and couldn't pick them up.

"You're not telling me everything, Sweetie!" Angela finally exclaimed, frustrated, as she squinted at Brennan. "What is going on? You have an expression on your face that I have never seen in the whole time I've known you—"

"What? I do not!" Exclaimed Brennan, gathering her folders and walking around her desk without meeting Angela's eyes. "That is absurd. I look how I always look."

"You have an utterly _uncertain _expression on your face. An expression that could only be put there by—"

Of course, at that moment Wendell stuck his head inside the door.

"Everything is ready for the demonstration, Dr. Brennan."

"Thank you, Mr. Bray. I am on my way right now. Please find and inform Agent Booth that we're just about ready," she said, then reconsidered. _Is that something I would usually say?_"Or, or don't. Do whatever you would usually do, Mr. Bray," she said swallowing as she walked briskly past him leaving Angela and Wendell looking slightly confused. In the distance they heard the faint sound of someone's falsetto voice singing a verse from an AC/DC song off the best-selling hard rock album of all time: Back in Black, 1980.

_"And YOU ..._  
><em>Shook Me All … Night … Long!<em>  
><em>Yeah, she shook me!<br>Yeah, YOU! Shook me all night long …!"_

Eventually, Wendell shrugged and took off to find Booth.

"Oh … _gossip interruptus,"_ chagrined Angela disappointingly as she stomped out of Brennan's office.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you to all my marvelous dedicated followers, especially those who leave me their wonderful comments after reading!<strong>

Eryngrace94, KatBonesCrazy, pasha54, boneslover29, brensfan, kdgteacher7, JBCFlyers68, Dyna63, flute1952, DWBBFan, yenyen76, JayBee188, FaithinBones, Becksbones, dlh, strawberry79, Tori9226, daniellejoy07, Aveburygirl, tanee2003, EveyEve1215, coterie2, Cremant, Alicia9876, BonesBooth, grandma bones, tessdancer, fantasyfanatic13, daisesndaffidols, Tess, yoshimi0701, OhSnapItzAmelie, sarahlizlangas, mef1013, elmasuz, ILuvBonesNDool, TraciM, manicpixiedreamgurl, soliloquy81, Michelle, crys82, bostonlegalgirl, Diko, hillhappy, Martreiya, Fluffybird, eire76, Marebear, SylviaAlexis, Someoneslove, bogie31757, lildeedee80, Melissa, soxgirl69, mclure, fofie675, and the lovely caracoleta07.

Now RUN, don't walk ... to _**Chasing Cars: A S7 Retrospective Story**_

_But, feel free to stop along the way and leave a review for  
>This chapter:<br>The Sense in the Sensibility!_

_~ M-OX  
>~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter<em>


	204. Testosterone Rush

**Author's Note:  
><strong>You would not believe the shennanigans I had to go through to get this chapter completed!Hubby went out of town for four days, leaving me home alone with the twins 24 hours a day. If I were a drinking woman, I'd have been inebriated and comatose every evening at about 9:30 ~ however, I had this chapter to look forward to. Unfortunately, kids are EXHAUSTING! So... my evening writing orgy didn't come off as productive as I'd hoped. Now, hubby is home and expecting all my attention to be on the prep for a twelve day vacation out to Yellowstone National Park so I've been sneaking into the bathroom with the laptop to tap out a paragraph here, a conversation there ... and I finally have this puppy ready to kick out of the kennel!

**_NOTE: I am going on a two week vacation with my hubby, AKA, The Spaniard, and my 9 yr old twins, Carolina and Zakari. We are heading to Yellowstone National park to camp, rent a house, see the Grand Tetons, and a bunch of other fun stuff. If I get to post between now and then, it will be nothing short of a miracle!_**

* * *

><p><strong>Warning - Pre-Chapter Rant following. Profanity and vulgar language inappropriate for small children and puppies.<br>**  
>I believe what comes out of our mouths, the tips of our pens, and the tips of our fingers as they tap on a keyboard, says much more about us by the choice of our content and who we share it with than the content's empirical meaning. If I have given the impression that I think I am better than Hart Hansen et al (2004-2012), then I have failed in my attempt to pay hommage to the wonderful multi-dimensional characters and fascinating storylines they have provided for our entertainment for lo these past seven years.<p>

For the most part, I try not to contradict canon, but instead, hope to provide fluffy content to fill in the gaps left by too little time, limited resources, and unlimited stake-holder constraints that all commercial television producers/writers/directors/actors are faced with on a daily basis. Please know that that was not at all my intent-to be better than them. As if. *shakes head and grimaces, then rolls eyes in a highly dramatic fashion, almost falling off my chair in the effort to do so*

Do I have an elephant-sized ego? Oh, hell yeah. I can barely get it through the door sometimes. Do I love my story and think it's one of the best ones out there? Totally! (Does that make it so? Hell no, are you kidding me? *snort* but that I believe it is, is what's important.) Why? Because I believe all life has purpose. I believe that writing and the stupidity it requires are a big part of my purpose. Yes, I said stupidity - anyone who has two brain cells to rub together knows better than to allow others to see what goes on in their heads. Unfortunately, I was born without those two particular brain cells. *shrug* So, I have a lot of pride in my writing because IT IS HEALTHY FOR PEOPLE TO BELIEVE IN THEMSELVES. Whatever YOU do, Dear Reader, that you believe fulfills your purpose, the gift that God (or the universe - or just biology) gave you to make a difference in the world with ... I sure as _hell_ hope you take the stand that you are The Shit at it. The bomb. The cat's whiskers. The apple of the world's eye. The answer to The Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything. As a matter of fact, I hope you are so high on sweet love about your skill, your gift, your purpose that you can barely stand yourself.

And do you know why I hope that for you? Because it takes elephant-sized testicles to live inside and act upon the purpose that God (or the universe or biology) put us here to fulfill! Yes, it does. And if you don't believe you are good at it, no one else will ... and they will miss out on what God (insert your preferred deity or non-deity) intended you to provide to ... maybe only one other person or perhaps even to the multitudes. It takes balls. And there are a lot of people out there (people with tiny balls or no balls at all) who are going to try to poke a stick at YOUR balls to make you look small, silly, and irrelevant when they should be spending their energy at the gym growing their own pair of nads.

Why all the ranting? Someone with a rather large, sharp stick felt the need to publicly deride my writing and me personally. Unfortunately, this is what happens when you put yourself out there. You don't have to like what you read here, folks. You don't have to like me. Think whatever you want about either one of us. But if you have shit to fling for the sake of flinging it ... I have a couple of suggestions for where you can fling it and I guarantee you won't like them. Me, I have work to do, and I don't have time for you. Unfortunately, it appears you don't either.

**Rant over. **

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><p>Woot! It really is MONDAY! After Monday ... comes TUESDAY! WOOT! WOOT! WOOT! Okay - this chapter is just a bit of fun and then a bit of case. Enjoy! ~ M-OX<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 204 Testosterone Rush<strong>

Dr. Camille Saroyan, on her return trip from Dr. Goodman's office, dashed into the first restroom she could find. Having already downed three cups of coffee by 7:15 this morning, she couldn't hold it any longer, not even to make it to the comfort of her own private restroom.

Upon leaving the restroom, she noticed the lab was unusually quiet for a Monday morning, or was it just that she'd had a disgustingly early meeting with Goodman and wasn't used to being in this part of the lab until eight-thirty?

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted movement in Dr. Brennan's office. This did not surprise her. She was accustomed to Brennan working during regular hours, but also any other time she felt like it. Since returning from Maluku, Brennan had seemed to _feel _like it a lot. Then, immediately following Booth's proposal to Hannah, Brennan rarely left the office at all, except briefly for fieldwork with Booth_—_usually _very _briefly.

Camille had a reputation for being extraordinarily dedicated and having exceptionally high expectations of every person under her command. Dr. Temperance Brennan, however, made Camille look like a feather-weight. Rather than finding it intimidating, Camille felt a great deal of pride in having the world's most highly sought-after anthropologist as a member of her team, their team together_—_to be more accurate. Brennan was also one of a handful of people Camille counted as her closest friends. Though Brennan has never said as much, Camille knew Brennan would say the same about her.

As far as the powers that be were concerned, the bottom line was that Brennan made the Jeffersonian look good, and that made Camille look good. These things combined were good for D.C. and good for the people it was home to … and that kept them all in good standing with the city, the politicos, and the old money that kept the city prosperous and abuzz with activity.

Needless to say, Camille wasn't surprised to see Brennan already at work in her office this morning. In fact, she didn't pay any attention at all until, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something big and black leaning across Dr. Brennan's desk. Curious at what it could be, Camille stopped in her tracks, leaned back to see past the platform, and realized what it was. It was Booth, hands planted firmly on the edges of Brennan's desk as he leaned toward her. They seemed to be in the midst of an intense discussion of some kind.

"Oh, for crying out loud. If those two are arguing again, this is going to be a very long meeting." Camille rolled her eyes and headed for her office. "Please, Jesus. Please, Sweet Jesus," she mumbled to her empty office, "Please let those two get along."

Over the last number of months Camille had witnessed far two many prickly exchanges between these two. She knew this was their way of finding their way back to each other after the tumultuous year they'd just had. She just hoped they didn't kill each other in the process.

_When two bulls battle, it is usually the ground beneath that suffers, _thought Camille, remembering the old African saying. She also desperately hoped the team at the Jeffersonian didn't become collateral damage beneath _these _two battling alphas.

Camille shook her head and smiled to herself as she took her seat and rolled up to her computer monitor. She had every confidence everything would work out well between Brennan and Booth in the end because she knew Seeley better than just about anyone. That is, she did until he met Dr. Brennan. Camille had never seen anyone understand or so thoroughly appreciate, accept, and love Seeley Booth as Temperance Brennan had. For Booth's part, he had shared things with Brennan that he'd never shared with Camille–and Camille had been one of his closest friends for the better part of two decades. Camille had also never seen him so powerfully affected by a woman that he went out of his way to prove his love for her, then to try to flush her from the chamber of his heart he reserved only for his soulmate when she was unwilling to move forward in their relationship, and finally, rather than make her unhappy, he agreed to die a slow death of his own by agreeing to continue working beside her.

Though others disagreed with her, Camille knew Seeley would never stop loving Brennan; she knew he didn't really want to. Camille suspected that after Booth learned about Brennan's feelings for him, he subconsciously wanted the Hannah ordeal to be over so he could get back to Brennan. However, knowing this subconsciously didn't make it any easier on Seeley's very conscious and battered heart.

Seeley was one of the best human beings Camille had ever known. He had an impeccable character and a moral compass that drove him to tirelessly seek justice for those who couldn't get it for themselves; those whose lives had been cut short by the depraved criminals Seeley fought hard to capture and incarcerate. He possessed a strong sense of self, a reverence for life, and a fierce loyalty which he extended unwaveringly to his country, his family, and the few people he took into his heart and held there. Seeley's most endearing quality, in Camille's opinion, was his belief that love had the power to conquer all.

Booth and Camille had been a couple at one time in their youth, and then again, briefly, shortly after she came to the Jeffersonian. That he and Cam had never actually been _in love _had been somewhat of a disappointment for Camille, but the heart can't be told what _to _do any more than it can be told what _not _to do, so their affinity for each other had turned into a solid platonic relationship for both of them.

_If today doesn't go well, _Cam told herself Monday morning, _I'll have to sit down and have a talk with Seeley. This case already spans the United States and will soon have the attention of the national media, _she thought to herself as she clicked aimlessly on the hyperlinks that flashed on her screen. Dr. Goodman and the suits at the FBI were already expecting a shit storm to begin raining down on the whole lot of them creating a whole mess of pressures to get this case solved and put to bed as soon as possible._ We can't afford to have the two hearts and brains at the center of this operation sparring with each other! Sure, _Camille told herself,_ Seeley and Brennan will eventually work everything out, but I need them to do it now, as in—YESTERDAY!_

Before she could complete her next thought, her phone rang and Brennan's extension flashed across the display.

**~OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo~OoOoOoOoO~oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO~**

Booth left Brennan's office listening to the electric guitar solo introduction to AC/DC's song from earlier that morning in his head. He twirled invisible drumsticks in his hands then began bobbing his head to the beat. Adding his own percussion-ary "_Tchhh tch, tch TCHH, tch TCHH" _accompaniment beginning on the 32nd note of the guitar introduction, he crossed his right wrist over his left and tapped the cymbals to the two-four beat with the end of one invisible 16.25 inch Vic Firth American Classic hickory drumstick. With his other he knocked out the rhythm against the surface of the snare drum floating dead center in his imagination as he walked in front of the deserted Medico Legal Lab platform. When he could no longer resist the urge to sing, he broke out in a meager falsetto:

_"She Was A Fast Machine_  
><em>She Kept Her Motor Clean<em>  
><em>She Was The Best Damn Woman<em>  
><em>I Had Ever Seen—"<br>_  
><em>"She Had The Sightless Eyes<br>Telling Me No Lies _  
><em>Knocking Me Out<br>With Those American Thighs—"_

Beating his thumbs and pinkie fingers alternately against his thighs while rocking his head to the beat, he extended his left arm out to his side as if cradling the long slim neck of a bass guitar, then bent his right arm and plucked its strings with a limp-wristed right hand as he channeled Angus Young in a performance that would put Eddie Van Halen to shame. Turning on his heel, he decided to make that stop at the restroom he'd alluded to earlier. _Take that, Bones, heh, _he thought to himself as he began the next verse.

_"Taking More Than Her Share_  
><em>Had Me Fighting For Air<em>  
><em>She Told Me To Come<br>But I Was Already There—"  
><em>  
><em>"'Cause The Walls Start Shaking<em>  
><em>The Earth Was Quaking<em>  
><em>My Mind Was Achin'<em>  
><em>And We Were Making It And—<br>_  
><em>You … Shook me—all—night—long!"<em>

Still jamming to himself in the restroom, Booth noticed the wonderful acoustics supplied by the tile floor and walls of the small enclosure. He also realized he couldn't remember the last time he felt like singing in the bathroom, other than earlier this morning, of course. _Man, I missed out on a lot of good stuff this past year. No wonder I wasn't that fun to be around, _he thought. _Thank God that's over with. And, thank God tomorrow is Tuesday! Speaking of Tuesday—_

Thoughts about what Tuesday would bring brought him back to AC/DC's lyrics …

_"Working Double Time  
>On The Seduction Line <em>  
><em>She Was A One Of A Kind<br>She's Just Mine All Mine"  
><em>  
><em>"Wanted No Applause<br>Just Another Course_  
><em>Made A Meal Out Of Me<br>And Came Back For More—"  
><em>  
><em>"Had To Cool Me Down<br>To Take Another Round _  
><em>Now I'm Back In The Ring<br>To Take Another Swing ..."_

What Booth didn't realize was that the wonderful acoustics in the restroom also acted as a megaphone, broadcasting his vocal stylings to anyone within fifteen feet of the restroom. Fortunately for him, only Hodgins appeared to have been subjected to that next round of the chorus:

_"'Cause The Walls Were Shaking_  
><em>The Earth Was Quaking<em>  
><em>My Mind Was Aching<em>  
><em>And We Were Making It And You—"<em>

Exiting the restroom mid-verse, Booth found Hodgins standing in front of the platform gripping the lower half of his face as he leaned against the platform and his shoulders bounced almost uncontrollable silent laughter.

"Dude, you're in a—_really—_good mood this morning!" Hodgins cajoled with an enormous lop-sided grin as he tried to catch his breath. "I don't think I've _ever_ seen you quite this—uh—" He shrugged, at a loss for words. _"—Animated_ when it didn't involve firearms or food. Is that a Stratocaster you're cranking on there?" His shoulders continued to bounce as he attempted to get a handle on his composure.

"Oh, uh," stammered Booth, unnerved at being caught acting silly, "Well," said Booth, dropping his guitar, clearing his throat, and adopting a more reserved demeanor. "No, Precision Bass."

"Don't stop on my account, Agent Booth. Sounds like you were on a roll," chuckled Hodgins.

"Yeah, got this stupid song in my… Hey! What's that?"

"Isotope analysis and mas spec findings indicating that the rogue phalanx was at one time covered in several layers of Butyl acetate, ethyl acetate," he explained as he glanced back in his file folder, "nitrocellulose, acetyl tributyl-citrate, adipic acid/neopentyl glycol/trimellitic anhydride copolymer, stearalkonium bentonite… uh, you don't really care about this stuff, do ya', Booth?"

"Not really, no," he answered, shaking his head and chuckling as he pulled his lighter out of his pocket and absently flipped it opened and closed, making a light hollow metallic _swish-click, swish-click_ noise before dropping it back into his pocket.

"So, what's got you jamming on the _Fender P-Bass_ this morning?" Hodgins asked then turned toward Wendell who'd appeared behind him pushing a rolling cart of gruesome-looking body parts. On the top shelf of the cart sat a very real-looking human head, minus the hair, eyes and lips, made out of Spam sheathed in clear latex. Below lay a cranium with a curved spinal column extending from the cranial base across the length of the shelf. The bottom shelf contained a variety of what appeared to Booth to be torture devices.

"Woah, what's that?" Asked Booth warily as Wendell pushed the cart up to them.

"Agent Booth, good to see you," smiled Wendell. "This is the head of Banty Solicious, our victim," he said, smiling. "No—!" He hurriedly continued when he saw Booth flinch, his chin wrinkling, his lips twisting into a disgusted grimace, and his eyebrows casting a shadow over his eyes. "It's a—a dummy, a mock-up, a bust, if you will, Agent Booth. It's not real. Dr Hodgins and I have been using her to simulate what might have caused the damage to the cervical—"

"Woah, woah, there Buddy," interrupted Booth, his lips puckering as he swallowed hard, and raised a palm toward the squints. "Don't steal your own thunder. Save it for the meeting," he said plaintively, filling his cheeks with air as he slowly exhaled.

"Oh, good point," agreed Wendell nodding. "Hey, did I just hear some … AC/DC coming from your direction?"

"Booth is in an uncharacteristically—chipper mood—this morning," cajoled Hodgins, flitting his eyes from Booth back to Wendell, then grinning.

"I'm not _chipper,_" objected Booth with a smirk. "Birds and teenage girls are _chipper._ I'm simply pleased that—_life_—" he said, nodding once, "still has good things to offer us—well—_me at least_, on a Monday morning. I can't speak for _Banty_ here." Booth nodded toward Wendell's cart and thrust his hands into his pockets. He ran his fingers through their contents, pulling out a pair of translucent orange dice with white dots and _'Fabulous Las Vegas' _printed on them. He expertly and absently twirled the dice between the fingers of his right hand as the silence stretched between the three men.

"You gonna tell us, or are you gonna make us guess?" Hodgins asked, smiling expectantly.

"Guess about what?" Booth asked, furrowing his brow.

"What's got you—_pleased_—this Monday morning?" Hodgins asked, giving him a semi-sarcastic glance.

"Oh. Well," Booth said, regarding the two squints as if trying to decide if they were trustworthy. "Okay, riddle me this, Hodgins," he said, deciding he might as well get this over with. "What, more than anything else in the world, makes a man feel truly like a man. I mean, gets your blood pumpin', your skin tingling, your brain on cloud nine, huh? Anyone wanna guess?"

"Well … " Hodgins began hesitantly. "I'd say a woman, but it's not like you to kiss and tell, so … I'll guess—" Hodgins paused for a moment, cocked his head to the left as he took in Booth's expression and demeanor, looked into Booth's eyes and squinted. As if the brainstorms of a thousand light bulbs flashed above his head, Hodgins' eyes flew open wide. "Oh—my—God," he said, slowly grinning in disbelief. "You did it, didn't you?" He asked, crossing his arms and scratching the well-manicured three day stubble on his chin.

"What? What'd he do?" Asked Wendell wanting in on the revelation as he glanced from Hodgins to Booth.

Booth's eyebrows jumped as a sly conspiratorial grin stole across his face and was directed toward the entomologist. He crossed his arms and rocked back and forth on his heals twice, sucking through his front teeth making a high-pitched chirping sound.

Without once looking away from Booth, Hodgins spoke in a low voice filled with awe. "Our man Booth has been jonesing for this honey—and I mean—_sweet, sweet perfection of a honey_—well—as long as I've known him," he said, raising his brows and shrugging as he said it.

"What? A honey?" Wendell's brow furrowed, his lips twisted into a pucker, and his cheeks raised as his eyes formed an uncomprehending squint.

"He finally bought that—oh, say you did, Booth. Please, say you did." Hodgins closed his eyes reverently and smiled, then opened his eyes and raised a hopeful brow at Booth who was now grinning toward the floor. "You bought that Maroon and Cream, 4-speed manual convertible with the black leather interior," he said in a low reverent tone once again. As his eyes drifted over to meet the squintern's, he said, "Wendell, my man, we're talking about a '61 Vette with 230 horses under the hood, original working gauges and Wonderbar AM radio, hubcaps and wide white wall radial tires. How much that baby set you back, Booth? Hoooooh, say you did it," he begged, rubbing his hands together and pinching his lips between his teeth in anxious anticipation. "Bet she purrs like a new born kitten when you rev the engine." The gleam in Hodgins eye was almost maniacal. "Ohhhh. I can just smell the leather!" He crooned, inhaling deeply and sighing on the exhale.

"Oh, Hodgins," Booth chuckled lightly, shaking his head slowly left to right. "First of all, it's not a '61, it's a 1960 Vette, and it's not just maroon, it's _Honduras _maroon." Booth paused to let Hodgins sweat for a beat before he continued. "However," he said, nodding, "you over-shot just a_ leetle _bit," he chuffed, holding up his thumb and index finger to pinch an inch of air in front of his own eye ball. "I didn't win the lottery, Hodgins. That Vette would set me back fifty G's!"

"Oh, man. You had me going there for a sec," chagrined Hodgins, dropping his shoulders and rubbing his forehead. "In that case, I got nothing," he grimaced, tossing a hand in the air, "unless it really was a roll in the clover with another kind of honey—" he shrugged.

Booth grimaced and glared at Hodgins, stopping him before he finished that sentence. "No, Hodgins, it's not that, either," said Booth sarcastically, then rolled his eyes and unintentionally glanced back toward Brennan's office briefly, feeling a little warm around the collar. Hodgins noticed Booth's Brennan-ward glance and took note.

_Woah. I saw that! What was that? _Jack asked himself_. That was automatic, a knee-jerk reaction, if I ever saw one! I can't remember the last time I saw Booth look toward Dr. Brennan at the suggestion of sex. That's gotta mean something. I gotta tell Ange._

"I suppose you wanna guess, too, Sport?" Booth nodded toward Wendell, ignoring Hodgins' inquisitive expression.

"Okay, uh, if it's not a vintage car or a woman … I'd say it's gotta be season tickets to the Flyers," Wendell offered confidently.

Booth rested his hands low on his hips, his index and second fingers sliding into his pockets, and shook his head. However, season tickets to the Flyers was a very good guess, Booth had to admit as he looked up at Wendell, considering changing his answer.

The sliding glass doors swished open as Sweets breezed in, the doors swishing closed behind him. All three men swiveled at the waist toward Sweets as he approached.

"Morning! Meeting out here this morning?" Sweets greeted the triad, covered his mouth with a fist as he yawned, and stopped right in front of them.

"In a bit," offered Hodgins, with a nod, "in Ange's office. Angelatron's in there," he said in explanation.

"I see," said Sweets, pressing his lips together and nodding slightly as if he'd just received a grave piece of information. Sweets nodded in response. "So, what's going on out here?"

"Agent Booth is making us guess why he's in a good mood this morning," explained Wendell jovially with a slow charming smile.

"Hm," grunted Sweets, resting his hands on his hips, puckering, and nodding at the group. "I see." He smiled at Booth expectantly and nodded, then at Wendell and Hodgins. "I see. I see," he said pensively. "So?"

"Well," stammered Wendell, looking at Hodgins, then back at Sweets, "the only clue we've been given is that it's something that makes a man feel about as manly as possible."

"Hm, interesting," grunted Sweets, casting a scrutinizing glance at Booth, then training his eyes on Wendell. "What do you think it is?"

"I suggested some kind of sports," admitted Wendell, shrugging. Sweets flicked a glance at Booth and noted his non-reaction to Wendell's suggestion.

"I figured it had to be this sweet 1960s Vette he's been lusting after." Hodgins explained. "It can't be the sating of another kind of lust. Mr. Smooth here isn't really the kiss-n-tell kind," he cajoled with a droll half-smile.

"Unh hunh. Unh hunh," said Sweets, noting Booth's non-reaction to guess number two and nodding introspectively. "Well, the key lies not in what would manifest itself as an affirmation of masculinity for any adult male … but what would have a great deal of significance for Agent Booth specifically," he said extending an open palm and nodding once toward Booth.

Booth shrugged and grinned smugly, even though he wasn't so sure he wanted Sweets participating in this game. _Sweets knows too much. But nothing is going to bother me this morning, not even Sweets, _he told himself.

Sweets crossed his arms and fingered his invisible goatee between his thumb and first two fingers.

"Now, Hodgins, while you might find an antique automobile affirming—"

"Yeah, baby!" Hodgins intoned with an enormous grin.

"And, you, Mr. Bray—" Sweets extended his palm toward the younger squintern, "Would perhaps feel a testosterone rush from the acquisition of tickets to a sports function involving a favored team," he said, rotating fully toward Wendell. "Both are commonly regarded as significantly masculine in nature, the possessing of which might reinforce a man's assurance of his own masculinity."

"And Sweets, here, would just like some manly facial hair," chuffed Booth, snorting.

Sweets grimaced back at Booth with a fake appreciative smile, then his eyes shifted to Booth's right as Angela approached without slowing down.

"Meeting in ten," called Angela as she walked past the group on the way back to her office, then stopped and retraced her steps to join them. "What's going on here? Don't tell me, I don't want to know," she said rolling her eyes, smirking and turning to leave.

"Ange, Booth is in an uncharacteristically chipper mood this morning," Hodgens said. The rise of his brow and the suggestive glance at his wife told her she'd find this interesting and should stick around for a minute. He glanced over at Booth who caught his eye and gave him a stern look. Hodgins blanched slightly and shrugged back at Booth. "I mean—"

"They are trying to figure out," began Booth, smiling at Angela, "why I am in a good mood on a Monday morning." Booth swung his left hand forward, palm-up, tossing the two translucent orange dice straight up into the air, then swung his right hand forward, palm-down, and grabbed them out of the air, all in one fluid move. He then shot a broad grin and a quick cocky eyebrow shrug at Angela.

"Wow," Angela cooed with a lilt in her voice and an amused grin as she appraised Booth's demeanor. "You _are_ a perky little camper this morning, Booth." She gave him a broad toothy grin complete with a sparkle in her eye and the raise of an inquisitive eyebrow. "Well," she stated as if it were a proclamation, "That's easy enough to figure out. Our G-Man is dishy and delightfully turned out this morning," she drawled approvingly, giving Booth a once over. "It's obviously because … _Hannah—has—left—the—building—for—good," _she stage whispered enunciating every single syllable as she looked straight at Hodgins. "I know that little nugget of fabulousness has already put a little bounce in my buggy this morning," she said, with a droll smirk as she turned and left the three men standing staring after her.

"Nice, Angela. Real charitable," said Booth sarcastically after her, smirking. "But wrong," he added when the other three pulled their eyes away from Angela's retreating backside. He tossed the dice and plucked them aggressively out of the air once again, this time thrusting his hands deep into his pockets.

"Uh, as I was saying …" recommenced Sweets, absently straightening his tie and ignoring Booth's discomfort over Angela's comment. "Agent Booth is a different kind of man. I suspect his elevated mood this morning is associated with the acquisition of something to augment the experience of relaxation, perhaps something ephemeral, consumable, in a manner of speaking."

"What's that supposed to mean, Sweets?" Booth blurted. "Sounds like you're saying I've been smokin' wacky tobacky, or something!"

"Oh, no, no," said Sweets, trying to sound assuring. "What it means, Agent Booth," he continued shoving his hands in his pockets in an attempt to mirror Booth's behavior and restore the previously tranquil tenor of the conversation. "What it means is that it is most likely a coveted bottle of your favorite spirits … perhaps an eighteen year old single malt whiskey, or, perhaps it's a vintage graphic novel. Two items a man could enjoy while relaxing in the privacy of his own cave."

As Sweets made his guesses, Booth stood with his feet a shoulder's width apart, staring at the floor, listening carefully to the other man's assessment and grinning agreeably. Of course, the real reason Booth was in a great mood was that he woke up this morning next to his fantasy and then used all of his five senses to test her for compatibility as his mate. And, true though it may be that he had every intention of thoroughly enjoying spending time with Brennan in the privacy of his man cave, he had no intention of admitting to it here this morning. _Though she has already proven to be quite delicious,_ he thought, putting his hand to his mouth and smiling to himself, but _she certainly is not consumable. Well, not really, _he thought, feeling himself getting warmer around the collar, and clenching his jaw to squelch a grin from stealing onto his face.

Hodgins and Wendell stared at the top of Booth's head and waited for him to respond to Sweets.

Booth chuckled.

Hodgins and Wendell looked at each other, then at Sweets, then back to Booth, who finally looked up at all three men.

"So very close you came, Sweets. But … nope. No cigar," he said smugly with a quick cock of the jaw to the side. "And, no, '_Dr. Words Always Have to Mean More Than They Really Do'_, it's _not _a cigar either," said Booth, shooting Sweets a gently reproving smirk. "Though, I could go for an Arturo Fuente Anejo … "

"Ahhhh," sighed Hodgins, "Rolled on the thighs of Dominican virgins. Sweet. Whoaaaaaaaa," he growled, approvingly.

Booth and Hodgins exchanged a knowing glance, and a prolonged grin. "I've never actually had one, but I've heard about them …" said Booth with a jovial smirk.

"Dominican virgins?" Sweets asked, surprised at this comment, not that Booth hadn't had one, but that he'd actually say it so crassly.

_"Noooo,_ Sweets, the very rare, very expensive, _Arturo Fuente Anejo Cigar._Those babies go for about $20 a pop. Over $500 for a box of 25!" Booth exclaimed with a snort.

"I had one once," Hodgins said dreamily, pulling on his lower lip, "and I'll never forget it."

"Then … what," Wendell said, furrowing his brow. It was a statement, rather than a question, his tone suggesting he was saying it to himself rather than the group. He decided to approach the mystery as if investigating the cause of a particularly interesting striation on the surface of a three hundred year old femur.

Sweets simply shrugged and smiled in amusement as he observed the group dynamic of these three men together

"If it's not a woman, not a vintage set of wheels," said Wendell, listing the options on the table, "And not anything to do with sports, not facial hair, or a single malt whiskey, or a cigar rolled on the thighs of virgins." He couldn't help grinning self-indulgently at this final option. The three other men chuckled at Wendell's comment and stood in companionable silence for a moment, enjoying the thought of all those wonderful things God put on this earth for man to enjoy. "I don't know, Agent Booth," Wendell said, "The combination of all these options sounds like a recipe for a really great weekend—" He shook his head and shrugged in resignation. "I can understand quantum physics, but when it comes to another man's gray matter," he admitted, tapping on his head, "it's not as easy to figure out. I fold."

"I never said it didn't have _anything _to do with sports," cautioned Booth, cocking his head to the left, but keeping his eyes trained forward on the group of players and saying nothing more.

"I bet Dr. Brennan could figure it out," Hodgins mumbled to himself as he pulled on his bottom lip and squinted off into space. Sweets squinted for a moment, then grimaced and nodded in agreement at this suggestion.

"Dr, Hodgins, I thought you said Agent Booth and Dr Brennan weren't—" Wendell said quietly out of the side of his mouth until he was stopped by a stink eye catapulted at him by Hodgins.

"Out with it, man," cajoled Hodgins, coughing to cover up Wendell's comment. "Enquiring minds what to know … what is it that makes a man like Special Agent Booth of the Federal Bureau of Investigations feel more manly than anything else in the world?" Hodgins put his arms across his chest and rocked slightly side to side. _This had better be mind-blowing, _he thought, _for all this build-up._

Booth looked at all three men indulgently, as if he were about to unveil the Holy Grail.

"Okay, " he began, removing his hands form his pockets as he excitedly eye-balled the platform. Walking three feet toward the steps of the platform, then back one, he said, "Picture this … a hundred three inches on the diagonal, huh? That's from about here," he said pointing down at his right foot, "to right there. See that right there?" He pointed at the moss green handrail on the ascending platform steps and looked back at his colleagues. Then, he slashed an invisible diagonal from above his head where he stood all the way down to the opposite corner at the base of the moss green pole. "Plasma TV; full high def res at 1,920 x 1,080 pixels—4,096 shades of gradation—"

"Of course, electronics. I should have guessed," murmured Sweets, grinning and tossing a hand into the air, letting it smack when it landed back on his thigh. He half turned and grimaced at Wendell, shaking his head.

"3D real sound with Built in WI-FI. Twelve train speakers and a connective dongle," continued Booth, his eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree.

"What the hell is a dongle?" Hodgins queried, furrowing his brow suspiciously. "Are you sure there is such a thing as a dongle? That sounds like something a marketing flunky at Sony came up with just to get a couple extra hundred bucks out of ya'. Are you sure it's a real thing?"

"It's a Panasonic, and who cares what a dongle is?" Blurted Booth in falsetto. "Do you have any idea how big 103 inches on the diagonal is?"

"I'm a scientist, of course I know—" Hodgins said defensively.

"It's about ninty-five inches wide," Booth interjected, not to be out done. "You could fit FOUR 42 inch plasmas inside this baby. You could pack fifty basketballs across this thing."

"Not all at the same time—" objected Hodgins until he was stopped by the stink eye Booth shot him

"No! Of course, not all at the same time," Booth said in a snarky tone as he propped his fists on his hips and stuck his elbows out to either side, "but you could definitely, without a doubt, fit the basketballs _or _the four 42 inch plasma TVs inside this baby!"

"Dr. Hodgins, see how Agent Booth is putting his hands on his hips? It makes him appear physically bigger and therefore more intimidating. That indicates he's attempting to show dominance. It would be wise to—"

"Who asked you, Sweets?" Booth spat, in a weary tone laced with sarcasm.

"Well, what's it do, man? The dongle? I never pay for anything I haven't thoroughly investigated absolutely everything about. That's why I never pay more than what something is_ really _worth."

"Sometimes a man just wants to walk into a store and buy something without asking enough questions to write theme paper for one of your little science magazines."

"Dude, I'm just sayin'!" Hodgins cocked his head to the side then shook it side to side, adopting his well-known conspiracy theorist tone of voice. "Consumers like you are the reason companies get away with charging a hundred fifty per cent mark-up on everything from—"

"Why do you do that, Hodgins? Why do you have to go and damage my calm with your suspicious mumbo jumbo, huh? For your information, I did my research, okay? _Months_ of it. I _know_ what a dongle does, I just don't want to explain it to you … and for your information, I got this baby at a _severely,_ I mean _scandalously, _reduced price. As a matter of fact, I got it for the same thing any of you other guys would walk into the store and buy a 65" Panasonic HD TV for."

"I never go into stores. I buy everything on-line," muttered Hodgins defensively.

"How'd you manage that?" Asked Wendell with an openly curious expression on his face, deep vertical lines appearing between his eyebrows.

"Yeah, how _did _you manage that, Agent Booth? Your psychological profile doesn't give any indication that you would be comfortable—"

"Sweets—why do you have to bring the psychology of my personality into every conversation? Sometimes when man gets a good deal, he just gets a good deal—it doesn't mean anything about his personality!"

"Booth, that's a spread of about—what? One, two thousand dollars. You must have some pretty rad price-negotiating mojo to get that kind of—"

"I am a constant surprise, Sweets. Don't we have a meeting to go to?" He asked turning around to face the direction of Angela's office.

"I'm just saying that would take—"

"What, you have to insult my mojo now?" Booth accused Sweets defensively, turning back to stare at him.

"Put your peckers back in your pants, people," snarked Dr. Saroyan as she walked briskly through the circle of men on her way back to her office without stopping. "Yes, I said peckers, gentlemen," she said loudly without looking back at the men whose mouths hung open in surprise. "We've got a meeting in less than five minutes. No one will be late!"

"Whoa," said Booth, his eyes flying wide open. "She's pissed. She only uses language like that when she's really pissed. Or, under a butt load of pressure." Booth turned and took a step in the direction of Angela's office. Sweets did the same, falling in beside him.

**"**Agent Booth, I'm intrigued by this latest development and how you got that TV at such an amazingly—"

Booth continued walking without even acknowledging Sweets presence beside him.

"Oh, you didn't do it yourself did you?" Sweets said smugly, almost to himself. "Dr. Brennan had something to do with it, didn't she?"

Booth shot a noncommittal sideways glance at Sweets and kept on walking.

"I take it by your silence that this is a touchy subject for you. Does it perhaps have to do with the disparity between your and Dr. Brennan's financial—"

Booth stopped abruptly and perched his fists high on his hips, then turned on Sweets. Sweets stopped and swiveled to face Booth. His eyes traveled across Booth's extended arms, calling attention to his attempt at establishing dominance. Booth smirked, made a clicking noise with his mouth, then crossed his arms awkwardly. Sweets smirked back and shot Both a look that said, _How is that any less obvious? _

Booth dropped his arms and simply stared at Sweets.

"Uh, moving right along," said Sweets, his eyebrows pinched in concentration. "Uh, I wanted to offer—if you need any further assistance while you are out in Washington … please don't hesitate to call-"

"Yeah, I'm gonna need a narrowed profile of this psycho bastard who likes to kill young women, let maggots gnaw on their guts until there's nothing left, then jumbles their bones together before burying them on opposite coasts," said Booth.

"I was referring to, uh—" Sweets started, then looked from one of Booth's eyes to the other, trying to read his receptivity to discussing the topic of Booth's relationship with Brennan.

"I know—" Booth said, turning away but looking sideways at Sweets. "I know—what you were referring to, Sweets, and, I got it covered," Booth said quietly as he nodded once, confidently, and thrust out a hand to hold him off. "Okay? I got it. We won't been needing any—" he shrugged and grimaced, "assistance. Okay? We got it." Booth turned 45 degrees toward Angela's office and stood there, making no attempt to move, however.

"Okay," Sweets said slowly, trying to read the older man. He blinked several times, then nodded. "Okay. Excellent," he said, with a slow smile. "I believe you do have everything under control."

"And, you'd be correct, Sweets." Booth sighed heavily, scratched his forehead, relaxed his shoulders, and turned back toward Sweets. "We do," he repeated with finality. He dipped his head and nodded again. "We really, uh—we really do," he said, smiling slightly.

"Then let's get to our meeting, Agent Booth," said Sweets starting to walk toward Angela's office.

"It's just that," said Booth, pausing, still not moving. "I was having a really nice morning—" He sighed, and looked at the ground between himself and the psychologist.

"Why is that important to you?" Sweets asked, quietly. "Did you have a disagreeable night? Not sleep well?"

"No?" Booth said, his mouth twisting into an uncertain grimace as he thought about that awful nightmare. "My night was fine, my sleep was fine …" he said, unconvincingly.

Sweets waited patiently, ushering Booth over to the side as Jeffersonian employees began to pass around them along the corridor.

"It's just …" he started, his hands low on his hips, his shoulders relaxed as he squinted at the ground again. "You know," he flit his eyes up at Sweets then past him out the window. "That session we had. At your office last night—"

"Yes, Agent Booth," Sweets said patiently, looking away from Booth to provide a sense of privacy for what appeared to be something Booth considered sensitive, private, but important enough to risk sharing. "What about it?"

"Man, it was, heh, exhausting!" He chuckled uncomfortably.

"Ung huh," grunted Sweets, bending his head to look down, but peeking up at the other man through his lashes.

Booth swiveled at the waist to look around them. No one was really paying attention to them, so he stepped closer to Sweets, looking like he was going to say something, but then didn't. He wasn't sure what he really wanted ... but it had to do with his nightmare last night. It had been creepy. Booth couldn't help wondering if it would happen again and if maybe ... well, he didn't know. It was just creepy.

He wanted to be whole for Brennan. He didn't want 'creepy' skulking into their relationship. Brennan had been open with him about her frightening black box and the furry yellow object it contained. Booth suspected the box, nasty though it appeared, might have been protecting its contents, rather than hiding or detaining it somehow. The moment she'd said it was yellow and furry, he suspected the material was fiberglass. Assuming it was her heart wrapped inside the fiberglass cover was an easy leap, considering they had talked about her fiberglass-wrapped heart several times over the previous twenty-four hours. So, he'd figured it out while they were still in Sweets' office, but something inside him knew that the answer to this riddle wasn't for him to solve; it had to be discovered, unwrapped, layer by layer, by the person whose heart was at the center.

Booth's nightmare was about his own stinky black box, metaphorically speaking. Booth just wasn't sure yet what to do about it, if anything. Sweets had reminded them, ad nauseam, last night that communication was not just important, it was crucial, and that remaining mute to protect the other would end up hurting them in the end. _So what to do?_ He made a decision: _If it comes up again, maybe I'll tell Sweets about it. If it doesn't ... no harm, no foul, right? _Then he had another thought._ Why tell Sweets? Bones is my partner. We are getting good at this stuff, me and Bones. I'd rather talk more with Bones about it than Sweets. Though, she didn't have much to say about it last night ... other than that she'd moved past it and that we have grace and a bunch of other stuff. _Then he felt stupid._ I'm worrying over something that's really nothing. I just want everything to go right for us! I don't want anything in the way, anything to muck it up! You are a piece of work, Booth Buddy, _he said to himself.

"Is it Dr. Brennan?" Sweets asks, prompting him.

Again, the broad fake smile-grimace of uncertainty about what to say and what not to say. He kept questioning his decision.

"How's she doing? Dr. Brennan?" Sweets repeated carefully, watching Booth's expression for any sign of what might be going on inside the FBI agent's head. He'd wondered if Booth might eventually approach him about his own feelings after last night's session. They'd spent a sufficient time focusing on Brennan's pain last night with great success, but had they really investigated Booth's, Sweets wondered. He knew, however, that he had to be patient with Booth. If Booth needed to talk, he knew where to find Sweets. Sweets' goal this morning was simply to remind him of that fact.

"Better than I thought," Booth said, finally, with a heavy sigh, as Sweets' question pulled him out of his own thoughts. "She wants to think about things by herself for a while." It was a statement, but it sounded like a request for affirmation._ And I have some things to think about as well, it seems,_ he thought.

"That's good," Sweets nodded encouragingly. "Good. Some people benefit from some time to process," he added, wondering if Booth caught that Sweets hadn't said _she needs to process_, but _some people,_ making it an inclusive statement and applicable to Booth as well as Dr. Brennan.

"I mean, we did talk some," Booth admitted, jutting his chin forward, still staring out the window behind Sweets' head, but flicking his eyes over to Sweets face once.

"Well, you haven't had much time. Session went late last night, she left before we did, then you went out, right?"

Booth nodded, looking down then up then away. Booth knew he was probably exhibiting signs of dishonesty, but didn't really care. _Sweets knows I don't tell him everything. It's a staple in our relationship. Meh,_ he thought.

"And we're all here early this morning. It's not like you've had much time, Agent Booth. Give her that time and space we talked about last night," he said in a low tone. "Maybe some time for yourself as well. You never know." Sweets shrugged noncommittally, then flicked his eyes over at Booth's face, then away.

"How are _you _doing, Agent Booth?" He asked nonchalantly.

"Me? I'm fine. I'm great, you know?" Booth rubbed his hands together. "I woke up in a … a _great_ mood, and I feel ... pretty good," he said, as he turned toward Angela's office and the two began slowly walking. "And I have this great new TV, huh?" he said in his full voice, slapping Sweets on the back as they were followed by Hodgins and Wendell pushing his cart of creepy science stuff.

The four men spread out in front of the Angelatron and waited for the rest of the team to arrive.

"You know, Agent Booth," Sweets said quietly, just above a whisper, as they stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the double screens. "In my experience, when a couple ... partners ... whatever ... when they are as bold in self-revelation as the two of you were last night ... these things work themselves out with satisfactory results. I have every faith in both of you."

"Right," Booth said, nodding tentatively and flicking a glance in Sweets' direction. "We've got it covered, me and Bones."

"Absolutely, Agent Booth," Sweets replied with a confident nod as he smiled sideways at his colleague. "No doubt in my mind," he said, then stared straight forward at the Angelatron.

**~OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo~OoOoOoOoO~oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO~**

Booth nodded and chewed on the inside of his bottom lip, lost in thought, just as Dr. Saroyan walked into Angela's office. At exactly the same moment, Booth's cell buzzed. It was a text from Brennan. Booth pulled out his phone and clicked the text button.

_**"It's showtime! B-OX...Which means:From Bones w/Hug & kiss *;)* & That is a wink."**_

Booth smiled to himself as he chewed on the inside of his lip and felt a pleasing warmth creep around his neck. He returned the text:

_**"I no what it means, Bones. I wrote it2U 1st. *Wink* B-OX Oh, & I also no what a *;)* is!"**_

"Where is Dr. Brennan?" Camille asked, looking from side to side at the assembled group. "I swear I just saw her a minute ago ...

"I'm right here," Brennan called as she walked into the room with the Grimes and Solicious files under her left arm. She held her cell phone in her right hand as she stared into the screen and smiled. She quickly typed with both thumbs, pressed send, and dropped her cell into her lab coat pocket. Everyone turned toward Brennan when she walked in the room. She looked up at the group who stood staring at her. "What? I'm not late. It's 9:14 and fifty-three seconds," she said looking at the time on her cell. Booth noticed she'd buttoned her blouse almost to the top and had added a chunky necklace around her collar which lay nicely over the blouse in the vicinity of his bite marks.

Brennan looked through the group until her eyes fell upon Booth and forced herself not to react to his eyes on her. When he looked up from her necklace, however, and their eyes met, it proved challenging, but she maintained her cool demeanor without even cracking a smile. It was when, with everyone's back to him, Booth winked at Brennan and sent her a quick twinkly grin that she felt her capillaries start to stir. Brennan covered her mouth to cough and took a deep breath to calm herself.

Just then, Booth felt a vibration in his pocket and pulled out his cell. Holding it just outside the seam of his pants pocket, he glanced down and opened the text, his neck growing warmer, and the heat beginning to creep down his chest.

**"Did U notice ther R no continuous protrusions/indentations below my gluteus maximus or small of my back? ;)****"**

He quickly texted back and thrust his fist into his pocket, his fingers still wrapped around the phone. Looking up, he saw that everyone was assembled in a semi-circle in front of the plasma screens. Camille stood slightly apart and in front of the group, pressing the send button on her own cell. Per usual, she stood as erect as a flag pole, but her expression was grave. She stood before them in silence looking everyone over. For a moment, Booth thought she was going to say, _"Let's start with a prayer. In the name of the Father, and the Son-, _as she began to make the sign of the that that would be something Cam would usually do, especially in a room of scientists, half of which didn't believe in a supreme deity. However, that's what Booth is accustomed to hearing when a group is assembled like this, smiles sliding off faces, voices dropping to a whisper or ceasing altogether. He knew Cam was setting the tone for this meeting. After the jocularity of this morning, this was a good way to get everyone's heads in the game for this very serious case._ She's as expert at this kind of thing; that's why she gets paid the big bucks,_ he thought with a grin,_ she's always played the part of captain very well._

Brennan felt a vibration in her pocket and slowly reached into her lab coat to retrieve her cell. She lay the phone on top of her pile of files and slanted them toward her chest, shielding her cell from view.

**"U 4got yr undrwr again! What R U Tring 2 do 2 me? Nice necklace, BTW. I know what yr hidng underneath. Thinking bout those bites now ..."  
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Brennan's jaw dropped and her cheeks rose in temperature to a low boil. She swiftly punched in a brief reply with the hand she had hidden behind the files and hit send.

Camille turned a stern eye at her crew and sighed deeply as Booth felt the vibration in his pocket. It took all his concentration to ignore it. For now. Cam looked very serious. He knew she'd kill him if he didn't give her his full attention.

"Okay, people," she began, "All eyes on me." she said, waiting for those who weren't already starting at her to do so. "Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth have five hours of activity to squeeze into two short hours before they take off for Washington state this morning. We've got about forty-five minutes to get everyone up-to-date and clear about their next steps. We're going to need all your focus on this case. That means you as well, Dr. Sweets, and that comes for Deputy Director Cullen. Check with him if you don't believe me," she said nodding toward Sweets.

"No question here, Dr. Saroyan. You have my full attention for as long as you need it," replied Sweets, sticking his hands in his pockets and donning a smile that was not returned.

"Good. Okay. Just to be clear: this is a high profile case, or, it will be in the next twenty-four hours. WE're assuming that's how long it will take for the media monkeys to find out Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth have flown immediately from one crime scene across the country to exhume the body of another young lady whose age, race, and socioeconomic situation as well as time of death are parallel."

"We've had cross-jurisdictional cases in the past, Dr. Saroyan, what's the big deal about this one?" Hodgins asked, furrowing his brow. Angela shot him a wide-eyed stare. "You _got_ me fully present and accounted for as usual, Dr. Saroyan," he said, apologetically. "No different than with any other case. You don't usually make a statement like that. It feels a little cloak and dagger is all. I am simply curious what's going on."

"It is a legitimate question, Dr. Hodgins, and you are correct, this team always gives its all," Brennan said, pressing her lips into a straight line. "What is anomalous about this case is that the skeletal remains of our victims have been co-mingled. I have never encountered this before. They were also pristine when found, and perfectly laid out as if fully articulated when the soft tissues were removed, however there is no evidence that anything other than the bones were ever at the burial site.

"And," interrupted Booth, stepping forward and turning slightly to the group. "If he did this with two victims, there's a possibility that he did it with more." Before Camille said anything more, Booth figured out why this was such a big deal and had the potential to get really big and really nasty in a hurry: the possibility of a serial killer would be mentioned in the media, putting the Jeffersonian under a microscope with the occasional spontaneous proctology exam using a flashlight and a sharp stick and absolutely no anesthesia. The only warning being a gruff, 'bend over and cough' followed by a the snapping of a latex glove. Ouch.

"I thought there was always a possibility of that ... with any murderer, isn't there?" Angela asked, in a concerned tone.

"No, not usually. Most murders are crimes of passion," answered Booth, speaking toward Angela. "Aimed at a single or small group of people who have enraged the killer. On the other hand, as one might suspect in this case, you have your psychos who kill because they enjoy it or are driven to do it. They kill without reason or remorse and are indiscriminate in the specific identities of their victims as long as they meet a specific profile, or type."

"That is correct," said Sweets, nodding. "In those cases, many times the killer, for one reason or another, has been unable to act upon his feelings of rage or resentment upon whomever originally offended him, and, many times, abused him or hurt him in some other way. As a result, he continues to kill his target's proxies - because the target is either still alive, or still torments him in his mind, if she's no longer living. I assume we are talking about serial killers, Agent Booth?"

Booth puckered his lips, crossed his arms, and nodded gravely at Sweets.

"In this case, we are most likely dealing with a person who has created their own moral code," Sweets continued. "They see themselves as serving a higher purpose, a purpose above the law, which they authored themselves. Sometimes they are adhering to the twisted practices of some..." Sweets grimaced and shook his head, looking for the right word, "some group of people, a cult, or a ancient ritualistic community or collective."

"Absolutely, Dr. Sweets, so we want to put a lid on this thing as soon as possible," affirmed Camille. "We don't need a national panic on our hands. I spent a good chunk of this morning on the dark side of moon with Dr. Goodman and Deputy Director Cullen. They want to know everything about this case when it happens, before it happens if possible. So, once again, I am a diuretic seagull, people. Everything goes through me, got it?"

"Wait, isn't Washington State where Ted Bundy was from?" Angela gasped.

Booth nodded gravely. "Yes, it was. Ted Bundy was euthanized in 1989."

"Booth, _human_ criminals are executed. Animals are euthanized," Brennan corrected him adroitly, with a grimace.

"Bones, I don't think you could find a single person in this room that wouldn't agree that, by those standards, Ted Bundy deserved to be **_euthanized_**."

"Oh. I see what you are doing. You are using semantics to suggest that only an _animal_ could rape, brutalize, asphyxiate, and mutilate over thirty woman. In that case, Booth, I concur," Brennan agreed, nodding once.

"Eww. Ohhhh, and those poor people ... the families that live in Washington. To go through that, and then have to go through it all over again now?" Angela posed the question in a compassionate tone as she frowned, her eyes going glossy.

"It's worse than that, Ange. Anyone ever heard of the Green River Killer?" Hodgins spoke up in a low voice, as he pulled on his bottom lip.

"Exactly," affirmed Booth, nodding sagely. "Now you know why the suits are making a big deal about this. Go ahead, Hodgins," he said, gesturing toward Hodgins with a quick jut of his chin.

"The Green River Killer killed over seventy women and left them along the Green River, up there in King County."

"When was that?" Angela asked, the blood draining from her features. "I'm almost afraid to know."

"In the '80s and '90s. He was caught in '01," said Booth, with a tight grimace.

Angela gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She looked like she might burst into tears or faint. "So, King County has been dealing with serial killers for three decades straight? If I lived there, I'd catch the next flight out of there. Do not pass go. Screw collecting two hundred dollars. I'd be history!"

"There are serial killers all over the world and all across the US, Ange," explained Booth. "Washington State is no different. It's just that they have an extraordinarily tenacious law enforcement crew. When you catch a lot of criminals, the cases you pursue are publicized. That's all."

"Well, if they are so good, why haven't they caught this ... Brandy Whatever's killer?" Angela blurted.

"I surmise that her death didn't look out of the ordinary, being that they were unaware of the bone exchange," Supplied Brennan.

"And, her murder doesn't fit the M.O. of any other murders in that area," said Booth, "from what we know. Bones and I will find out more tomorrow when we meet with the officer who handled the case. I've already got the Bureau looking into other cases in that area and the surrounding states for remains found pristine and staged. We should hear back from them this afternoon."

"Cullen said he'd call me directly since you and Dr. Brennan will be in the air when those results come in," said Cam, looking from Booth to Brennan.

Booth nodded, as did Brennan.

"Is it possible for an entire town to have PTSD?" Angela asked Sweets, still concerned about the families living in King County.

"In a situation like this, rather than using a diagnosis of post traumatic stress disorder, which is a very specific diagnosis and only for individuals, we refer to this as 'collective trauma'."

Since Angela and Sweets were talking, Booth took the opportunity to pull out his phone to read Brennan's last message. Thinking that no one would notice if he just acted casual, he brought the phone right out in front and pressed the button.

**"I bite back.&UR very pleasing2look at this A.M. Glad U like my ncklce. B-OX"**

"Booth, are we interrupting you?" Camille had her hand on her hip and was staring reproachfully at Booth who was intently reading the text from Brennan and wearing a slightly goofy expression on his face.

"Uh, no, Cam, it's from my boss," Booth insisted, frowning gravely without looking up. "I'll just ... let me just get this out and ... press send here ..." he stammered, quickly typing on the tiny keyboard, then sending the text on it's way before dropping his cell in his pocket and crossing his arms.

Brennan took the opportunity to quickly send Booth a quick text while all eyes were trained on him.

"Cullen? Is it from Cullen?" Cam asked, alarmed, taking a step toward Booth.

"No, higher up than that ..." Booth said in a surly tone, feigning irritation with the suits at the FBI.

Brennan couldn't help but chuckle to herself at Booth's response and his attempt to cover-up their electronic exchanges.

Cam's mouth dropped open as she stared at Booth.

"Who the hell is higher up than the Deputy Director of the FBI?" It was Hodgens who asked the million dollar question.

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><p><strong>Please send chocolate to the people on this list. They send me chocolate every day<br>between chapters when I read their reviews over and over:**

Tristan Thompson, strawberry79, Diko, Dyna63, pasha54, FaithinBones, JayBee188, mef1013, DWBBFan, ILuvBonesNDool, TraciM, sandyholl, crys82, soxgirl69, Melissa, daisesndaffidols, bostonlegalgirl, Boneslvr38, jazzyproz, coterie2, geraghtyvl, Fluffybird, soliloquy81, brensfan, BonesBooth, AussieBonesFan, yenyen76, celheartstv, SylviaAlexis, dovepage, OhSnapItzAmelie, EveyEve1215, kdgteacher7, jean okbones, Lillith, Martreiya, daniellejoy07, fofie675, yoshimi0701, Michelle, SquinTern447, Sam Watson, Aveburygirl, Dora, sharonm745, sarahlizlangas, 1956JohnDeere50, grandma bones, Ondiac

**By the way, these people have really great testicles. You can tell by the way they treat other people. **

**"They will know we are Christians by our love, not our screaming."**

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><p>Reminder - I'm going on vacation for the next twelve days. If I post, it will be a miracle ... but don't hold your breath! I may post a literary snack, if my husband lets me off my leash. I did buy a brand new journal for this trip though. Take that, husband, ha!<p>

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><p><em><strong>Thank you in advance for your review, since you were so entertained with this chapter and you just absolutely HAVE to tell someone so it might as well be me *blink and grin* Please forgive me if I am not able to get back to you right away - mandatory fun vacation with family, remember? BTW - YOU ROCK!<strong>_


	205. Wanktards

_Author's Note: Because you probably think I've died ... because I'm coming off of the first five-weeks-vacation-without-steady-writing in over a year (though I'm always thinking about BONES and TWATH and writing it down in my journal!) ... and because I can no longer stand not posting ... I am sending you this little chapter! The good news is that there is more coming soon. The bad news is that there's more coming soon that I had REALLY wanted to get into this chapter, but didn't so keep your shorts on, nibble on this little morsel, and I'll repost once I get the other two parts of it ready for you. I never thought I'd say this ... but THANK GOD vacation is over for while! I have missed y'all terribly! : )_

_**I also have some individual notes for several of you, (especially some of my newest readers!) but it would take me another hour to write them now when I'm not even supposed to be at the computer (Shhh! Don't tell the Spaniard, aka, my lovable furry little husband!)_

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><p><strong>Wanktards<strong>

"When it's cold outside, give the world the warmth of your smile."

~ Rascal Flatts. Circa 2008

"Who is higher than the Deputy Director?" Booth repeated in an irritated tone as a warmth snaked around his throat making his tie feel two sizes too small. Time to get out the paddles and try to steer the boat in a whole new direction, any direction away from me! He told himself. "Who's higher than Cullen?" He stammered once more in a voice a half octave higher than his usual baritone. He had no idea what expression had been on his face when Cam caught him reading Brennan's text … but it definitely wasn't a very professional one. Excrement, he said under his breath. Excrement, excrement, excrement!

"There are a lot of people higher than Cullen, my friend," Booth said evasively, shaking his head incredulously and clearing his throat. "And, it's none of your bees wax, Hodgins. Can we move on, please, Cam?" He asked, turning back to face Camille.

Hodgins smirked disgustedly and glanced sideways toward Wendell with a snarky gleam in his eye.

"Probably some wanktard with a political agenda trying to keep the truth from tax-paying voters," he mumbled.

"Are you talking about the wanktard in charge of the United States FBI, Doctor Hodgins?" Booth asked, turning back to nail the entomologist with a hard stare. He had his fists planted firmly on his hips and he didn't care that his intent to dominate was obvious. "A man who served his country dutifully and has been decorated with the Bronze Star, two Navy Commendation Medals, the Purple Heart and the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry? Is that who you are referring to as a … what did you call it?" he asked, his voice raising accusatorially.

"A … a wanktard. I-it may not be a real word. I may have made it up," Hodgins responded defensively, his voice getting quieter as he took a step away from Booth, bumping into Wendell in the process.

"It's a real word," whispered Wendell out of the side of his mouth toward Hodgins. "It means a person is both a dick and a retard."

Hodgins' eyes grew wide, his lips contracted into a tight little bow, and his jaw clenched several times in rapid succession. He slowly turned toward Wendell and shot him a desperate _'you're not helping, man, so shut the frack up'_ look.

"I see," said Booth, nodding derisively, having overheard Wendell's comment and seen Hodgins' reaction. "Or, maybe you meant the President of the United States? Both of those—wanktards—are way higher up the food chain than Cullen."

"No disrespect, man. Lighten up," said Hodgins, still blanching, his voice tinged with timid irritation this time.

_Somebody's a little grumpy this morning,_ thought Angela, rolling her eyes as she watched the two men sparring. She'd witnessed Booth's air guitar demonstration on the surveillance camera earlier this morning and had hoped it was a harbinger of good things to come. Shortly afterward, she'd interrupted the guys in the middle of what appeared to be a friendly discussion—until she'd suggested Hannah's exodus as the source of Booth's elevated mood. _That went over like a lead balloon,_ she chagrined, guiltily.

Immediately before this meeting, Angela recalled, she had noticed Booth in what appeared to be an uncomfortable huddle with Sweets in the hallway. _What was that all about?_ She wondered for a moment then remembered what Bren said she and Booth had to do last night. _The grief session with Booth and the baby duck, of course! Yikes. Obviously they were cleared for duty, or they wouldn't be here this morning, right? But, I wonder what else Sweets was able to needle out of them once he got them inside his little psychological torture chamber? Oh, to have been a fly on the wall during that session!_

Angela pondered how, once inside the office, Booth seemed at once somber, then amused and preoccupied with his cell phone._ Did he get a text from Hannah? Surely Booth isn't upset that Hannah is leaving the country? Holy crap! Please, don't let it be that!_ Thought Angela, continuing to catastrophize over the possibilities. _I'm hungry, my feet hurt, and nobody will tell me ANYTHING!_ She whimpered to herself, switching her weight from one swollen foot to the other. _Thank God Jack and I found each other—such drama!_ Angela rolled her eyes at these thoughts.

While Angela was having her own one-woman conference inside her head, her husband was holding court in his own little fiefdom.

Hodgins began to relax as Booth's attention returned to the front of the room. Then, it hit him. _I know what that look on Booth's face was when he was looking at his phone! Sure, I've seen it a thousand times before!_ Hodgins almost blurted it to the group, but stopped himself before the words popped from his lips. He'd already gotten enough heat this morning, no need to create more. _Hoooh, your boss, huh?_ He said to himself, having an imaginary recriminatory conversation with Booth. _Someone higher up the food chain than Cullen, my ass! Don't blame me, Mister Special Agent 'I-Have-A-103-Inch-Plasma-TV-With-A-Dongle-That-I-Only-Paid-Pennies-For' Booth! Don't you blame ME, if you got caught playing Angry Birds during an important meeting, you sneaky bastard!_

Hodgins snorted to himself and glanced over at Angela who was just coming off a gigantic eye-roll in response to her own internal conversation. They exchanged a furtive glance. Hodgins nodded slightly toward Booth and gave Angela a shake of the head and a look of wonder that said_ 'what the heck is up with this guy?'_ Angela shrugged in response and raised an eyebrow, tilting her head toward Brennan, then rolled her eyes once again. They both shrugged, then shared a knowing glance that said, _'We are the only normal people around here!'._

Booth furrowed his brow and shook his head in exasperation. "This is a serious case. Why are we wasting time on this? Can we please stay on point here, Cam?" He said plaintively.

Camille was aware of the Bureau's concern regarding the Brennan-Booth partnership.

_Booth,_ she'd thought to herself that morning, _is a man of action who is at his best when he's in the field, and Dr. Brennan has made it abundantly clear that she won't work with anyone else._ She had mentally rolled her eyes when Sweets told her of the FBI's alternative plans to chain Booth to an eraser board in front of a bunch of probies who would then be assigned a forensic anthropologist to partner with. _Yeah,_ she said to herself with a great deal of sarcasm. _Like that's going to work!_

Before her uncomfortable tête-à- tête with Cullen and Goodman at oh-dark-thirty this morning, Cam had visually scanned Sweets' perfunctory report on the previous evening's grief counseling/your-partnership-is-in-danger meeting with Booth and Brennan. Sweets was of the professional opinion, he wrote, _'that the partners possessed the appropriate commitment and sufficient motivation to move forward successfully as a team'_. He also mentioned that '_integrity had been restored to the relationship'_ in regard to other minor matters. That was the PC way of saying they had agreed to get their shit together in their personal lives as well.

In closing, Sweets' email had recommended bi-weekly sessions with himself over a probationary period of no less than six months. _Big surprise,_ thought Camille, knowing the pair would roll their eyes and groan when they found out. Also, they were to attend mandatory productivity reviews of the metrics by which Cullen would measure the success of their current arrangement. _Blah, blah, blah_, thought Camille, snorting to herself.

What Camille hadn't yet received this morning was Sweets' unofficial assessment of the partners. All she wanted to know is whether or not she had a problem on her hands.

"Can we stay on point?" Cam repeated Booth's question. "Well, that depends," she said in a suspect tone, glancing from Booth to Sweets. "Is that," she said, nodding toward Booth's pocket where the offending cell phone lay, "anything I need to know about?"

Sweets shrugged and raised his eyebrows in response indicating that the subject of Booth's call from God—or whomever—wasn't anything he knew about.

For a moment, no one said anything.

"Then, can we move on, Cam?" Asked Booth pointedly, tossing his hands in the air.

_Looks like someone forgot to take his happy pill today,_ thought Cam, still staring expectantly at Booth. _First, the early morning fight in Dr. Brennan's office … now he's picking a fight with Dr. Hodgins? And, is it my imagination, or is Dr. Brennan preoccupied as well? Sometimes I feel like a preschool teacher,_ she murmured to herself as she smirked at Booth without realizing it.

"Why's everyone staring at me like that?" Booth asked suddenly. Five pairs of eyes stared back at him unflinchingly, then self-consciously looked away. The sixth pair of eyes looking back at Booth were Brennan's calm azure ones. These eyes had the power to melt him from the inside out this morning. He welcomed and appreciated their steadiness. He smiled the tiniest bit and sent her a bright-eyed non-verbal request. _'Help me out here. You're the one who got me into this—!'. _

"Our first victim is Aleesha Grimes," said Brennan, stifling an amused, yet empathetic grin. She spoke clearly and confidently as if picking up in the middle of a conversation. "You've all read the updates. You know that the femora and tibias found with the Haverford remains do not belong to Aleesha Grimes." She directed her attention in Booth's direction until she noted the tension draining from his shoulders, and his mouth soften around the corners. The deep hue that had been creeping up his neck began to subside. After the creases across his forehead all but disappeared and an appreciative twinkle appeared in his eyes to replace the agitation of a moment ago, she slowly took in the rest of the room.

"That is exactly what makes this case unique," she said. "Angela, could you bring up your facial reconstruction of both Aleesha Grimes and Banty Solicious?"

"Just one moment," said Angela, tapping on the rectangular digital pad and glancing up at the plasma screen on the left. "Okay. This is a reconstruction of Aleesha Grimes based upon the cranial structure of the remains." a two-foot image of Aleesha Grimes' face appeared before the group.

"Wow. I never get used to how accurate you can get just by looking at the skull and putting skin on it," said Booth, shaking his head in awe.

"Well, there's a bit more than that to it, big guy," Angela said, smiling as she punched the control device several more times until the face of Banty Solicious appeared on the right monitor.

There was an audible gasp across the room. Both women had straight brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, round green eyes, high cheek bones, full lips, smallish noses, and dainty little question mark-shaped ears. Aleesha's eyes were closer together than Banty's, and Banty's face was much more oval than round like Aleesha's. Both were fair skinned with fairly dark eyebrows and lashes. The girls could have been twins.

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><p>Steady REVIEWERS, in the interest of getting this puppy out the door, I will append my acknowledgements when I update ... you know who you are ... So, please, turn to your neighbor reviewer on the right and give them a hug. Now, turn to your neighbor reviewer on the left and pinch their cheek then pat them on the back. Now go look in the mirror and say, "I'm lovely and smart and the world is a lot better place for my having been in it."<p>

One last thing ... To My Steady Reviewers, all my underdogs, my dirty little freaks who will never be anything but wrong in all the right ways ... RAISE YOUR GLASS!

God Bless PINK!

XXOXOXOOOXOOOX

MoxieGirl  
>MoxieGirl44 on Twitter<p> 


	206. Punch & Judy

**A/N **So - yes, vacation _was _fabulous. Yellowstone (where I unwittingly donated my designer prescription reading glasses to a lop-sided elk twenty feet from where I stood in the marsh), Grand Tetons (apparently, the name really does mean 'really big boobies'), Big Horn (Saw our first black moose - it was HUGE), Medora, Roosevelt Park, prairie dogs and rattlers (if I hadn't been on the way back from the campground I would have soiled my undies when I met this little curled up piece of frightening, petrified nature-I think he DID wet his rattle, come to think of it), bison galore, waterfalls ~ upper and lower ~ Badlands, Black Hills, tents, hotels, rental homes, the works!

Then, a week at Woman Lake with my whole side of the family (including Dad who none of us ever thought would make it to this past January - so - WOW! Plus brand new nephew and recently recovered brain surgery patient~ my middle sister, who was all drugged up ad a total hoot - which, she usually is, actually, a hoot, I mean) , a week taking care of my _baby_sister, her toddler, and my brand new Godchild (nom, nom, coochie-coo) while sis's husband went back to work, then ... recovery.

Now, two nephews up here to stay with us for 'cousin camp'. Then ... off to a week at another lake with the whole family of Spaniards ... then a week by ourselves while the in-laws take the kiddies south to cousin camp. CAN'T WAIT. If you look closely (not too closely) I vibrate whenever I think about that highly anticipated week. As the date grows nearer, I find myself unable to hold a glass of water without sprinkling it all over myself! #ExcitedPerhaps?

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><p><em><strong><strong>Note about the Chapter title:<strong>**_

_****"Punch and Judy"****_

_Punch and Judy is a traditional, popular puppet show featuring the characters of Mr. Punch, his wife, Judy, and their baby. The performance consists of a sequence of short scenes, each depicting an interaction between two characters, most typically the ascerbic Punch and one other character continually arguing and bopping each other on the head. It is often associated with traditional English seaside culture._

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><p><strong>Chapter 206 Punch and Judy<strong>

"Am I seeing what I think I'm seeing?" Cam grimaced in disbelief, squinting from one face to the other as she stepped closer to the screens. "Could they be twins? It can't be that easy," Cam said, thinking out loud. "That would certainly blow the serial killer possibility out of the bathtub," she said, turning toward Brennan. Her eyes traveled back to the screens. She stood perfectly still, her arms crossed elegantly, but firmly, across her slender midsection. "Tell me it's that easy, people. Make Mama's day." She clicked the plunger on her ball point pen several times, making the ink barrel tip appear then disappear.

"Through morphological and metrical analysis we've been able to determine that these remains are from two individuals of roughly the same age and ethnicity," said Brennan, taking a step forward to stand beside Camille. "Both female between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five and of European descent."

"WASPS," murmured Booth, nodding.

Brennan shot him a quizzical glance.

"White Anglo-Saxon Protestant," said Wendell, explaining the colloquialism referring to white Christian girls born into families with means.

Brennan glanced at Wendell, then back at Booth, and shook her head. "Mmmm. Not necessarily, Booth. Without conducting significant genealogical research," she insisted, once more focusing on the facial reconstructions, "we cannot definitively say these two victims are descended of the Anglo-Saxons as written about in Bede's seventh century 'Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum,'" she explained. "Or, if you prefer the English title of his work, 'The Ecclesiastical History of the English People'. I, myself, prefer his works in their original—"

"Bones?" Interrupted Booth calmly, as a gentle smirk danced, barely noticeable, around the edges of his eyes. He stared steadily at her, his arms across his chest. _You are gorgeous and I love you, but—what the hell are you talking about?_ He thought. He tapped his index and middle fingers on his lips thoughtfully, waiting for her to turn and look at him, to see the hint of a smile in his eyes.

"What? I'm not finished, Booth," she responded, flicking her eyes at him quickly, before focusing again on the screens. "I was about to further explain that we cannot ascertain a person's theological belief system—be it Protestant, Catholic, Lutheran, Muslim, Jewish, or any of the other world theologies—from their skeletal remains! Perhaps, given the appropriate time to gather more information," she said, finally looking at him for real, "we could establish that an individual is culturally or genealogically—what, Booth? Why are you looking at me like that?"

His face was blank except for a hint of bemusement gleaming in his eyes, and the arc of his brow. Booth blinked several times at her, raising his eyebrows further, and gave her a meaningful look.

"I'm finding it difficult to ascertain your intent from your facial expression, Booth," she said, attempting to swallow the irresistible urge to smile warmly back at him. Her attempt failing, she ended up plastering an exaggerated smirk across her face. Feeling her capillaries at the beginning of a marathon rush toward the free world, she turned awkwardly back to the screens and cleared her throat. "As I was saying, excessive wear on the patellae does not irrefutably indicate that the person frequently genuflected or knelt in veneration of their preferred deity. Why are you always trying to bring religion into-"

"Bones—" Booth began again, catching her attention this time. He dipped his chin and stared into her eyes, trying not to grin. "Bones, stop!" He said in a voice louder than he intended.

"I have a point to make and I'm going to make it. So—" She insisted querulously, pausing to remember the term that means 'be patient'. "So, just—hold your shorts, Booth!"

Booth continued to gaze at her, unable to suppress a snort. "It's hold your horses or keep your shorts on—" he said calmly, although she had already turned away from him.

"As I was saying before I was interrupted by the—_the alpha male_—to my right who displays signs of being ill-equipped to lift a stallion or refrain from disrobing in public—" she said, glaring mockingly toward him as she continued in a serious tone while several of their colleagues chuckled to themselves and stole guarded glances in Booth's direction,"—wear on the anterior aspect of the patellae is more likely to be an occupational marker. Tailors, for example, spend a great deal of time on their knees, as do carpet layers," she said, as if feeling the need to justify her claim.

"So do hookers, Bones. But, what—in God's name—are you trying to say? That the girls are Caucasian?"

"The girls are Caucasian. Yes. And that is all we can say." She shifted her weight from one leg to another and glanced at the floor before meeting his eyes. "

"Possibly of German descent—Anglo-Saxon," Booth cajoled her.

"Possibly,' she conceded, feeling defensive, though unsure why, "though not necessarily. And not necessarily Protestant."

"Bones, that is exactly what I just—never mind! What else have we got?"

"Twins?" Camille said, sighing; her query directed at the anthropologist. "Is it just me, or are they strikingly similar in appearance?" She gestured toward facial reconstructions on the screens. "What is the likelihood they're twins? There's not enough time between birthdays for them to be chronologically sequential sisters."

"I think it's creepy," mumbled Angela under her breath.

"It sure looks like a possibility, doesn't it? Could they be twins, Bones? If they are, that's our connection," postulated Booth, striding forward to stand beside Brennan. All three stood staring at the screens, their faces awash in the blueish glow of the plasmas.

"Did Aleesha's parents say anything about Aleesha having a sister?" Cam asked, breaking the silence to look past Brennan and lock eyes with Booth.

Brennan and Booth exchanged a glance. "No," he said, shaking his head confidently. "She has two older brothers. I got the impression Aleesha was a late-in-life surprise. Big gap in age between the younger brother and Aleesha."

"Surely they would have mentioned if she had a twin …" Angela offered, astonished at the similarities between the victims.

"Unless they didn't know," said Brennan, leaning her head to the right in consideration.

"Maybe there was a mix-up with the embryos," offered Booth. "Like if they used inner-spasmodic sperm injection to overcome infertility. Though, fertility treatments don't make sense in the Grimes' situation," he chagrined, biting the inside of his lip in concentration.

Five stunned faces gawked, surprised, at Booth. Brennan was the only one not surprised.

"What?" Booth blurted to his colleagues' shocked expressions. "I know stuff!" He insisted, glaring back at them all. "There was a case just a couple of years ago where the killer was one of four biological brothers. They had different birth dates, but all within twelve months of each other and to four different mothers. Somehow they found out about each other and 'Cain' killed one of the 'Ables', to use a biblical reference. For a long time we couldn't figure out which brother was the killer because their DNA profiles were so similar."

Cam nodded, pursing her lips. She'd seen many cases involving families. Getting to the truth was always tricky, ever with the DNA profiles of the family members.

Brennan stared off into space, mouthing the words, 'intra-cytoplasmic sperm injection'. "Or simply in vitro—" she mumbled out loud to herself while the others focused their attention on Booth.

"How did other couples end up with the brothers' embryos?" It was Angela's question. She was suspicious of this whole concept.

"Do you ever wonder what happens to all those extra frozen embryos that couples don't, or can't, use?" Booth asked pointedly.

"Medical research," said Hodgins confidently, "stem cell research. They can do amazing things. I read an article about that."

"Some are destroyed," said Cam, cautiously, knowing there were several pro-lifers in the group.

"And others are adopted out … just like babies are adopted when their mother can't raise them," explained Booth. "Sometimes biological parents realize they can't carry them for one reason or other, but they believe that every embryo is a person, a soul, who deserves a chance at life. Snowflake Christian Adoptions is one place that finds parents for frozen embryos. Apparently, they are in pretty high demand, embryos." He shrugged, in a 'who knew' fashion.

"Wow," said Angela. "I could never give away my unborn children—"

"Angela, you never know what you will or will not do until you are actually there, facing the tough decisions," said Booth quietly. "Anyway," he said, his shoulders rising then falling with a heavy sigh. "It is possible that Banty and Aleesha could be biological sisters unbeknownst to each other. But, Cam, Bob Grimes fathered two healthy boys before Aleesha came along," said Booth. "I just can't see them needing to go to extraordinary measures to conceive."

"Actually, it is not at all uncommon for a man to father several children and then be unable to father more. It's usually caused by a verecocele—a varicose vein—in the pampiniform plexis, the network of veins that drain the testicle. As a result, the plexis can't lower testicular temperature and the sperm can't develop correctly or don't develop at all. Once viability, motility, and morphology are shot—no more babies."

"However, that's fairly recent technology, intra-cytoplasmic sperm injection' and IVF," stated Brennan, enunciating the terminology while looking directly at Booth.

"Oh. True. I believe it was developed in the early '90," agreed Camille.

"Both of our victims were born in 1985," added Booth.

"Correct, but—" began Brennan.

"Maybe they were born, then adopted out normally, after they were born," suggested Angela. "Maybe the Grimes aren't either girls' biological parents."

Brennan shook her head. "No. First of all, Aleesha bears the skeletal markers one would expect from a combination of Bob and Barbara Grimes' genomes. Though we would need to compare DNA to prove paternity, I feel confident making the intuitive leap that Aleesha is the Grimes' progeny."

"Plus," interjected Booth, looking back at Angela, then Hodgins, then back to the floating images of the two girls on the screen. "Babs mentioned that it was the pregnancy with Aleesha that exacerbated her arthritis to the degree that it put her in a wheelchair."

"Exacerbated, Booth?" Brennan chuffed under her breath at her partner. "Good word. Was that the word of the day on your vocabulary calendar?"

"It was sometime last week," he said quietly with a cheeky grin. "Today was 'antidisestablishmentarianism ', which, I believe is the longest word in the English language. Twenty-eight letters," he added, wiggling his eyebrows impressively. "And, correct me if I'm wrong, Smarty-Pants, but I believe I pronounced that correctly. An-ti-dis-est-ab-lish-ment-arianism. _Antidisestablishmentarianism ."_

"Hm," she grunted quietly. "Use it in a sentence," she challenged.

"I already did: _Antidisestablishmentarianism is the longest word in the English language," he said cheekily._

Brennan rolled her eyes at him and chuckled to herself. "Cheater."

"You use it in a sentence," he volleyed. "I bet you don't even know what it means!"

"Do you?" She retorted quietly with an amused grin.

"No—"

"Then that makes two of us," she said with finality.

"Don't quit your day job, Bones," Booth chuckled gently. "Lying isn't your forté," he whispered, leaning toward her ear. He almost winked at her, but caught himself, then glanced at the rest of the group who had been focusing on Camille the whole time.

"Wha—I love my—I'm never quitting my—oh, that was a joke, wasn't it?" Brennan grimaced sheepishly.

"She can be taught—" Booth stage whispered wistfully before nodding toward Camille who was fielding a question from Angela. "Pay attention, Bones!"

Brennan shook her head at Booth and snorted quietly. "Can't take you anywhere," she sighed.

"And yet—" he whispered back, once more nodding toward Camille, then glancing back to find Brennan staring at him with a contented smile.

"And yet," she repeated with finality, smiling even more. She nodded toward Cam herself when Booth stared back at her sheepishly without looking away.

* * *

><p>"Mrs. Grimes had arthritis. But—Banty Solicious had arthritis, right? Isn't that hereditary? Doesn't that mean something?"<p>

"There are hereditary factors regarding arthritis," nodded Camille, "but two people having arthritis does not mean they are related … doesn't even increase the odds by much."

A pregnant pause fell over the room; disappointment over the unlikelihood of the victims being twins.

"And, we're back to square one," announced Booth, shoving his hands into his pockets. He absently tumbled and twirled the two transparent orange die in one pocket, and slid his fingers over the metal case of the lighter in the other pocket. "But, they are the same height, right?" He asked, turning to Brennan with a hopeful expression on his face.

"If I may interject here before we go much further …" started Sweets tentatively, looking to Cam for permission to proceed.

"Go ahead, Dr. Sweets," said Camille, swiveling toward with a shallow nod.

"In light of what we've all recently been through," said Sweets, "it seems that we are trying quite hard to see something that may not be there—which is predictable group behavior in a situation of such gravity—and it could prove a detriment to our process—"

"What? What do you mean?" Angela asked, closing her eyes and shaking her head when Sweets paused to take a breath.

"Well," he said tentatively, looking over the assembled group. "They could be twins," he said, shrugging uncertainly as he stepped forward. "And, indeed, that would prove a convenient truth, wouldn't it?"

"Convenient? It looks like there's nothing convenient about this case," Angela objected. "Bones scattered everywhere, victims on opposite coasts," Angela snorted as she trained her eyes on the psychologist, shooting him an challenging, sullen smirk.

"If the victims were twins, it would suggest a personal motive," he said cautiously. Ever since Vincent's murder over a week ago, Sweets had been carefully observing the team members—individually, as well as in a group setting—watching for signs of extraordinarily high stress levels. Emotions had been all over the board; they all were still in such shock. Tread lightly among the battered souls, he reminded himself before continuing. "If the motive was personal, that increases the likelihood that there are, and will only be, these two victims. It would also explain the geographical disparity. You target both twins no matter where they live, right?"

Brennan and Booth nodded as they listened.

"So, what you're saying is—?" asked Booth.

"Just that we step back ," he said, actually taking a step backward, "and temper our assumptions—"

"Science assumes nothing—" Interjected Brennan, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and squinting at Sweets as if he'd suggested something absurd, like that they wear Halloween costumes whenever they work in the lab.

"Of course, Dr. Brennan," he nodded at her, "which is why you will understand me when I suggest we look to Occam's razor going forward," Sweets said, pressing his lips into a straight line as he held his breath to hear her response. "Meaning that we should consider the hypotheses that require the fewest assumptions."

"Oh, is that the rule about the easiest explanation usually being the right one?" Angela said in a monotone.

"That is an over-simplification," nodded Sweets, mirroring her tone. "But, yes. I'm suggesting that we simply look at what is there, exactly as it is."

"So— K.I.S.S. Keep. It. Simple, Stupid, right?" Suggested Booth. "Two Caucasian girls who just so happen to look alike and were born a month apart on opposite coasts."

"Exactly, Agent Booth. However, psychologically speaking, their similar appearances most definitely suggest a 'victim type'."

"Hm." Brennan grunted. She thought for a moment. "You are correct. I would like to see an easy solution, Dr. Sweets, but I am always objective."

Sweets merely pursed his lips and nodded at Brennan without saying anything more.

Booth also nodded, slid his hands in and out of his pockets and stared at the ground. Everyone else waited to see if there would be a debate between Sweets and Brennan, but there wasn't.

"I'm always objective," mumbled Brennan again, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Booth stole a glance up at her without moving his head and grinned slightly when their eyes met. In response, her eyes widened with a look that innocently said, 'What?' He rose an eyebrow that said,' Seriously, Bones? She imagined him snorting. Then she smiled guiltily back at Booth through her eyelashes. They both felt a flash of warmth creep into their cheeks.

"I'm not suggesting we abandon the twinning possibility," assured Sweets. "Keep that in mind, but we've all just been through a lot. We could use something easy right now, right? Something simple. Vincent's death—it's taken a toll on us." He paused to grimace empatheticly and look around the room. "We are a battered group and we could all use a break. This case is not giving us one," he said, gaining confidence from the reluctantly guilty expressions on his colleagues' faces. "As much as we'd like it to."

Everyone silently stared at Sweets for a moment.

"He's right," admitted Cam, "and there's an enormous amount of pressure from the suits above." She dropped her hands onto her hips and pressed her lips together while looking around the room. Once each person nodded back at her, she continued. "So, where were we?"

Booth spoke up. "The victims' heights. Are they the same, Bones? Or similar, at least?"

"Oh, right—as I was saying, this is where it gets interesting," Brennan sighed and responded, and then turned to Angela. "Ange, go to 35% and give us their full stature images."

"The easy answer is 'no', Booth," continued Brennan as head-to-toe images of Aleesha Grimes and Banty Solicious appeared on the screens. "At least, it would appear that they are different heights. Though the anterior aspect of the cranial structures—"

While Brennan droned on about what sounded to Booth like heights and smorfological structure icepicks, or whatever, Booth watched her, paying more attention to how beautiful and confident she looked than what she was really saying. He'd momentarily perched himself atop an ocean-side craggy rock on Planet Booth.

* * *

><p><em>How long has it been since I actually enjoyed this part of the crime-solving process? How long since I truly listened to the science mumbo-jumbo and the way these people volley hypotheses around until another piece of the puzzle clicks into place? And,<em> he asked himself, unaware that he was nodding to himself and scratching his chin,_ how long has it been since I felt energized watching the confident and methodical way Bones' mind works, the way she tilts her head when she considers a suggestion, or how sometimes she'll stop abruptly and say, "I know what the weapon was,' or, 'I know who the killer is' then abruptly run off to check something?_

Then it hit him. _We are getting along so well. And it feels, oh man, it feels great! But,_ he thought, glancing around the room at the assembled group, _these are smart people. They are going to know something is different between us, something has changed. I can't let that happen. 'What is ours is ours', Bones said on the way in to the office this morning, right? And as long as Bones wants to keep it jsut between us, it's gonna stay that way. I gotta do something—and fast!_ He thought, feeling a tiny shock of panic in his chest.

Back in the real world, Booth's arms were crossed, his hands in his armpits. He was staring blindly toward the plasma screens. Wonder how many inches these plasmas are, he thought, pursing his lips. He glanced back at Sweets who was intently listening to Brennan. Then he glanced at Hodgins who was nodding pensively. He looked over at Angela who looked uncomfortable and bloated, though engrossed in the conversation.

Booth smiled to himself; smiled about the circle of life and family and relationships and love. For a moment, he pictured Brennan pregnant and bloated. Wow, he thought, chuckling to himself. A bemused expression stole over his face until he remembered what he had to do … distract, confuse, channel the disagreeable side of my personality. Oh, hoh! Sweets is going to have a field day with this, he thought, suppressing a giddy snort.

* * *

><p>"Their who-whazz'its?" Booth blurted, smirking at Brennan. He sent up a prayer to the Holy Spirit that this didn't backfire.<p>

She stared at him quizzically for a moment. She was confident that Booth knew what morphology and cranial structures are. So, why is he feigning ignorance? Narrowing her eyes and tilting her head almost imperceptibly to the right, she sent a question mark to him through a minute lift of her left eyebrow.

Booth nonchalantly pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and tapped it lazily against his lips, and squinted back at her for a fraction of a second.

"Their faces, Booth. You know that," she said carefully. "Their, their bone structure—"

"Can't you just speak like a normal person, Bones?" Booth snipped at her impatiently.

"But—I was speaking like a normal person—" she replied in a confused tone.

"Nooo," Booth said firmly. "A normal person would have just said 'facial features'." He gave her his best sarcastic smirk.

"Don't snip at me if you can't remember the terminology," she said disdainfully and glared at him without flinching. "Though I am using vocabulary that you've heard at least 250 times by now—"

"Whatever," he said, yawning. "Can we move on?" Booth interrupted, then turned away to face the screens.

Angela and Hodgins exchanged lengthy "holy crap" looks. Sweets' mouth hung open and his eyes were as big as silver dollars. Wendell examined his new shoes, then Angela's carpet, then began counting the tiles in the ceiling. All of this happened in a matter of sixty seconds.

Wow. He's trying to actually pick a fight, she realized, though she was unsure for what purpose. Brennan stared at the side of Booth's face, feigning righteous indignation. He's trying to divert attention from something, she thought. But from what? And why is it directed at me? She scoured her brain until a light bulb popped on. Because it has to do with me. And him! Us! We are getting along too well. Ahhhhh. Brilliant!

Camille took a deep breath and shook her head, then rolled her eyes. "Please continue, Dr. Brennan," she said.

"As I was saying—" Brennan began, but then stopped because she couldn't remember what she'd been saying.

"You were explaining how the anterior aspec—uh, the facial features of the two victims are very similar, Dr. Brennan," prompted Wendell, flicking a glance toward her face, then back down at his feet.

"However," Brennan began again, with a nod of appreciation toward Wendell, "you will see significant physiological differences that could perhaps be explained by their differing phenotypes." She paused for a moment and stared at the side of Booth's face until he glanced sideways at her.

"Go on. I'm listening," he said dismissively, looking back toward the screens and rocking back and forth on his heels. He pulled out his cell phone and started scrolling through a list of some sort.

"For those of you who do not remember," Brennan said with a flash of irritation in her tone, "the phenotype has to do with the environment's influence on physiology. In other words, one girl might be born to an affluent family with access to nutrition and quality medical care ensuring normal, healthy development as she matures into adulthood. An identical girl, even a twin, born and raised in a third world country to a family who has neither means nor access to a balanced diet or health care is malnourished and exposed to disease and conditions which will adversely affect her development. The two women will mature to have disparate phenotype."

"In other words?" Angela prompted, furrowing her brow in confusion.

"In other words," Cam said, regarding Brennan cautiously, "The two bodies may be different due to environmental influences, but that doesn't eliminate the possibility of twinning, or, of there being twins."

"That's what I just said, Dr. Saroyan," Brennan said, smirking disapprovingly.

"Blabidy bla bla, Bones," said Booth affecting a bored demeanor. "Are you saying they could be twins but look or seem built different because they had different zip codes?" Booth asked dryly, as if he hadn't been paying attention at all. "Like, one might be tall, have sturdier legs and better developed muscles because she ate healthy and played basketball, but the other might be skinny, bow-legged and short, having slept in a hut, eaten nothing but twigs and berries, and never stepped foot on a basketball court?"

"That's what I just said, Booth," Brennan replied impatiently in feigned frustration before continuing. "One female could have perfectly formed femora and tibias whose shafts have been strengthened by osteogenesis as a result of repetitive weight-bearing exercise, like, as you suggest, playing at basketball," she explained. "The other, as a result of poor metabolism of vitamin D, magnesium, phosphorus or calcium due to an illness that prevents their bones from ossifying, could suffer from Blount's disease!"

"Bounce disease? What the—" Blurted Booth, making a confused face.

"Blount's, Booth," said Cam sending him a warning glare. "Bow-leggedness. Unusually curved femora and tibias."

"Rickets?" Asked Angela, grunting as she eased herself into the cozy chair Hodgins dragged over for her. "My Meemaw used to tell me I'd get rickets if I didn't drink enough milk," she snorted. "Or, if I sat too long with my legs bent into the shape of the letter 'M'."

"That's how my Grams got me to eat okra," added Wendell, swallowing audibly. "And collard greens." He stifled an involuntary shiver at the unwelcome memory.

Sympathetic groans filled the room.

"Hey! I like collard greens," Angela interjected.

"Okay, folks," interrupted Cam. "This isn't Mayberry, and I'm not Aunt Bee," she said, referring to the 1960s sitcom centered around a perfect little South Carolina community where everything got wrapped up in a nice little black and white bow by the end of the thirty minute time slot. "So, let's move on."

"We'll, Meemaw and Grammy were correct about the need for calcium," said Brennan. "Blount's is of great concern in some underdeveloped countries where the children suffer from malnutrition."

"Heh, I thought cowboys got rickets from too much time in the saddle!" Added Booth with a chuckle. "And I don't mean that figuratively," he chuckled toward the other men in the room.

"You are correct, Booth, there are occupational causes of Blount's disease, especially among horse jockeys and practically any occupation with high incidences of physical trauma involving the condyles of the femur."

"Point being?" Prompted Booth, crossing his arms and swaying slightly side to side. "Feels to me like we are talking in circles." He looked at his watch once again and crossed his arms. "All I want to know is if the girls were both five feet—"

"ALEESHA GRIMES AND BANTY SOLICIOUS," interrupted Brennan nearly shouting, "ARE NOT OF THE SAME STATURE, BOOTH!" Brennan stood up straight and took a deep breath to regain her composure.

Everyone in the room winced. Booth covered his mouth with his hand to hide a grin. His shoulders bounced slightly with silent laughter. Brennan flared her nostrils in his direction, and, for a moment, he wondered if perhaps she wasn't aware that this was all an act. I'm in deep doo-doo if she thinks this is real! He couldn't help chuckling to himself once more.

Brennan cleared her throat self-consciously and smacked her files down on the desk to the left of the plasma screens. I should win an Academy Award for this performance, she thought to herself, suppressing a satisfied smile. Booth watched her closely and could practically read her mind. He saw the hint of satisfaction in the up-turn of the corner of her mouth and recognized that deep sigh which was meant to help her maintain her composure. Whew! He thought, blowing out a lungful of air. Thank God, she gets it! No doo-doo for Booth … this time.

"These bones," she said, grabbing a laser pointer from Angela's desk, then clearing her throat once again. She noticed in a flash that Booth saw right through her ruse and it titillated her a little more than she expected. Then she lost her train of thought and her mind went off in its own direction. It's like we're double agents, she thought. We work for the Jeffersonian and the FBI, but we also work for ourselves. This is our own covert operation. We should call it, 'Operation …" And that is where she got stuck. She couldn't think of a good name for it. Booth would be able to figure out an appropriate name for our covert operation, she told herself before attempting to remember where she left off. However, her thoughts made it nearly impossible for her to suppress a devilish grin. Oh, no! Our cover will be blown if I don't pull myself together, she panicked.

She couldn't think of any other diversion, so Brennan coughed. "Ohhhh!" She choked to cover up the silly grin that refused to be shaken from her face. She coughed again and almost doubled over, chuckling and coughing, though the exaggerated coughing was louder than the chuckles. "Something must be obstructing the influx of air through my trachea—" she rasped.

Booth rushed over to her and pounded on her back. "Are you—okay—Bones?" He asked, trying not to laugh as well.

"Stop pounding on me, Booth!" Brennan moved away from him and pretended to be annoyed.

"Oh, okay, just, yeah, breathe, Bones," he said as she straightened and calmed herself. They locked eyes and stared hard at each other for a brief moment, daring each other not to crack a smile.

"Sorry, partner! Sue me if I don't want you keeling over before we solve this case!" He said in an annoyed tone.

She coughed again. "You can't get rid of me that easily," she said, taking a deep breath. "This is my case and I'll be damned if I don't see it to the end!"

"My case," he retorted with a snort.

"You won't solve it without me, Booth!"

"And you won't solve it without me, Princess!"

She glared at him. Surprising even herself, she didn't break character.

Booth snorted derisively and stared at her out of the corner of his eye. "Fine, it's our case," he pretended to relent.

The room was completely silent. They could hear the computer's fans whirring.

"I need a moment," blurted Brennan suddenly. She turned on her heel and abruptly left Angela's office. "I'll be back in three minutes," she shouted over her shoulder.

"I need a minute too," said Booth, just five steps behind Brennan. "Make that three minutes," he said hurriedly to the group. "Bones, wait up!" he called plaintively as he tripped along behind her into her office where he swiftly passed through her door and closed it behind him a little too forcefully.

* * *

><p>Everyone in Angela's office winced at the slam and said nothing.<p>

Cam stared at Sweets.

"They'll be fine," Sweets said without confidence. "I'm sure they'll work things out. They will be fine," he said, clearing his throat as he loosened the Armani noose around his neck just a little bit.

In Brennan's office, Booth's eyes flew open wide at the sound of the door slamming shut. "Hoooo. I'm sorry!" He said, staring at the door. "Can they hear what's going on in here?" He asked quietly.

"No," said Brennan with a stern shake of the head, then she began chuckling. "Booth, we are so bad!"

"I know! They would kill us if they knew what we were doing. Shame on us," he chuckled.

"Put your hands on your hips and stomp across the office here," Brennan said, moving out of the way and pointing out a path for him.

"What?" He glanced at her quizzically. "Oh, like I'm throwing a fit? Good idea," he said conspiratorially, doing exactly as she suggested. "You know what this reminds me of?" He panted as he walked swiftly back and forth across the full length of her office. "Buck and Wanda Moosejaw. Remember when we had to rock the trailer so they thought we were, you know, getting it on?"

Brennan's face broke into a huge grin, then she snorted and laughed.

"Did you just snort? You did! You snorted!" Booth broke into chuckles. "I am so attracted to you right now, Bones," he chuckled.

"Look at the back wall! Look at the back wall, Booth!"

"What? Where? Why?"

"Look at the back wall of my office so no one can see your face … you're obviously not at all upset … you're more like—delirious and amused," she said, guffawing, then snorting again.

Booth stopped pacing as he was beginning to sweat. He took off his jacket and laid it over the back of her couch.

"That's good!" Brennan said encouragingly. "Now, loosen your tie about a quarter of an inch to indicate that I have frustrated you beyond your ability to maintain your body temperature, forcing your body to counteract the heat by perspiring profusely."

He did as she suggested. Taking a deep breath, he said, "So, you know this is all a farce, right, Bones?"

"This little tantrum of yours? Of course. Though I have to admit at first I was uncertain. You are very good at playing a donkey's sphincter, you know."

"Lots of practice," he mumbled, chuffing. "Okay. We gotta get through this meeting with straight faces. Then we are off to Washington. By ourselves. We can do this, right?" He asked, reaching out to touch her and pull her into his arms, but she stepped away out of his reach.

"Booth!" She admonished. She shook her head firmly. "No hinky pinky in the office!"

"What?"

"Keep your hands to yourself. No contact!" She hissed, jamming her hands onto her own hips and beginning to pace the office herself.

"Ah, hanky panky. Right, I forgot. You're right. Okay."

"And try to look upset. Disgruntled. Indignant." Brennan took several deep breaths and continued pacing across her office while making faces at him.

"You're right. You're right," Booth agreed, nodding and throwing his arms about as if he were making an impassioned speech.

"What are you doing?" Brennan stared at him, confused by his abnormal behavior.

"Faking a temper tantrum," he said as if it were obvious.

"Oh. I've never seen you flail about like that, Booth," she chuckled. Brennan grabbed a pencil holder full of pens from her desk and shook it toward the glass wall. The pens went crashing against the glass and fell to the floor, making a rather disturbing ruckus.

Booth gasped and cracked-up. "I can't believe you just did that!" He laughed.

"Sorry, sorry," she said, grimacing apologetically, "I got caught up in the moment—Should I pick them up?"

"No! People don't spontaneously start to clean up right in the middle of a fight!" Booth took several deep breaths and slapped his cheeks to make them pink up. "Well, we don't need to wreck the place." He snorted and shook his head at her as one corner of his mouth bunched into a silly grin.

"You know, Booth, I am actually finding this rather invigorating," she said sounding astounded. "Maybe I should slap you," she suggested, walking toward him.

"No, no, no!" He said, backing swiftly away from her. All we need is it getting back to Cullen that you and I are beating on each other. We gotta convince them our personal lives aren't interfering with our ability to kick royal crime-fighting ass. No, no slapping," he said to his disappointed mate. Everything's foreplay from here on in, he thought to himself. And this is great foreplay, but I'm not going to bring it up now!

Brennan came as close to pouting as her self-respecting self ever would, then shrugged disappointedly. "Should we request some form of mediation?"

"What? Like, ask for help with this?" Booth asked, incredulous. "No. No way," he said firmly, making the baseball 'he's safe' signal. "Sweets would get so excited he'd wet his pants if we invited him in here right now!"

"Good point," she said. "You do mean figuratively, right?" She asked in a concerned tone for the first time since they marched out of Angela's office.

"Of course—well, I don't actually know, Bones," Booth chortled sarcastically. "He is only twelve."

She stared at him, then chuckled. "That was a joke, wasn't it?"

Booth raised and dropped his eyebrows as h smiled brightly at his mate.

"We have to go back into that office. How are we going to play this?"

"Uh, well—lets just go in separately. I'll go first. We'll just be cordial to each other," he said. "Friendly, but not too friendly."

"Okay," she nodded. "We were getting along so well, Booth—"

"I know," he said, smiling as he felt a tingle of pleasure in the vicinity of his heart. "It was—nice, wasn't it?" He flashed her a slow, wistful Boothy grin.

She pressed her lips together and smiled sheepishly. "I found it to be rather—wonderful," she said, candidly, returning his smile, wishing she could lean forward and kiss him.

For a moment, they stood in her office, each with their hands on their hips, and stared into each other's eyes.

"Okay," he whispered as if he were caressing her cheek, "No laughing. No big smiling," he said straight-faced. He took a couple more deep breaths. "We are two cordial colleagues."

"We are the crack crime-fighting duo of Bones and Booth," she responded with a nod, sobering up herself.

"Booth and Bones," he said, peeking at her out of the corner of his eye, an eye that twinkled at her. She winked back at him.

"Oh!" Gasped Booth, clutching his heart dramatically. "You've gotten so good, you'd win a medal in the toe-curling winking Olympics."

"That's ridiculous, Booth," she said, doubtfully. "There is no such thing."

"You're right," he said, glancing at his watch. "It's been five minutes already. We better get going."

"I am a much better actor than you are, Booth," she taunted him. She tapped her temple. "Compartmentalization, Booth. It's all in how expertly you can harness the power of your—"

"Okay, if you're going to start talking smack at me, I'm just going to go back to Angela's office."

"See you there," she nodded, letting him walk past her without touching, though it just about killed her. "Oh, Booth! One last thing," she called after him.

"What," he said, poking his head back inside the door.

"I apologize for the texting," she said sincerely as she shook her head. "I-I was trying to be extraordinarily normal—sorry that backfired on you," she grinned guiltily.

"S'okay," he said, winking, then tapping on the door frame twice before heading back to Angela's office.

After a few deep breaths, Brennan smoothed out the fabric of her shirt, stood up as straight as she could, and left her office in the direction of Angela's.

* * *

><p>"I'm just curious," whispered Wendell tapping Hodgins on the shoulder as they waited for Booth and Brennan to return from their self-induced time-out. "In high school we used to smoke these little Swisher Sweets mini cigars out behind the Git N' Gallop a block down from school …"<p>

"Dude, you might as well have been smoking bubblegum cigars. Swisher Sweets are those flavored things, right? About fifteen cents a piece?"

"Grape, strawberry—cherry was my favorite. The lime ones tasted like ass," recalled Wendell, remembering also that he wasn't sure of the price as he and his friends either dug damaged ones out of the garbage or got them from inside the store at a five-finger discount.

Booth walked into the office and strode past Cam to stand in front of the screens next to Hodgins.

"Wendell, those things are machine-made in swamp country!" Hodgins rasped sardonically out of the side of his mouth. "You've never smoked anything that was rolled on the thighs of Dominican Virgins. I know this because I've never given it to you." Hodgins shot a smirk over his shoulder. "What you had was more likely rolled on the thighs of a retired toothless hooker from Chicago."

"Word of advice?" Said Booth out of the corner of his mouth. "Man to man, Wendell?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell anyone you had a Swisher Sweet. It's –" Booth sucked in a breath between clenched teeth making a hissing sound, and shook his head disapprovingly, "not really a manly smoke! And, Hodgins?"

Hodgins raised his eyebrows and locked eyes with Booth.

"You're slipping. Thought you said you'd taken this boy out a couple times," chuffed Booth disdainfully.

"Dude, you can't rush culture!" Hodgins said in a full defensive voice.

"Yeah, well, I'll wait for the movie," replied Booth, chuckling. "I can just see the title now, "Educating Bray" or "My Fair Squintern."

* * *

><p>A moment later, Brennan returned and stood beside Camille once again. Taking the laser pointer out of her lab coat pocket, she pointed the red laser beam at the left screen and traced ovals over Aleesha Grimes' femora and tibias and picked up as if nothing had happened.<p>

"These are from someone of the same general age and build as Aleesha, but who suffered from osteoarthritis. This was the first of several indicators that brought us to the conclusion that these bones do not belong to Aleesha Grimes. Hodgins identified that the femora and tibias are from a victim in the Washington State Area."

"Where Bundy and The Green River Killer were," interjected Angela, swallowing dryly.

"Correct," nodded Hodgins, smiling at his bride. "Our killer failed to properly fumigate both sets of bones after de-fleshing. He most likely immersed them too briefly in an Ammonium Hydroxide solution rather than freezing or boiling them. Immersion in ammonium hydroxide kills beetles in various stages of development, but will not remove the small larval particulates. I found frass, or bug dust—"

"Bug dust?" Booth raised an eyebrow in confusion at the thought of bugs moving so slowly that they collected dust.

"Bug poop," chuckled Hodgins.

"Of course," nodded Booth, smirking disgustedly and clenching his jaw.

"I found frass and the microscopic barbed hairs from the larvae of a different kind of Dermistidae on the osteoarthritic femora and tibias. Aleesha's remains have traces of Dermestes maculatus, which are found all over the world, except in Antarctica. However, the femora and tibias that were interred with the Haverford remains have traces of Dermestidae Plovokitimis which thrive on the West coast. Also, the endemism and phenology of these particular Dermestidae Plovokitimis, indicate interment at the same time as our first victim's: spring and summer."

"Which is what made it possible for us to locate that second victim, Banty Solicious of King County, Washington," Booth provided. "So, what's next?"

Before anyone could say anything more, Booth's cell phone rang.

"Saved by the bell," Booth mumbled under his breath, glancing at Officer Benton's name on his cell display. "I gotta take this," he said, waving his phone in the air as he made his way through the group toward the back of Angela's office. "Hopefully it's about the travel journals from one of our suspects."

* * *

><p>"Booth!" Booth blurted into the receiver once he was out of earshot of the group.<p>

"Agent Booth, this is Officer Benton from Haverford, Pennsylvania."

"What do you have for me, Benton?"

"Officer Scarpetti just reported that the first batch of Dr. Hubbard's journal pages have been scanned and sent. You should be receiving a folder called 'Hubbard Journals One'. It will have sixteen files in it, each labeled with—"

"Which address did I give you?"

"Uh, _AMontenegro ,_ sir."

"Perfect. How many folders are coming?"

"Well, that's what I wanted to find out from you. Scarpeti says the guy's got more diaries than a thirteen year old girl."

"Well, how many diaries would that be, Benton? Give me a number."

"Sorry, Sir. They go back to 1985— figure one or two a year, so somewhere between thirty and fifty."

"Okay, okay, okay. Let's just take—wait, they're handwritten, right?"

"Yes, sir. I saw the contents of the first file. All handwritten. Very neat penmanship. Easy to read. Scans are pretty clear."

"Well," Booth said, as he smirked and looked around the office for a moment. "Let's do this," he said, pausing as an idea dawned on him. "You know what? Gimme Scarpeti's number. I got an idea."

"610-854-0001, sir. Should I let him know you'll be calling?"

"Nope, I'm gonna call him right now," he said, looking around for a piece of paper and something to scribble with. "Six-one-oh. Eight-five-four—" he mumbled as he recalled the numbers and wrote them down.

"Zero-zero-zero-one."

"What?"

"Three zeros, then a one."

"Got it. Oh-oh-oh-one. Thanks," he said, writing down the last numbers.

"Anything else I can do for you at the moment, sir?"

"Uh, yes, as a matter of fact. Dr. Brennan and I are flying out to Puget Sound. We are exhuming the remains of a victim whose remains might include Aleesha's missing bones—"

"Yes, sir. I read your update. Your people believe the bones buried with Aleesha really belong to that Washington victim?"

"My people here say at least four of the bones buried with Aleesha couldn't have come from anywhere other than King County in Washington. Whether or not this Washington victim has Aleesha's missing bones remains to be seen. But, there is something more you can do for me."

"You name it, sir," said Benton, standing at the ready, his posture evident in the tone of his voice.

"Listen, I want you to reserve the cadaver dogs for the rest of the week, got it?"

"Absolutely. Uh, how many do you want?" Benton said, eager to please.

"How many you got?" Booth scratched his chin with his free hand and furrowed his brow in thought. He didn't want to put anyone on alert, but something in his gut told him there was more to the Haverford side of the story, they just hadn't figured it out yet. When the time came, he wanted to be able to act almost instantaneously. "Listen, Benton. Are you alone, I mean, is this a private conversation?"

"I can be, sir. Just, uh let me—" Sounds of the man walking toward his office traveled across the phone line. Booth could hear Benton's muffled voice giving direction to his administrative assistant.

Booth waited on his side of the line until he heard Benton say, thank you, and then heard Benton's office door closing.

"Perfectly private now, sir," said Benton.

"Okay. Here's what I need you to do. I don't care how you do it. I just want it quiet. How many colleges in that area. A lot, right?"

"Uh, les'see. There's uh ... over thirty."

"Holy God. Well, okay. Here's what you do. Call all the kennels you have. Tell them … oh, I don't care what you tell them, but we're possibly going to be needing every expert wet nose in the county by the middle of the week."

"We're about due for another emergency drill. I'll tell them they need to be able to jump at an undisclosed time between now and Friday."

"Great idea, Benton. I'm liking you more and more every day."

"Thank you, sir. Anything else?" Benton's pleasure at Booth's complement was evident in his upbeat tone.

"Nope. Just let me know when everything's ready," he said, hanging up from Benton and punching in Officer Angelus Scarpetti's number.

"Scarpetti here," said the voice on the other end, answering Booth's call.

"Special Agent Booth from D.C. I understand you have been scanning the Hubbard journals."

"Yep—"

"Benton tells me there are a lot of them?"

"A whole mess. Enough to start several funeral pyres. It'll be a shame if Hubbard got burned on his own—"

"Scarpetti, listen closely. I have a meeting I should have gotten back to five minuted ago. I want you to scan and send every page from every journal from 2000 forward. Then sit down and look through the ones from the '80s forward till 1999. Just scan them yourself. Visually, I mean."

"Okay. What am I looking for?"

"I don't know. Anything weird. Fascination with torturing small animals. Weird sexual experiences. Obsessions or fetishes of any kind. See if there's any mention of his wife or Aleesha Grimes or any other young women. See if there are any scribbled numbers that you can't tell what they mean. Anything that just looks … out of the ordinary. Oh, and all mention of the other professors there at Haverford. Especially the males."

"And that douchebag, Bing? The walking erection who drank himself stupid after getting served with divorce papers yesterday? The guy who claims to have had consensual sex with the Grimes girl, then most likely killed her. "

"Especially Clyde Bing."

Booth turned back toward the group at the plasma screens when he heard his name being called.

"Booth, where are you?" It was Brennan's voice.

"What about the other Casanova. What's his name? Greg … Gary DiAngela?" Scarpetti continued.

"Sure, why not. Listen, I gotta get back to my meeting. Scan anything questionable and send it-anything else that seems interesting. Got it?"

"I'm on it. I'll report back when I'm done."

* * *

><p>"BOOTH! WHERE ARE YOU?" Brennan's voice became louder and louder as she strode toward the back of Angela's office toward him.<p>

"I'm right here! What's going on?"

"Booth, the bones!" She said, rushing toward him.

"Yes?"

"The bones, Booth. The femora and tibias. They don't belong to Aleesha Grimes."

"I know that," he nodded. "That's what you've been saying all along. So, what's the big deal?"

"No, Booth. The femora and tibias interred with Banty Solicious in Washington. They aren't Aleesha's!"

"What? Are you sure?" He asked, surprised, but wondering if maybe he wasn't understanding her correctly.

"The numbers don't add up!" She stared at him expectantly, and wet her lips, still breathing heavily from the excitement.

"What numbers - four bones in Pensylvania, four in Washington, right? Do we have another extra bone somewhere?"

"No, Booth. The dimensions. The height estimates based upon the femora and radii measurements. The comparative analysis just doesn't match up!"

"Bones, simmer down and speak English." He put his hands on her shoulders and looked intently into her eyes. "Now, take a breath and tell me again, slowly."

"Okay. Aleesha Grimes was interred with Banty Solicious' femora and tibias. I am 96% confident of this, based upon the comparative analysis and the estimation of height as it is congruent with what is listed on her driver's license."

"Okay, this we already knew …" Booth nodded.

But the femora and tibias interred with Banty Solicious' remains in Washington, based upon the math, they do not belong to Aleesha Grimes. Never did."

"What? Why not?"

"Because, Booth, the measurements of those bones appear to indicate that the owner-"

"-of the bones buried with Banty in Washington?"

"Correct. They appear to be from a human who is at least 1-2 inches taller than Aleesha Grimes. By my calculations, Aleesha is only one hundred and fifty-nine and point seven centimeters tall."

Booth grimaced at her.

"Agh! Five foot two and two-thirds inches tall, Booth!

"What are you saying, Bones?"

"I will not know until I can confirm it through my own examination, Booth. All we currently have are photographs of Banty's remains from her autopsy - and those can be misleading. I need to take my own measurements, then get the remains to Hodgins as soon as possible."

"Are you suggesting that there may be a-THIRD victim?"

"That is exactly what I am suggesting, Booth," she said. "A third victim,_ not_ including the owner of the rogue phalanx."

* * *

><p><strong>When I finally publish an original fiction novel, I will make absolutely no money because all<br>****of these people will be getting free copies of it ... and,  
><strong>**who knows if anyone else will be interested? LOL!**

SquinTern447, OhSnapItzAmelie, yenyen76, Dyna63, FaithinBones, eire76, 1956JohnDeere50, JayBee188, DWBBFan, elmasuz, EveyEve1215, pasha54, bostonlegalgirl, celheartstv, SharonM745, strawberry79, sarahlizlangas, crys82, Aveburygirl, bubbles526, jean okbones, daisesndaffidols, soliloquy81, BonesBooth, carolkujawski, Tess, SammieAtHome, Michelle, ILuvBonesNDool, Martreiya, Fluffybird, Tristan Thompson, brensfan, yoshimi0701, mef1013, dovepage, soxgirl69, Melissa, manicpixiedreamgurl, coterie2, daniellejoy07, Donnalee12, dlh, Marebear, Ondiac, Alicia9876, fantasyfanatic13, PsychYouOut, CAM, SylviaAlexis, hannahindie, Angie, Aunt Tiff, alwaysthere39, Intrigued Reader, Someoneslove, grandma bones, Diko, Empyrean Skies, MiseryMaker, caracoleta07, hisnameisntphil, ciaomichaella, latetobones, TraciM, Chollas, hillhappy, chosenname Seamonkey2391, Angelbach, yoshimi0701, farchester, kdgteacher7, Shoulla, Fluffybird, sandyholl, Melissa, and three completely anonymous reviewers.

To BLG and DWBBFan ... Raise Your Glass ... the convertible is gassed and ready to go!

~ M-OX


	207. No Progress, Strictly Fluff

Author's Notes: Folks, I've been inundated with short, familial house guests, and then stolen away to a cabin by my in-laws with the kids and husband in tow. Hence, I have only this to show for it. I promise progress in the next chapter ... your patience is greatly appreciated. XXOOOXOXOX = D

An eXTrA SpeCiaL *Smash tackle hug* to **GrandmaBones**, who recently supplied me with an entire box of chocolates. *wipes away tears of appreciation* Your generosity shows no limits, and for that I am eternally grateful.

~MoxieGirl  
>~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter<p>

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><p><strong>Note to Catherine:<strong> I made up the Hepburn "Will You Marry Me" game between B&B myself. It is not from a movie, though it would be cute if it were! Thank you so much for reading The When and the How: A Bone to Pick! : p XXO

**Greetings to the new readers from the last 30 days:** elis75, lolopayne99, Empyrean Skies, Jmv3, lynmumto3, leshagen, meezer-meow, bfox1973, anthropologically speaking, Dobbi, Empyrean Skies, latetobones, Vyvyaaannn, HermioneTemprance98, alwaysthere39, Maunzeli, .7, and aallliissonnxo

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><p><strong>No Progress, Strictly Fluff<strong>

_"Are you suggesting that there may be a-THIRD victim?" Booth had enquired._

_"That is exactly what I am suggesting, Booth," she'd said.  
>"A third victim, not including the owner of the rogue phalanx."<em>

"Relax and take a breath! You're nearly hyperventilating, Bones! Just—let's back up again," said Booth, staring intently into her eyes. He still had his palms planted firmly upon her shoulders. As her voice had gotten louder and sharper, erupting in staccato bursts, he'd begun to knead her trapezii between the tips of his fingers and the pads of his thumbs. For a moment it didn't matter to either of them that they were at the Jeffersonian in broad daylight. Booth's focus was hijacked by the distressed panic of his partner, the center of his world, Dr. Temperance Brennan. All Brennan cared about was that something was terribly wrong with the femora and tibias interred with Banty Solicious — they were far too long to belong to a person as diminutive as Aleesha Grimes. This could only mean one thing: an additional victim!

If it hadn't been for the fact that the entire team was focused on the full-stature images of the two known victims displayed on the plasma screens of the Angelatron, Booth and Brennan's cover as special agents of their own covert operation, _Operation Pringles_, as Brennan would later name it, would have been completely blown.

"Just—" he inhaled, his shoulders rising as he did so, "—_breathe_," he finished, his final word floating out on a long slow breath.

"Okay," she gasped, licking her dry lips and allowing her eyes to drift closed. She felt her torso swaying gently as he pulled and pushed her slightly forward and back, working the muscles on either side of her neck. "Oh, that—feels—good," she whimpered, sighing heavily as her recalcitrant anxiety idly dissipated like the curling ribbon of smoke drifting off of an abandoned cigar. "I don't know why I'm so worked up, Booth. This is highly irregular for me," she said, disturbed by her own reaction. "Perhaps I, too, have been invested in an explicit explanation for the disparities in this case," she said, blinking at her mate. "I cannot allow the chemical counteraction in my brain to compromise my objectivity. Can I rely upon you to call it to my attention if, in fact, I exhibit signs of focusing on the subjective?"

Booth failed to stifle a chuckle. "You're asking me to tell you if you start to lose your objectivity or begin to act crazy?" His amazement was evident in the tenor of his voice and the shocked expression on his face. "What, do I _look _like I have a death wish?" He stared at her in mock astonishment.

"That does put you in a rather precarious position, doesn't it?" Brennan chagrined. "Well," she sighed, "I promise to take your observations into consideration should you apprise me of any irrationality in my behavior or logic."

"Hm," Booth grunted warily. "Let's just play this by ear and see how it goes. I have every confidence you will be the most rational and objective person in any room you walk into."

"Are you mocking me, Booth?" She asked accusingly.

He stared blankly at her for a moment, unsure how to respond. "Of course not, no! I'm just saying I am sure you will be fine, that's all. We're all stressed here, Bones. But even when everyone is freaking out—you somehow always manage to keep a level head."

When she stared blankly back, he continued. "Listen, if what you just told me is true about the mismatched leg bones in Washington, this is a big deal. A massive deal. Your response was completely appropriate, okay?"

Sighing in concession, Brennan closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her chest. She rolled her head slowly to the right, rotated it straight back, continued to the left, and then dropped it forward again before reversing the rotation. As she listened to her intervertebral fibrocartilage pop and crunch, she found herself pondering what she was fairly confident she'd just figured out about the bones being the wrong size for Aleesha Grimes. Her brain whirred over the details of the cause of death for these two victims—and now, possibly a third. A fourth, if you include the rogue phalanx.

"Booth, we are moving too slowly," she said, her eyes snapping open. "We have got to get to Washington—examine that other set of bones. And we need to examine Banty's cervical vertebra for trauma. Mr. Bray and Dr. Hodgins constructed a proxy victim to demonstrate how the odontoid process of the C2 vertebra was fractured resulting in the lethal spinal cord trauma."

"Right - the twisted neck and the ripped spinal cord. Do you want me to see if we can get an earlier flight?" He was serious.

"I doubt there is an earlier flight," she said dubiously, checking her watch. "Let's just move this along—"

"Alright, but first explain to me what's got you convinced this case is more complicated than we already know it is. God help me, but I want to understand the details here because something tells me we're only seeing the tip of the iceberg with Aleesha and Banty."

"Are you sure, Booth, about understanding the details? There's a plethora of complex mathematical equations, algorithms, quantum mechanics—"

"Uh, right," he said, uncertainly. "I may live to regret this, but let's do it this way: if my eyes roll to the back of my head and I start to drool, just, you know, wrap it up," he said making the universal fumble gesture. "Better yet, if you want to spare me that whole embarrassing mess with the drool and the zombie eyes—don't give me the, uh, genius level lecture. Keep it more like the, uh, tenth grade level."

"Or, sixth grade level, perhaps?" She suggested levelly without skipping a beat.

"Thanks a whole hell of a lot for your vote of confidence," snarked Booth, with an accusatory grimace.

"That was not meant as an insult, Booth," she said calmly, reaching up to wrap her fingers around the biceps of his outstretched arms. He was no longer massaging her muscles, but he still had his hands resting on them. She squeezed his biceps and felt him flex back. _Oh, nice,_ she thought, sighing to herself and feeling a swoon coming on. _Nice and solid, strong, warm. Focus, dammit, Temperance! Compartmentalize!_ "Newspapers and most mainstream media are written at the sixth grade level," she continued, surprised at how calm she sounded despite the thrum and rush of blood pounding in her ears. "Which, which is universally accepted as the average lay-person's reading comprehension level."

"Oh," he said, placated, but feeling stupid for not knowing that.

"In which case, I shall give you the eigth grade level lecture," she said. "You may interpret that comment, justifiable though it is, as a compliment," she added, smiling.

"Thanks, Bones," he answered humbly as he pursed his lips appreciatively.

"Now—one more time about the bones that don't belong to— who is it that doesn't have a leg to stand on?" said Booth. "Or, two legs, as the case may be?"

"They both had legs to stand on before they met with their untimely ends. Remains cannot stand, so it is a moot point at this juncture—" Bones was stopped mid-sentence by the grin on Booth's face. "You meant that as a joke, didn't you?"

Booth shot her a quick exaggerated smile that involved all of his facial muscles from the tip of his chin to the top of his hairline.

"Alright, alright," she said in an indulgent tone as she shook her head and considered rolling her eyes. "First, Aleesha Grimes. According to her driver's license she was five-foot-two and two-thirds inches tall, but the femora and tibias in Washington appear to belong to someone who is at least 160.65 cm, which is 5'3 ¼".

"Some people lie on their driver's license—" Booth suggested, hopefully.

"What would be the benefit of falsifying her physical attributes on her driver's license? That doesn't make any sense." She stared off into the space above Booth's right shoulder pondering this. "Isn't that illegal?"

"When was the last time you actually weighed what it says on your driver's license, Bones?"

"I weigh exactly what my driver's license says, give or take a pound depending upon the phase of my estrous cycle, but what does that have to do with Aleesha's—"

"I'm just saying that you can't trust a driver's license to be accurate!"

Bones dropped her shoulders in mild defeat. "I concede that not all people are as fastidious— or, perhaps, honest," she said, in a conciliatory tone, "but bones don't lie. If you have learned nothing else from me, you have learned this one fact. I checked the measurements of her radii and her humeri. Using the lengths of these two bones, I determined a range for her height." She paused, looking from one of his eyes to the other, giving him time to process the facts. "You should probably let go of my trapezzi now, Booth," she said in a solemn near-whisper when she realized she'd been running her thumbs back and forth over his biceps as she spoke to him. She squeezed that part of him that melts her one more time before reluctantly dropping her arms and leaning backward.

"I'd really prefer not to," he said guiltily. _I'd rather not return the candy that I stole from the grocery store, Officer, _he heard an imaginary five-year-old version of himself admit.

"I know. Neither would I," she said in a gentle sincere tone. She grimaced and scrunched her eyebrows sympathetically. "But you're going to have to do it anyway. You promised." As they locked eyes, she pressed her lips together, then bit them, fighting the urge to lean in and kiss him._ I feel like a mother denying her child the ice cream she'd promised him if he'd behaved himself, which he has so far, _she thought guiltily.

"So, a single bone can tell you how tall a person could be," he said, sliding his hands down her upper arms, then her forearms, causing her to shiver involuntarily. When his hands traveled over her wrists and took hold of her hands, he gently squeezed her fingers before releasing them.

"I wonder how long _my _radial is?" He gripped his own forearm and turned it side to side. Clenching and unclenching his hand, he spread his fingers and wiggled them around.

"It's not a _radial_, Booth. It's a radi_us_. The noun, _'radial'_, refers to an automobile tire. And the adjective, _'radial'_, means something having to do with the _radius_ _bone._ So, the _bone_ is a radius; or, radii in the plural form."

"Hm," he grunted, his eyebrows rising and falling quickly, deciding not to tell her he was joking once again.

Brennan squinted at him, and cocked her head to the left pensively. "You're, what? About six foot one?"

"And a quarter!"

"Is that your real height, or what's printed on your driver's license?"

"It's my real height," he shrugged noncommittally, "on a good day." He pulled himself up to his full height and grimaced defensively at her.

"And perhaps in cowboy boots," she snorted, "but I deal in facts, Booth. Empirical data. Shall I get out my measuring tape?" It sounded like a threat. A threat against his masculinity.

"I don't have any cowboy boots," he said defensively. "However, if it's easier for you to do the math if you round down to an even six-one, then, fine, go right ahead, but I don't have to prove anything to you," he asserted with an indignant smirk that morphed into a guilty grin when Brennan simply stared at him, speechless.

"If that's what you have to tell yourself, Booth," she chuffed, finally. He grimaced in response. "Seventy-three inches it is," she said. _"Exactly _seventy-three."

He shrugged and crossed his arms.

"Okay, 73 inches. That's— 185.42 cm … minus 81.3 is 104.12. Divide that by 3.3 for precisely 31.55 centimeters. Assume a standard deviation of 66%— which is 1.31 centimeters. That takes us to a range of 30.24 to 32.86 centimeters for the average male of European descent. However, I'd put you at above average—"

"Thanks, Bones—," he says, flashing a smile.

She cocked her head to the right. "Nothing to thank me for, I'm basing that on direct experience, not generous sentiment. I'd put you at—32.45 centimeters, and—"

"In American—?"

"In _alpha American,_ that equates to— " she said, pausing to reach out and cup his elbow with one hand while holding his wrist in the other. "From the olecranon at the proximal end, to the styloid process at the distal end of your radius, I'd say—" She probed his wrist for the end of his radius, then grinned to herself, giving nothing away, and shrugged, "—about twelve-point-eight inches."

Booth couldn't help chuckling. She was touching him again. Nice. _She can't resist me_, he thought to himself, a mischievous expression stealing over his features.

"Booth, focus!" She commanded, noticing his grin. She couldn't help chuckling when the fingers attached to his 12.8 _radial _inches reached behind her to sneak around her waist and rest at the small of her back. He attempted to pull her closer, but she wouldn't budge. "I'll measure it tonight at the King County Medical Examiner's Office to prove I'm right—" she said, putting her palm on his chest to hold him off, keep him at a safe distance.

"And, while you've got it out, the measuring tape, I mean—" he said, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly at her, "I've got a couple of other body parts—"

"Well, I can ascertain a fairly accurate measurement for your humerus and your femora as well—" she paused and glanced at his arm, then down at his thigh, her head bouncing gently from side to side. She didn't see Booth's expression which was one of thorough amusement at her literal interpretation of what was meant to be a flirtatious comment. He chuckled quietly to himself, but didn't interrupt her as she completed her algebraic exercises.

"Let's see— 185.42 cm minus 71.4 equals 114.02 divided by 2.8 equals 40.72," continued Brennan, still oblivious to Booth's amusement. "Standard deviation on a male of European descent for the humerus is 1.62 for—" She pursed her lips and stood completely still, then squinted at Booth. "I estimate that your humerus is," she paused to convert centimeters into inches in her head, "between sixteen and seventeen inches long, Booth. Your femur would be—" More calculations were worked out on the eraser board inside her head. "It would be— twenty-three inches." Too late, she noticed Booth was practically leering at her like the hungry beast plotting against Red Riding Hood. She winced when she finally saw the look in his eyes. "Wha— what on earth are you—what is that expression on your face supposed to mean—?"

"I wasn't talking about measuring my humerus, Bones," he stage whispered, winking at her, "or my femur."

When the reality of what he was referring to hit her, Brennan was caught off guard by a shock of adrenaline that flashed her cheeks crimson and cascaded sensations of gleeful delight and playfulness throughout her system. She found herself swaying toward him like a magnet to a steel anvil. At the last moment, she caught and righted herself, battling against her instinctual reaction to his suggestiveness, and forced herself to project an air of discipline and professionalism.

"I will be more than happy to measure every inch of you and let you do the same to me—if we can just get through the next twenty-four hours of this case," she exasperatedly stage-whispered back.

When he leaned forward slowly, she was confused at first. When she realized he was on his way to planting a big kiss on her lips, she nearly fell backward jumping out of the way. "BOOTH! I'm serious!" she cried plaintively, placing her hand on his chest momentarily to gently push him away. Booth grabbed her hand and held it to his chest where she could feel his heart beating through his shirt. "And you're not helping! What if someone were to turn around and see us?" She whispered so loudly that it made her throat feel scratchy. "Then our cover would be blown and we'd be forced to abandon _Operation Pringles_ prematurely—and _then_ where would we be?"

_"Operation Pringles?"_ He chortled, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.

"Yes," she said, shakily, shrugging as she pulled her hand away. "That's what I've decided to call this … keeping what's ours, ours." She stared at him plaintively.

"Operation Pringles," he repeated, one side of his mouth curling up into a grin. "I like it," he said. "It's like we're secret agents."

"I know, right?" She said, momentarily delightedly, her eyes sparkling as she smiled innocently into his eyes. "That's exactly what I was thinking." She felt a warmth seep into her chest. Then she felt that urge to step closer and press her lips against his, but she caught herself before she gave in. "I'm—trying really hard, here Booth."

"I can see that," he said with a charming grin. "And I have every confidence you shall prevail." He raised a teasing eyebrow, which seemed to say, _'However, I shall not relent'. "_Did I mention yet how beautiful you are today?"

"Booth!" She whimpered. "This is important to me."

"No one's looking, Bones, relax! They are off in their own squinty world right now. God only knows what they are talking about!"

Having no ready response for his comment, she said nothing. Though she tried, she couldn't hide the twinkle in her eye, but that wasn't her fault. Nature is a conniving witch who has a way of announcing our secrets to the free world when we least want her to. _I will just ignore his attempts to seduce me, _she decided relentlessly, reaching inside herself to channel her inner calm and her remarkable ability to compartmentalize. _Where was I? She asked herself, _cursing her inability to control her own physiological reactions to his proximity. _Dammit, Booth! _Closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose, she rifled through the imaginary index cards taped to the inside of her eyelids. Opening her eyes, she cleared her throat and stared at him sternly, letting him know she meant business.

"Because of the anomalies of this case," she said adroitly, glaring at him as she attempted to sound like none of what had just happened had affected her at all. "I have applied the height measurement analysis on the remains found with Aleesha and Banty."

"The thigh, and two arm bones. I'm with ya' so far," he said, nodding and matching her serious demeanor.

"From the proximal end where it articulates with the humerus," she said reaching out to cup his elbow, "to the distal end where it articulates with the lunate and the scaphoid," she said, holding up his wrist, "Aleesha's radius measures—"

"Bones, how can I concentrate if you keep touching me?" He whispered into her ear, warming her skin with his breath. Then he blew in her ear, heard her breath catch in her throat, and watched her sway toward him again.

"Ohhhh. _Sorry,_" she said quickly, shaking her head as if to untangle the web of pheromones that had spun itself around her brain. She abruptly dropped his arm and took a step back, way back. She fanned her face frantically, attempting to cool her cheeks which had been battling a flash fire since well before he breathed in her ear. She dug her fingernails into the flesh of her own hips to regain her focus. She shot him a glowering _'You are an evil, evil, man, Seeley Booth' _stare.

In reply, he chuckled, wiggled his eyebrows, and crossed his arms. His cocksure return gaze almost shouted, _'Everything is foreplay, baby!'_

The tension was getting to her yet again. She knew it, and he knew it. _Don't acknowledge it and it will dissipate, _she told herself, attempting to regain her composure. _I am so full of hot orangutan poo if I think that will actually work. Look at him, he's delicious! There is only one thing that will release this pressure_—_ STOP THINKING ABOUT IT. NOW, GODDAMMIT! _She silently screamed at herself, then swore she would get him back once they left the Jeffersonian.

"Are you okay, Bones? You're looking a little—_flushed," _he cajoled her.

"I'M FINE!" She blurted, coughed, then started again. "I, I'm fine, Booth," she said in a strangled voice. She fanned herself again ineffectually and took a deep breath before continuing. "—Anyway," she cleared her throat, "I have determined that Aleesha's height is between 5'2 ¼" and 5'3 ⅓" tall."

"Okay," said Booth stifling an amused smirk. He cocked his head to the left, made a quarter turn away from Brennan, and tapped a closed fist against his mouth.

"Okay. Driver's license says—"? He said as if waiting for a drum roll.

"Five-foot-two and two-thirds inches tall," she said, watching him intently.

"Exactly where her radius _says_ she should be," he concluded, pressing his lips between his teeth and covering his mouth and a cheek with his hand.

"Precisely, though her radius doesn't talk," she affirmed with a wry smirk, beginning to recover her composure sufficiently enough to delve back into the facts of her discovery. "Now, with that nearly confirmed, we are able to estimate a range for the length of her femora—"

Booth turned back toward Brennan, exhaled, and leaned back to sit on the edge of Angela's desk. "Ahhh. Let me guess—"

"No _guessing,_ Booth," she blurted, cutting him off. "I've determined, using Aleesha's height as revealed by the length of her radius, that Aleesha's femora should measure between 43.8 and 45.3 centimeters. The femora interred with Banty Solicious appear—if the photos can be trusted—to measure at approximately 46.54 centimeters," she said and paused. "That's a difference of in excess of—"

"One-point-one centimeters," he interrupted her. "Outside of the standard deviation. But—people don't always fit within the ranges, right? What about the other 34% who fall outside—" he said, his mind whirring with potential explanations.

"You are correct, Booth. However, this information in combination with her full-stature photos and the dancing video, and the fact that the bones in Washington do not appear to have hypertrophied, meaning strengthened and grown in density as a result of all the dancing— all of these combined points toward the Washington femora and tibias not belonging to Aleesha Grimes.

"Okay, okay," he conceded. "I get it," he said, then crossed his arms and slumped where he sat on the edge of Angela's desk. "Hmm—" he sighed, the hum emanating from his throat fading to nothing as he let his mental wheels turn. "How much you wanna bet that third victim is Caucasian with brown hair, green eyes, and an address nowhere near either of our first two victims?"

Brennan grimaced at her mate and nodded solemnly. "Lets go tell the others," she sighed, awash in what felt like defeat, though she wasn't sure why.

As they turned to walk toward their colleagues they were met with an indecipherable though distinctly human sound emanating from behind the glass. There was another human sound, but it was canned, as if recorded. On the screen, they glimpsed motion in varying shades of mottled dark and light in bold contrast to the colors of their colleagues' clothing and the vibrant décor of the artist's office.

"Security footage," mumbled Brennan, stepping forward and extending her arm so Booth bumped into her when she stopped abruptly.

They glance at each other, exchanging looks of confusion and concern.

A million possibilities flew through each of their heads like a fast-forward slide show of a hundred scenes from this case, from past cases, from miscellaneous time spent hunched over desks and paperwork, examination tables and unidentified remains.

"Wha—are they—laughing?" Booth whispered in awe toward her ear.

Brennan squinted forward, still trying to ascertain what they were looking at. The images were greatly out of context with the disturbing subject being discussed this morning. She drew a complete blank.

"How can they be laughing—?" Booth's face crumpled in abject confusion.

"I—find I am at a loss—" she replied, shaking her head. Then, "Ohhhh! Booth, they don't know. I didn't tell them what I have just shared with you—about Aleesha's bones not being with Banty's remains in Washington."

"What?" He asked, his brow crumpling as he focused on her face.

"I didn't tell them," she said, blankly, "About the possible third victim."

"What? Why? So, they don't know yet?" He asked in surprise.

"Correct. The moment I figured it out, I ran to you … the moment I figured it out."

"But weren't you—?" He turned and glanced toward the glass separating them from the other side of the office where the team stood in front of the Angelatron gyrating, bouncing or doing something that, out of context, made absolutely no sense to Booth's brain.

"I was in there," she said, gesturing toward the glass. "With them, Booth. But I figured it out and—came to find you," she shrugged. "I did it without thinking," she admitted, feeling a sudden rush of embarrassment. "Was that odd behavior? Why did I do that?"

"No, no, no. It's not odd at all—" he said, beaming at her and slipping his arm sideways around her shoulders. _What the hell,_ he thought. _No one is paying any attention to us. They are too busy having their own party to notice what we're doing over here._

"I just—I noticed an irregularity—did some cursory quantum mechanics—," she said, feeling the heat of his arm around her shoulders. She glanced back toward the team and relaxed against him.

"Of course you did," he said, shaking his head and furrowing his astonished brow in her direction. Y_ou are freaky smart and absolutely wonderful and I love you, _he thought, smiling down into her eyes.

Neither of them noticed that many feet away, Dr. Lance Sweets had been stealing glances toward them and had caught more than one eye-full of their intimate exchanges. Sweets merely stifled a grin and continued participating in the entertainment on the screen. Luckily for them, and thanks to a couple of nonverbal threats the evening before, Sweets still considered himself sworn to secrecy.

"I didn't have anything else to do the calculations with—and I figured out that the numbers" she paused to swallow, "don't add up and it just clicked. So, without thinking I bolted—to find you." _I'm feeling unbalanced again, tainted by a hormonal rush,_ she thought, feeling her forehead to gauge her temperature.

Booth's eyes softened and he smiled. "You just came to find me. Nothin' wrong with that," he said quietly, shrugging his left shoulder and beaming a sheepish grin at her. This was different than the playful teasing of only moments before. It was tender. And Sweet. And knee-weakening.

"No—don't go all sentimental on me, Booth. This is a significant find. Focus, remember?"

He sighed and they both turned to look at the screens again.

"I wish we didn't have to tell them," she said, leaning her head sideways toward him. He bent toward her as well so they stood, her temple leaning against his cheekbone.

Brennan and Booth have been in this position together many times. There is news to be shared. It's news that will end a person's world as they know it, drain the happiness out of it, leaving the survivor in a world that is temporarily grey and dirty yellow. It's the news that something they spent a lifetime protecting against has finally and irreversibly altered the course of a loved one's life in the worst way possible.

_***** When was the last time you saw your daughter?  
><em>_***** Last week. Lunch on Friday. She's so excited about her wedding plans. She went on and on ...  
><em>_***** Did she mention any trouble she was having?  
><em>***** _She didn't mention any trouble. Why do you ask? What is this about?  
><em>_***** Does you daughter look anything like this?  
><em>_***** Why... yes! How did you get a drawing of my daughter?_  
><em>***** We call this a reconstruction, ma'am.<br>__***** A reconstruction. What does that mean? Didn't you say you were from the museum?  
><em>_***** Dr. Brennan is a forensic anthropologist from the Jeffersonian.  
><em>_***** Booth is from the FBI. Remains were found which we have reason to believe belong to your daughter …  
><em>_***** Remains? Remains of what?_

Booth and Brennan have discussed this experience many times and agreed that it never gets easier. On the ride to a death notification, they barely talk. Their comments are brief, clipped. They each stare out a window, lost in their own thoughts. He stares out the front windshield, she out the passenger side window.

Afterward they have a drink that begins with ten minutes of silence, followed by somber discussion until one of them recalls something humorous or pertinent to the current case. And, finally, life goes on. For them, at least. For the survivors of a loved one, life never goes on, never like before.

Today's news of an additional victim isn't nearly as devastating as a death notification because the victim isn't anyone they knew. But this team still reels from the loss of someone they all knew and loved. The tragedy of Vincent Nigel-Murray's death is little over a week old. Each team member has had to face the loss of a friend and the reality of their own mortality. They've each asked themselves, How will I go on? How can I step up onto that platform without reliving the memory of Vincent sprawled on the floor pleading for his life? Will I ever hear the lime and coconut song without feeling a sense of devastating loss?

As Sweets said, they are a battered group in desperate need of a break. An easy, finite, logical case would be preferable to a complicated, widespread, seemingly irrational one. However, murder takes its cues from no one, and time doesn't give vacation to those who need to grieve.

Brennan doesn't have to say anything. Booth already knows what she's thinking.

"We don't," said Booth, grimacing as he rubbed his jaw back and forth against her hair, then kissed her temple. "We don't have to tell them yet."

"Booth," she said, in a gently admonishing tone.

"Listen, you're going to have those bones in your hands with your own little measuring tape in just a few hours, right?"

"Yes-s-s," she said, dragging out the end of the word and regarding him with guarded suspicion.

"Well," he said gently, dropping his chin, "we can't really do anything until then, right? Hodgins certainly can't metro-speedometer anything without having the actual bones in his hot little geeky hand, am I right?"

"You are correct, Booth," she said, searching her brain for any reason to reject his proposition other than that it's against protocol. "You're saying you would approve of delaying notifying them ... just so our colleagues..."

"... Who have been through a devastating emotional loss, just like Sweets said, right? And they are people whom we love and care about ..."

"Booth, we cannot delay telling them on the basis that they are people whom we love," she parried. "That is not at all a valid argument. But, I can agree to delay notifying the team of my suspicions based upon the reasoning that there is nothing that the team can do at present." She paused, then blurted, "But, Dr. Saroyan could alert Cullen and perhaps a search can begin for the third victim. What about that?"

"Search where, Bones? The entire country? We have no idea where the rest of bachelorette number three might be buried! If this guy went to all the trouble of killing two women, completely cleaning their bones..."

"Not completely..." she interjected.

"Right," he snorted, "how could I forget the bug poop?" He stage whispered bending at the knees as if in mid-bounce to make a point. "In my book, those bones are _practically_ clean," he insisted. "So, this killer lays these remains out perfectly, switching their bones up like some kind of board game pieces, and plants them. You really think he's gonna change his MO mid-flight and bury that third girl right where we'd find it ... right along side one of the other girls? No, I don't think so, Bones," he smirked as he shook his head.

"You are making sense, Booth," she conceded begrudgingly, as she chewed on the inside of her lip. "Okay. I will humor you on this one, but if anything comes to light during this meeting, or if there is the _minutest_ evidence that immediate revelation of these facts would be beneficial to the team ... "

"I'll tell them myself, if it will make you happy," he said, smiling as he tapped on her nose with his index finger. For a moment as he looked into her eyes, then back to the group, he consider the chances he could steal a kiss before someone caught a glimpse of them.

"But for now we'll just delay the inevitable so our colleagues can have a couple more hours of ignorant bliss."

"Bliss," she repeated, by now able to intuit what that look on his face meant. _You want to kiss me, Seeley Booth_, she imagined saying to him, her eyes softening at the thought. "I could go for a little bliss myself," she finally said instead, coquettishly, one side of her mouth turning up in a grin. _Since no one is looking, I might as well tease him, give him a little taste of his own medicine, _she thought. _See how he likes it!_ "More precisely, I could go for a nice healthy stack of Pringles," she said, one eyebrow ascending to her hairline suggestively. She wrinkled her nose flirtatiously at him.

"Tell me about it, Bones," he chuffed, grinning at her and glancing back to the group standing in front of the Angelatron.

"I just did, Booth. Do you want me to go into detail?" She asked, pursing her lips then smiling up at his profile.

"About what?" He said, momentarily meeting her gaze, then flicking a look back toward the screens.

"About my desire for potato chips from a can."

"What? Oh! Oh, yeah," he said, smiling broadly and giving her his full attention. Without warning, he dropped his arm from her shoulders, tightened it around her waist, pulled her up against his chest, and covered her mouth with his own. He was somewhat surprised when, in response, she gripped his shirt where her fingers landed on his chest and leaned into his kiss to taste that bliss she craved. When he heard a faint, high-pitched, satisfied sigh emanating from her throat, he broke the kiss and opened his eyes to find her, eyes closed, smiling dreamily, her fists still covetously clutching his shirt.

"Whoa," she gasped, slowly opening eyes that seemed suddenly sensitive to the light. _Well, that backfired,_ she thought, _but, man, was it worth it!  
><em>

"You're completely right," he said, looking into her dazed eyes.

"Wha-what?" she swallowed and shook her head slightly.

"One is not nearly enough," he said, pulling her up close again. Wrapping his other arm around her, he stole another two kissed before releasing her.

"Booth! You are saturated in a cloud of— of— hormonally charged ions!" She whispered, trying not to burst out laughing as a result of the high she was now experiencing, hormones being what they are. "But, you have absolutely got to control your baser instincts, get your brain off your— genitals! There, I said it. Your genitals, Booth!"

"I'm not thinking about my— my _genitals,"_ he whispered the last word harshly, accidentally spitting on her cheek.

"Ew," Brennan yelped, rubbing her cheek.

"I am doing my damnedest _NOT_ to think about— those," Booth whispered again, glancing south and barely stopping to acknowledge having flung saliva onto his partner.

Brennan snorted in disbelief.

_I'm _**_thinking_**_ about the curvaceous _**_body_**_ of the woman I _**_love_****_, _**he thought, staring stubbornly into her beautiful eyes. _Don't ask me to _**_stop_**_ because there's nothing I can _**_do_**_ about it, and when I try _**_not _**_to think about it, it only makes it _**_worse, _**_especially when you're _**_standing_**_ right there in _**_front _**_of me, looking all _**_soft_**_ and _**_beautiful_**_ with your soft _**_skin_**_ that's so—_**_soft_**_—and _**_warm_**_, and your beautiful _**_hair _**_and those— _**_eyes, oh, those eyes! _**He sighed to himself, grimacing as if in pain as he gripped his face, covering his eyes, helplessly losing ground in his competition with the biological imperative. _Oh, and the way you point at the_**_ screens_**_ and when you stand _**_next_**_ to me you smell so _**_good!_**_ Then, I remember this _**_morning,_**_ and then I think about what's _**_hidden_**_ under your chunky _**_necklace_**_ and _**_blouse_**_, right there, _he thinks, uncovering his eyes and glancing down at her chest. _Then I think about how soft your_**_ lips_**_ are— and the way you— well— I can just _**_feel _**_the _**_heat _**_coming off you, and I just want to—,"_ he stopped and raked frustrated fingers through his hair making some of it stand up straight.

Brennan stared at Booth quizzically as his face went through several uncertain transformations from desperation to abject submission to frenzied frustration.

"Just don't, Bones! Don't ask me, because it just isn't going to happen! I can't not be a man, Bones. And you know what? Nor would I want—"

"Okay, now you're just not making any sense at all. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Whoops," Booth blurted as his eyes flew open wide and his hand slipped from his eyes down to cover his mouth. "How much of that did I say out loud?" He asked, his voice muffled as his fingers were still pressing against his lips.

"You just rather fervently insisted I not ask you not to be a man," she said, furrowing her brow and grimacing. "Why would I ever ask you not to be a man? That would be an absurd request, one you would have absolutely no chance of fulfilling."

"Can we save this conversation for after we leave the Jeffersonian?" He finally said, dropping his arms and propping his fists on his hips when he knew no other way out of the corner he'd painted himself into. He certainly wasn't going to tell her what he'd been thinking.

"Well," she said, still quite confused. "Well, then, pull yourself together," she said firmly, barely moving her lips. "For the love of all invertebrates, Booth, get back in there with me and help me with this difficult case." she turned toward the others on the other side of the glass wall. "Now, don't look at me, because I need to clear my mind," she said, closing her eyes and pressing small circles over her temples. "I need to focus. I need to go in there and not be charmed by your twinkling eyes and your kissable lips and those … Oh, God … that, those gluteus media of yours-"

"Did you just say I have a nice ass?"

"Hips, though your maxima are … Agh, this isn't helping. I have to think: blank. No - I have to think OPPOSITE. I have to think sad. No, angry and frustrated. But I don't want to be angry and frustrated. Angry— I can be angry at the killer and those poor young girls whose lives have been cut short. That's what I'll do."

"Booth— let's focus on the girls and the bastard who took their lives, robbed them of college graduations and—"

"Love, and sex—"

"Advanced degrees, and careers, and the opportunity to self-publish—"

"Weddings and babies—"

"Yes, all that life is about. These girls will never experience any of that. Booth, I am angry. No, I'm not angry, I'm determined, fiercely committed to catching this— this— _MONSTER!"_

"BASTARD!" Booth blurted. "He probably doesn't have a _mother_ either!"

"A person cannot exist without having been born of woman, but I am going to overlook that in the spirit of our mutual commitment to generating the proper attitude for the continuation of our— very serious meeting with the team," Bones declared, generating a fiery stare as she got caught up in the passion of their attempt. "That man, or woman, this _killer,_ is a predatory organism spawned by the very excrement that was rejected by the most foul arthropod whose exoskeleton is so repugnant its mother voluntarily aborted it preterm and left it to survive on the sludge left behind by the spawn of Satan which sprung from a slab of igneous rock that, in fluid form, spewed forth from the earth in a putrid, gurgling mess from the bowels of deepest darkest hell."

Booth stared at her, stunned and speechless, before he added his next offensive moniker.

"ASS HAT!" He spat. That was all he could come up with.

"DOUCHE BAG!" She spat back, getting into the spirit.

"JACK HOLE!" He blurted enthusiastically.

"BONEHEAD!" She yelled.

"LOSER, POSER … DICK HEAD!" Booth yelled back.

"FORNICATING … SKUNK-HUMPING ... DICK HEAD!" Brennan screamed.

Booth's head snapped toward the glass wall in response to an abrupt movement caught in his peripheral vision. It was Angela. She had heard their name-calling and was staring at him with eyes as big as saucers.

"You seem distracted, Booth," she said, once she realized he'd mentally left their shouting match. She followed his line of sight to the other end of the room behind the glass walls and saw what had put the quizzical expression on her mate's face. Angela was staring at them, her mouth hanging open, her eyes enormous. Hodgins and Wendell were shaking their booties side to side, their left arms extended and bouncing, while Sweets and Cam stood next to them, transfixed by what appeared to be on old black and white film playing of the screens before them.

"What the HELL are they doing?" Booth squinted at them. His eyes flew open when comprehension hit him like oak nunchucks to the forehead. "Oh, hell, no. I gotta put a stop to this!"

"It looks like they are still laughing," she answered absently, trying to compute the unlikely message her brain was receiving, but he was already gone. Booth strode briskly toward the group.

"Alright, alright. You've had your fun," he shouted above the laughter as he walked into the middle of the group and stared at the security footage of himself jamming on an invisible guitar and singing to his hearts content. "Angela, turn it off," he commanded.

"Oh, but we're just getting to the best part ... The part where Hodgins walks out and just about has a coronary!" As if on cue, a head of tightly curled honey-colored hair appeared at the bottom of the screen, sprouted roots in the form of a torso, then two legs as he walked along the bottom half of the screen. Booth's falsetto "you shook me" still rang through the air as if he'd shouted into a tunnel as Hodgins' laughter rung out to compete with it.

* * *

><p>I apologize for not advancing the plot with this chapter, and for not getting them on the plane. Such are the plans of Mice and Men ... *smirk, shrug* Please do not let this prevent you from dropping me a line to let me know you are still entertained by my little fic ... it means a lot to me!<p>

**THANK YOU to THESE WONDERFUL READERS for having already done so for the most recent chapter:**

First time reviewers:  
><strong>Eyeofbast, Monilovesbones, Dobbi, catethewritergirl, lolopayne99,<strong>  
><strong>marceline19, leshagen, Clareg, bfox1973<br>**Welcome to the CLUB!  
>These are the people who let me know new eyes are on the story all the time! *claps hands*<p>

**~~0~~**

These are the first 10 reviewers who allow me to breathe for the first time after pushing the 'post' button.  
><strong>Boneslvr38, latetobones, ciaomichaella, Melissa, AussieBonesFan, JayBee188, SammieAtHome, <strong>**Someoneslove,  
><strong>**bostonlegalgirl, EowynGoldberry**

**~~0~~**

These are the next 20 reviewers who by their encouragement give me faith that more than  
>just the faithful first few are still reading: *Shakes Pompoms*<br>**FaithinBones, TraciM, DWBBFan, bubbles526, ****mef1013, sandyholl, Anonymous Guest, Guest, yenyen76, Seamonkey2391  
>kdgteacher7, dlh, Monilovesbones, Guest, tessdancer, chosenname, dovepage1, mariagalician, carolkujawski, soxgirl69<strong>

**~~0~~**

These are the next 20 reviewers who by their encouragement spur me on to assembling the next chapter  
>when my notes are all over the place and I am in hell:<br>**crys82, Guest who promises to purchase my first original fic when it comes out XO!, jean okbones, 1956JohnDeere50, **  
><strong>JBCFlyers19, Aveburygirl, brensfan, Martreiya, Kimberrn a.k.a. Kimber3333, alwaysthere39<strong>

**~~0~~**

These are the next 20 reviewers who bring me back to reality and remind me that I've done okay before and will do so again. Through the encouragement of their reviews, I pull myself up by the bootstraps (did she say BOOTS?) and trudge through the 18th round of editing.  
><strong>Dobbi, appiedala, yoshimi0701, catethewritergirl, Fluffybird, devotedfan206, maryfran, Guest Mary, fantasyfanatic13, Alicia9876,Grandma Bones, Squintern447, daniellejoy07, daisesndaffidols, CrayonClown, lolopayne99, manicpixiedreamgurl, MiseryMaker, eire76, Dyna63<strong>

****~~0~~****

Last, but by no means at all least, these are the reviewers, who by their encouragement made it possible for me to post **TODAY**.  
><strong>boneslover576, Catherine xx, eyeofbast, marceline19, leshagen, Clareg, and bfox1973<strong>

**Thank you, as always to my beautiful editor: Diko, a.k.a. Seraphine96  
>Thanks also to Kimber3333 for editing and gramatical support<strong>

****~~0~~****

**Thank you the most to Catarina and Diane, my partners in crime and all things Boothy,  
>who keep me sane!<strong>  
><strong>I Raise My Glass To You!<strong>

~MoxieGirl  
>~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter<p> 


	208. Taking One For The Team

_A/N Wow! School is FINALLY BACK IN SESSION! I feel like I have been waiting a YEAR for my two lovely twerps to get out of the house without me! So ... this means what, you ask? Well, it means that after very sporadic chapter posting over the insanely busy summer, things should settle down to a bit of lovely regularity. Who knew I could draw comparisons between grade school and Metamucil, huh? Nonetheless, there it is. So ... without further ado ... I give you chapter 208 and take my leave so you can read in peace. Once you reach the end ... for I __promise, though it may feel like it is never going to happen, remember to tip your waitress (drop a review) and come back next time!_

_Keep Lovin' Bones!  
>~MoxieGirl<br>~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter_

_*Special wink to those who pick me up when I am down and make me wet my pants with laughter on a daily basis:  
>Seraphine96, BLG, Dirty D, and Grandma Bones, geraghtyvl, Dyna63, Kimber3333, dovepage1, mariagalician,<br>ciaomichaella, kdgteacher7, appiedala, nannygs, Farrerosa, jazzyproz, and all my twitter tweeps!_

* * *

><p><strong>Taking One For the Team <strong>

"Booth, is that —you?" Brennan asked slowly, wonder in her tone as she walked up behind the team and stared at the surveillance video image of Booth jamming on an air guitar and dancing up a storm out in the lab earlier this morning.

The real live Booth stood in the middle of the group with his fists on his hips, locked in a stare-down with Angela. A grainy, monochromatic image of himself gyrated energetically across the screen in a sultry display of rapt enjoyment of—whatever it was he was doing.

"I said, turn it off, _Angela,_" Booth repeated tersely, his irritation mounting. _This is like a dream,_ he thought to himself,_ a nightmare, actually—the one where I'm at the office and I realize I forgot to wear pants!_

Angela stared humorlessly back at Booth, her smirk dripping with reproach. She wasn't about to do _anything_ for the man she just overheard berating her best friend. _Turn it off, huh? Says who? _She thought, s_ays the skunk-humping dick head who doesn't know a good thing when he sees it?_

Booth glared at Angela, then looked back at Brennan who was now staring at the screens with rapt interest.

"No, wait, Booth," Brennan said distractedly, weaving through her colleagues toward the center of the group. "Angela, what is this?" Brennan glanced down at the rapidly rotating timestamp in the lower right hand corner of the rightmost screen. "Rewind the last eighty seconds, Ange," she directed, watching as the eight-digit timestamp stopped briefly. The date was today. The time was a little over an hour ago. As the time stamp rolled in reverse, Brennan watched as Booth's form swiftly and awkwardly skulked backward across the screen and disappeared stage-left. "Now, forward, and turn up the volume, please?"

Standing beside her, Booth slapped and held his forehead, his eyes wide, his expression one of abject frustration. Like a dog chasing his tail, Booth walked in a tight agitated circle before stopping in front of the screen again. He caught himself glancing down several times, making sure he was wearing pants. "Shit booger damn," he mumbled through clenched teeth, clamping his hand over his mouth and shaking his head in begrudged resignation.

When Angela pressed play once again and increased the volume, Brennan's auditory and visual senses intertwined to form a harmonious image of the anthropologist's lover eschewing pride and decorum as he surrendered to an unknown internal excitement. Splayed across the screens and larger than life, Booth crossed and uncrossed his wrists in rhythm with the beat of his own drum, the percussion rocking his soul. As he jammed accompaniment on his invisible P bass, his rockstar-puckered grimace matched the expression Brennan had seen on him in bed earlier this morning. _In bed,_ she thought, smiling to herself at those two wonderful words._ I saw that expression on his face when we were in bed this morning. _She clenched her jaw, fighting the impulse to allow a satisfied grin to expose her thoughts. _Magnificent supraorbital ridge,_ she thought, admiring his strong forehead.

_What was he so jazzed about? _She wondered for a moment. _Ah! He's quite visibly jazzed about __**our**__ future; I am sure of it. More specifically, our __**immediate**__ future. After all, today is Monday, which is quite predictably followed by— Tuesday. Oh, blessed Tuesday! _Though she marveled at Booth's behavior, Brennan's austere expression masked her pleasure at witnessing his display of delighted whimsy.

_Anthropologically speaking, this reminds me of the the fertility rite of the Moraebiïnga tribe of the Kala-Huiï Rainforest, _Brennan marveled. _Once the bridegroom's engagement offering has been formally accepted by the patriarch of the bride's family on the eve of the nuptials, the expectant bridegroom performs a jubilant and colorful dance to entreat the Etruscan fertility gods to bestow favor upon his bride's womb, making it fruitful. _What Brennan saw before her now, larger than life in hues of gray and white, made sense to her from an anthropological point of view. Her _own _mate, strutting around like a proud peacock, was displaying the actions of a confident, happy man in a one-act performance dedicated to the fertility of the woman he loves.

She immediately recognized the song he was singing. _That's the song he was singing in the bathroom this morning, _it was by the Australian hard rock band, AC/DC. The lyrics spelled out exactly what Brennan and Booth had planned for Tuesday, further confirming her suspicion.

_"'— The Walls Start Shaking  
><em>_The Earth Was Quaking  
><em>_My Mind Was Achin'  
><em>_And We Were Making It And—  
><em>_You … Shook me—all—night—long!"  
>~ ACDC<em>

_There he is,_ she nodded to herself confidently. _Right there—on the screen—for the whole world to see. The goofy, cocky, beautiful, brilliant, passionate, vulnerable, generous man-child who loves me, _she thought, with an amused dreamy sigh. In her mind's eye, she suddenly saw herself grabbing Booth by the hand and running with him back to her office where she would rip his clothes off and make mad, passionate love to him until he couldn't see straight, much less walk straight. Whew!

Now Brennan had a conundrum on her hands. _How do I 'play' this, as Booth would say?_ In keeping with the ruse of Operation Pringles, she considered chastising him. For example: _'Booth, in what universe, and under what circumstances, is it appropriate to cavort in front of the Medico-Legal Lab platform like some—adolescent head-bonking, er, head-__banging__ miscreant?'_

She could taunt him:_ 'Looks like someone had a little too much caffeine this morning'. _She could join him. She could strap on her own imaginary electric guitar and rock toward him shouting out the lyrics herself._ Maybe later, _she told herself.

As she watched him do his best bowlegged bob'n'weave two-step toward the camera, then pass it and continue into the restroom where his voice picked up a tinny echo-quality, she made her decision; she laughed wholeheartedly.

The team members stared at each other. Booth closed his eyes and his chin dropped to his chest in mock humiliation. Not a single person present could discern the meaning of Brennan's response. Was it the, _'Ha, ha, that's hilarious' _kind of laughter, or was it the '_What, in the name of all carbon-based lifeforms, motivated you to behave like a ridiculous fool?'_ kind of laughter.

"Booth!" Brennan demanded in a voice oozing with disbelief, "have you lost your balls?"

"My wha— My _what?"_ He choked, whipping his head toward her. He was far too stunned to decipher her mixed metaphor. All present turned to gawk curiously at Booth's fly. Booth, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole, felt a red heat wave wash over him and perspiration make itself known under his arms and across his forehead.

"Why is everyone staring at Booth's pants?" She asked, perplexed by what she considered odd behavior. "And why are you—," she squinted at him, "are you sweating, Booth?"

_No matter what kind of mood you're in,_ Booth silently whimpered, _no one likes to be in a room full of people staring in the direction of your family jewels._ Booth stuck his hands in his pockets and thrust his fists forward. This was partially to provide himself with a modicum of privacy, and partially to confirm that he was, indeed, wearing pants. He would not have been in the least surprised if the confirmed pants from a moment ago had been an illusion and that he were to find out, any moment, that he was completely pant-less. _Oh, my God, I am going to get you later, Bones!_ He glared at Brennan. Shaking his head slowly, he shot her the mother of all stink-eyes. He followed it with a sinister squint to let her know his threat was genuine.

The tension in the room was heavy and electric like the deafening quiet immediately preceding the crack of a lightning bolt. Hodgens glanced down to check if his arm hair was standing on end. Indeed, it was!

"Um, Dr. Brennan," said Wendell tentatively. He cleared his throat as he glanced in her direction. "I think you mean '_marbles'."_

"What?" Brennan practically spat, turning on Wendell.

"I believe, _'Has Agent Booth lost his marbles?'_ is what you meant to say."

"It sure looks to me like he has, Mr. Bray," she said, glancing back at the screen where Booth and Hodgins were now talking about the chemical makeup of the substance found on the rogue phalanx.

Brennan, moving so her back was to everyone except Booth, glanced sideways at him in complete control of her facial muscles, and shook her head reproachfully. No one saw the exaggerated curve of her arched eyebrow, or the upturned corner of her mouth. No one witnessed the gleam in her eye that told him, _I am so in love with you right now, and if I could, I would have wild monkey sexual intercourse with you right here on the floor. _No one saw, that is, except Booth, who suddenly felt the need for a really cold shower.

They glared at each other for a moment, willing each other to stay in character. A nerve at the corner of Brennan's eye twitched. Booth clenched his jaw several times. They both took a slow deep breath. They could almost hear each other chanting '_Operation Pringles'_ as if in a huddle strategizing before the next round.

"That damn well better be what she meant!" Belted Booth, never breaking eye contact with Brennan. He grimaced hard, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he resisted the urge to smile, or respond in any way to the salacious promise he'd just read in her eyes. Finally, he thrust out a loud breath through puckered lips and continued. "Or, this is going to be a very—long—"

"Okay children, body parts in park," interrupted Camille wearily, wondering if she was going to have to break up a brawl right here in her own lab. "This is clearly going in the wrong direction. Let's just get back to—" she began.

"No, wait," interrupted Brennan obstinately, in a voice filled with determination. She rounded on Camille and glanced back and forth between Camille and Angela, her gaze landing on the artist holding the remote. "I would like to hear what Booth has to say for himself," she said, slowly crossing her arms and staring once more at the screens.

"Well-," He stammered defensively, jamming his hands into his pockets, then pulling them out and crossing his arms a bit too tightly. His shoulders awkwardly rose several inches, giving the impression that he was, indeed, guilty of something.

"Never mind explaining, Booth. What I want to know is— what got into you?" Brennan asked, turning to stare at him blankly. By this point in the surveillance footage, the whole group of men had assembled and were having a discussion. "And under what circumstances is it appropriate to cavort in front of the Medico-Legal Lab platform like an inebriated headbanging miscreant. Had you forgotten that we are in the middle of a very serious case?" She lifted her left wrist and glanced at her watch, then lazily back to Booth in an _'I'm waiting' _kind of gesture.

All present held their breath and stared at Booth.

_I hate it when Mom and Dad fight,_ thought Angela dejectedly.

"Uh," he began, not really sure how to respond. "Look, can't a guy just be in a good mood on a Monday morning?"

"Not you," Brennan blurted snarkily. "In recent history, I fail to recall a single incidence in which you have been anything short of crabby, obstreperous, I might even say-_truculent _in the morning, much less," she paused, waving a dismissive hand in the air, "much less singing and dancing. Perhaps the stress of this job has rendered you non compos mentis?"

"My _'mentis'_ is fine, Bones! What does that other junk even mean? Obstin-reperupus ... truck-u-what?" Booth conjured his snarkiest smirk and lobbed it at her.

"Obstreperous," interjected Sweets. "It means disruptive, difficult, rebellious." He rocked back and forth confidently on his heels. "Truculent means-"

"Who asked you, _Dr. Smartypants?!" _Booth bellowed toward the psychologist.

"—cranky, argumentative… _shutting up now..."_ Sweets said.

"Perhaps _you_ are a little non compos mentis, Bones! You seem a little obsessed—"

"Me? I'm not obsessed—"

"For crying out loud!" Booth blurted, cutting her off. "I was just in a good mood because—uh—never mind!" He tossed out his hands as if he were finished with the whole uncomfortable mess. "This is ridiculous! Can we please get back on point here, Cam?"

"Wait!" It was Hodgins. "There was a major debate about the inspiration for Booth's rather chipper behavior this morning—"

"For the last time, I wasn't _chipper!" _Booth insisted, exasperatedly tossing his hands up into the air again and taking another agitated lap around an invisible dot in the middle of the floor.

Hodgins snorted. "Uh, dude, you kinda were—"

"I don't understand. What was the debate?" This from Brennan.

"That's what we're discussing here," Hodgins said, pointing toward the screens. "There on the screen. We were as surprised as you were at Agent Booth's—uh—entertaining behavior— and, naturally, we wanted to know what the hell was going on. For a wild moment I actually thought he'd been on an all-night bender and hadn't sobered up yet," Hodgins snort-chuckled.

"Did he tell you?" Brennan asked, looking from Hodgins to Booth to Sweets, then back to the still shot of the men standing in a circle midscreen.

"He made us guess," offered Wendell, chuckling and looking around the room. "Even Angela guessed."

The only two not outwardly amused were Camille and Brennan. Camille was, however, relieved that the mood in the room seemed to have lightened substantially. Brennan, for her part, had become curious.

"Did you guess?" Brennan turned to look at Camille.

"Nooo," Camille confirmed with an elegant half turn of her head. "I had no part of it."

"So, what was it?" Brennan looked around the room. "Who figured it out?"

Sweets shrugged and smiled.

"None of us," Hodgins said, grimacing in disgust.

"So, you still don't know?" Brennan asked, her voice rising an octave. For the first time in several minutes, Brennan smiled unabashedly at Booth. _So, that's how he handled it, _she thought. _He made them guess. Clever. _

"Agent Booth did finally reveal the source of his elevated mood when all of our guesses were a bust," said Sweets. "It was wicked good humor." He chuckled, exposing those perfectly aligned, square, strong, masculine teeth of his.

"Dr. Hodgins thought for sure you would be able to figure it out, Dr. Brennan," said Wendell encouragingly. Everyone stared at Brennan and held their breath.

Brennan stared blankly back at Wendell.

_Whoops,_ thought Wendell, swallowing audibly.

_Idiot,_ Hodgins chuckled to himself, placing his hands on his hips, staring at the ground and shaking his head.

_Oh, here we go again, _thought Angela rolling her eyes.

_This is interesting,_ thought Sweets, watching in amusement.

_We were almost there,_ chagrined Camille to herself, her eyes slowly drifting closed in frustration.

Booth's mind went completely blank.

Brennan looked silently around the room without cracking a smile.

"Of course, I would," Brennan said confidently after a beat, as if that ended the debate. "Angela, could you put up the full stature images of both Banty Solicitous and Aleesha Grimes at about 35% and bring it down to the skeletal level. Wendell, we are ready to discuss the cause of death."

"Heh, heh, heh," Booth snickered quietly, rocking back and forth on his feet. He peeked up at his male companions through his eyelashes.

"Well now, wait a second here," Hodgins blurted. "Don't you even want to know what it was?"

Brennan stared blankly back at Hodgins, looking him up and down.

"As Mr. Bray just said, I am confident that, working with Booth as I have for the last six years," she said, gesturing toward her partner, "and despite his pugnacious, recalcitrant attitude and his querulously lugubrious demeanor of late—"

Booth smiled. Then frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Your—" Brennan paused to recalibrate her vocabulary. "Your tendency to be argumentative, obstinate, uncooperative, your—" she shrugged and searched for the right words, biting her lips between her teeth for a moment. "Your self-flagellation, and your humorless moods. Of late, I mean," she said, hoping that she hadn't gone too far, for Booth's sake.

Though he emitted no sound, Booth's lips formed the word 'ouch' as his brow crumpled.

"Despite the personal challenges in Agent Booth's recent past—" Brennan said slowly and carefully, glancing down at Booth's shoes, then back up at his face as she did so, "I believe I can, with a substantial degree of accuracy—"

Booth put his hands on his hips and exhaled through puckered lips, wondering how uncomfortable this was going to get. "You don't know-" Booth shrugged dismissively.

"—I find I am able to deduce the motivation behind his behaviors 93% of the time, give or take 2.1%—"

"You can't figure me out with math, Bones. No way. Ludacris! There, I used your own fancy word against you! It means, 'ridiculous, impossible, way off base'," Booth chuffed.

"—by applying a weighted formula taking into account my past experience with him," Brennan continued without skipping a beat, "my observations of him, my familiarity with his value system, my understanding of his faith, and my assessment of his mood at the time of the behavior being evaluated."

"So!" Hodgins grinned, clapping his hands once and rubbing them together excitedly, "What do you say we make this interesting? Who's with me?" Everyone looked at him. Grins stole over the male faces in the group and heads began to nod conspiratorially.

"I don't know what that means—" objected Brennan distractedly.

"What are the stakes?" Booth asked, excitedly taking a step toward Hodgins.

Hodgins shrugged and squinted, then rubbed the well-manicured three day growth covering his chin.

"I have a twenty," offered Wendell, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet as he stepped toward the other two.

"Oh, a Jackson? Wimp! I got a Ulysses S. Grant here that has an opinion about whether or not Dr. B can guess the secret behind Agent Booth's _chipper_ mood this morning!" Spat Hodgins, grinning at Wendell and Sweets. "Fifty big ones."

"It won't be a— a _guess," _insisted Brennan, though no one was paying any attention. "It will be an educated hypothesis using a series of quantifiable—"

"I can do fifty," Sweets agreed, ignoring Brennan as he walked toward Booth and Hodgins. "My fifty says Dr. Brennan—"

"Na, na, na, na! Keep your bet to yourself, Sweets. Let's do this blind. Angela, we need some paper and some pens," directed Booth. Angela didn't move.

As the men slowly moved into a tight circle, the women glanced at each other.

"I thought you said _interesting,_ Hodgins," chortled Booth sarcastically. "I say we make it _really_ interesting. Who's willing to put up an old _Ben?"_

"Booth! A hundred dollars?" Brennan blurted, stepping into the circle.

"Friday is payday, I guess I could go in for a Benjamin," said Wendell excitedly wedging his way between Hodgins and Sweets.

"Excellent! We need some paper. Angela?" Booth looked over at Angela.

"Hold on a minute! What makes you think you can take over my meeting like this?" Objected Camille loudly as she broke into the group. She looked reproachfully at Hodgins. "I'm good for a Franklin," she said, finally, grinning to herself for all to see.

"Then I'm in, too!" Angela was not going to be left out of the fun. "What do we have to do? I'll go get the paper."

"And pens!" Shouted Booth over the heads of his colleagues.

Brennan threw her hands up in the air and rolled her eyes. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out a thin roll of bills. "I don't have a Benjamin Franklin. Will two Grants, fifties, be acceptable?" Without waiting for an answer, she stuffed them into Booth's breast pocket.

"Whoa," chuffed Booth. "Bones, you can't bet. You have insider knowledge. That's illegal."

"Booth, is there any way I could already know, by any other means than my own cultivated intelligence or by those means employed by my colleagues, what the answer is to the mystery of your morning display of frivolity? Did you share that with me?"

"Well, uh-"

"Did anyone here see Booth and I conferring from the time his frivolity was observed until just now?" Brennan stood with her hands on her hips and looked around the room. Everyone looked at everyone else. All shook their heads.

"Did you, Booth, when I last saw you this morning, or even when we conferred over this case a moment ago, or, when I had to step out to take a moment to myself earlier, did you say to me anything to the effect of,_ 'I am so happy about 'insert the answer' that I believe I will go into the hallway and deliver an airband performance while singing a song about my recent sexual escapades?'"_

"Well, no-"

"And have you proven yourself to be a trustworthy individual such that these people can testify that you are most likely telling the truth in that regard?"

"Well-" stammered Booth while everyone else nodded energetically.

"Then I do not see the problem here."

"Wha-It's just not done, Bones. Have you ever heard of Pete Rose? Or, the White Sox in the 1919 World Series?"

"I know who Pete Rose is and you know I am familiar with the Black Sox Scandal because you are the one who educated me about it. I have no intention of throwing this game, and I feel I am entitled to benefit if I am able to guess what no one else was able to." They stared at each other for a moment. "If no one else objects, that is," she finished.

"All those in favour of Bones participating in the betting as long as she bets for herself say 'yea'," said Booth, addressing those assembled.

Everyone present said 'Yea'.

"All those opposed say 'Nay'."

Silence all around.

"The 'Yea's have it," declared Booth. "Ange, rip up enough pieces for everyone to have one. Pass the pens, everyone."

"Let's do this fast, people. We're still on a tight schedule," Camille reminded the group sternly.

"Okay. What do we do?" Brennan cocked an eyebrow and looked at her mate.

"Everyone write down your own name, and—and 'yes' if you think Bones can figure out why I was in a good mood this morning. Write 'no' if you think she won't be able to figure it out. Got it?"

Booth looked around the group. Nods all around. The circle widened as people stepped apart to cast their bets.

Brennan scribbled on her paper and folded it exactly in half, then in half once again before carefully placing it in her lab coat pocket.

Angela tapped on her lips with her pen several times. She looked around at the group, and sighed several times. _Sure, Bren knows Booth_. _Or, at least she did. But this last year, I don't know. It sucked for her, poor baby. And Booth spent most of the year acting all weird and stupid. Lately Bren's been having these panic attacks and she seems to be off her game today. So, am I $100 confident that she can figure out what that sexy G-Man was grinning about this morning. I'm— I dunno. _She squeezed her lips together and shook her head. She glanced over at Brennan who was already flipping through her Grimes file._ Maybe I should back out— _

Hodgins chuckled as he wrote out his bet and signed his name to it. He looked up at Booth, who jerked his paper in the opposite direction. "Keep your eyes on your own paper, Ass Hat!" Booth blurted, jovially.

Camille carefully wrote down her bet, looked at it, then crumpled her paper into what looked like a hand-rolled joint and tossed it in the wastebasket. She straightened her skirt, inhaled sharply through her nose, then quietly asked Angela for another square of paper. She wrote down the opposite of her original bet, looked at what she wrote, then crumpled up this second piece of paper as well. _This is why I only gamble when the outcome is a sure thing! Otherwise, what's the point? Might as well roll the money and smoke it!_

Camille shook her head and growled in frustration. Gingerly crouching down to reach into the wastebasket, she retrieved her original betting slip and flattened it against her skirt, trying to chase away the wrinkles. She folded the wrinkle-softened square of paper in half, pinching the crease between her thumb and index fingers. She folded her original bet once again, once again pinching the crease. Finally, she shrugged with one shoulder and grinned to herself and decided to simply think of it as $100 worth of good entertainment.

Wendell stood perfectly still for two minutes, then quickly wrote something down, folded the paper, and walked toward Hodgins. "Who's collecting?"

"Ange, why don't you hold the bets?" Hodgins suggested.

"Mmmmm. Okay," she answered, reluctantly, grabbing a bowl from her coffee table to put the bets in. Walking around to each of her colleagues, she collected all the bets, then placed the bowl back on the coffee table, and returned to the group.

"Now what?" Brennan asked.

"You, Bones," chuckled Booth, "we're all betting on you."

"Or, against me," she said, dryly. "First, I need to hear all the evidence."

"What evidence?" Booth asked. "I thought you said you have some formula made up of everything you know about me that should spit out the answers like a Pez dispenser?" He sounded doubtful.

"I have a process, Booth. I need to see the surveillance video of your—," she cleared her throat, "performance. Then I need to hear the facts."

"The facts?" Booth smirked quizzically, shifting his weight from foot to foot and scratching the back of his head.

"Yes, the facts-what everyone else heard—the rejected hypotheses," she said, "so I can eliminate those possibilities." She locked eyes with him calmly and awaited his response. _Mandible,_ she thought. _Strong mandible. Pleasing zygomatic bones._

Booth looked toward Hodgins and shrugged. Hodgins shrugged back. "Sure, okay," Booth said. "I don't see how that could hurt." He nodded toward Angela, who then grabbed the control and rewound the video and increased the volume.

Brennan crossed her arms and stood, motionless and speechless, in front of the screens, waiting for it to begin. Yes, she knew what had provided Booth with the levity that fueled his carefree behavior this morning. What she needed time to figure out was what fabrication her Operation Pringles partner might have fed to his male companions to satisfy their insatiable curiosity.

"Anyone got popcorn?" Hodgins chuckled.

Angela pressed the button and replayed the footage of Booth's performance right up to the point where he emerges from the restroom and gets caught by Hodgins.

Brennan pressed her lips between her teeth as her thoughts raced. Booth's explanation had to be something credible. It had to be something consistent with what Hodgins, Wendell, Sweets, and Angela know of her mate. It had to be something substantial. It had to be something recent, something new. Otherwise, why the abrupt change in his demeanor from the past several months? It had to be emotional … something that he could give himself over to despite the recent tragedy of Vincent's death. She decide to hold these thoughts at bay so she could give all of her attention to the testimony she was about to hear from the team.

"So—" started Brennan, turning to face the team. "Let's hear the hypotheses."

Wendell, Hodgins, Sweets and Booth all started speaking at once until Brennan held up her hand.

"One at a time," she said, "And in the order they were presented and dismissed." She looked solemnly around the group.

The men— Hodgins with his arms across his chest, Booth with his hands on his hips, Sweets with his hands in his pockets, and Wendell holding a clipboard— they glance around the group until all eyes are on Hodgins.

"I guessed first. A car. Not just any car. That '61 Vette with 230 horses under the hood, original working gauges and Wonderbar AM radio, hubcaps and wide white wall radial tires—"

"I don't need all the specifications, Dr. Hodgins. And it wasn't a 1961 Corvette, it was a 1960 Corvette, black leather interior, the Honduras maroon design. However, for the level of frivolity displayed in that surveillance footage, it would have had to be the 1968 Mustang Fastback convertible with the original emblem on the gear—shaft—stick," she said confidently. "Next!"

"Man, I forgot all about that!" Interjected Booth, aghast. "I haven't thought about that car in years! But, how'd you—" He stared at Brennan who flashed him a quick smile.

"Next!" She repeated without blinking.

Wendell glanced at Hodgins, who shrugged and grinned back in an _I told you so, I hope you bet in her favor_ manner.

"Well, Dr. Brennan, I surmised it must have been season tickets to the Philadelphia Flyers."

"Hm. Though he does love his sports … and they do substantially increase the proliferation of serotonin in his bloodstream, the only sporting event ticket that would have given him such an intense high would have been an impossibility—" Brennan looked around the room at the blank and confused faces of the men in the group.

Angela smiled and nodded to herself. She could tell by Brennan's expression that this was going to be something no one would have thought of … unless they knew Booth's past like Bren did. What Angela wasn't sure of was if Brennan knew Booth's_ present _as well as she knew his past.

"It would have to be a ticket to a game that already took place," she said confidently. "Therefore it is unlikely—"

"What? What kind of logic is that?" Hodgins asked suspiciously.

Booth glanced at Hodgins, then at Brennan. A pregnant pause ensued as Booth stared at her profile and pondered what she could mean. "She's right," he quietly admitted finally, looking down at the carpet and sliding his hands into his pockets.

Sweets brow furrowed. Wendell looked between his colleagues like a prospector at a tennis match. Angela's sweet close-mouthed smile widened.

Camille's eyes closed as a gentle smile landed on her lips. She nodded. "Of course," she said in low tones.

"Of course what?" Wendell and Hodgins blurted in unison.

"Tuesday October 21, 1980," said Brennan with a crooked smile. "Game 6 of the World Series."

"Pete Rose, Steve Carlton, Manny Trillo," added Booth, looking up and into Brennan's eyes, his own softening. _I can't believe you remember—,_ he thought. _And that you somehow know how that would make me feel. You amaze me. _Then his thoughts went silent and he just… sighed deeply, his chest rising and falling. He felt more relaxed than he'd felt in a very long time. Fortunately, everyone was staring in awe at Brennan. Otherwise, they would have all known that the jig was up on these two lovers.

"Tugg McGraw strikes out Willy—" continued Brennan.

"Willy Wilson," repeated Booth, nodding. "At—'

"At 11:29 PM—" Brennan and Booth said together. They shared a gentle, warm smile; her eyes wide and clear, his crinkling at the edges in wonder and appreciation.

"Fascinating," murmured Sweets, but no one paid any attention.

Booth squinted at Brennan for a moment as his smile straightened slightly with the seriousness and depth of his gaze. _It feels— so good— to be known,_ he almost said out loud to her. She nodded back almost imperceptibly. _Message received. _

This time, the group _was_ watching, witnessing a much-missed moment of the old Brennan and Booth magic. Time stopped. For just one moment. No one breathed.

"And the Phillies win," Brennan said, grinning up at Hodgins.

"Yep," Booth blurted in robust agreement. "Best day of my life. Spent that day with my dad. Good job, Bones. Who's next?" He asked, rubbing his hands together and looking around the group.

"I believe it was Dr. Sweets," offered Wendell.

"Yes," Sweets confirmed. "I guessed next. I suspected his elevated mood was due to his acquisition of something he could enjoy in his man cave, something to relax with. Perhaps some finely aged whiskey, an expensive cigar—"

"Definitely not a Swisher Sweet," mumbled Wendell.

"What do you have to say to that, Dr. Brennan?" Sweets was curious. Actually, he found this entire exercise quite fascinating and was considering writing a paper about how co-workers' confidence in their familiarity with each other influences their perception of their own influence in a group setting.

"Mmmmm," considered Brennan, grimacing and shifting her weight side to side," No, those are consumables. Consumables do not energize Booth. Except sustenance, perhaps, but not to the degree we witnessed here. No, it had to be something more substantial and permanent."

"I thought it was Hannah leaving the country," drawled Angela, remembering Booth's less than enthusiastic reaction to her guess.

Brennan shook her head. "Negatives, an absence or lack of something, that's not what inspires Booth. Booth would want something new and unexpected, a delightful surprise."

"I would have guessed a promotion or a tropical vacation in the works—" Camille tossed to the group.

"Again, temporary," rejected Brennan. "And the pleasure of a promotion dissipates swiftly with the pressures of new responsibilities. No." She shook her head and slid her hands into her lab coat pockets, hanging her thumbs outside the edges. She absently slid her lower jaw to the left and shook her head again. "Too ephemeral."

"Then what?" It was Angela.

_She's still got it!_ Thought Hodgins jubilantly. _I knew it! I'm about to win back my $100 and even more_!

_She knows what I'm really excited about, _thought Booth, jutting out his chin absently and scratching the five o'clock shadow across his jaw. _Bones is very competitive. So, she's not thinking about the real answer; which she knows is protected under the Operation Pringles code. The question is: can she figure out what I would say instead? I mean, I totally pulled that out of my ass—! But, it doesn't matter whether or not she can figure it out. What matters is how I play this myself - how I place my own bet. That's what matters here, so,_ he thought, nodding introspectively, _it's settled._

Booth glanced over at Brennan. She wasn't looking at him. She was focusing on the other gamblers in the room._ Her brilliance never ceases to amaze me. However ... however, I'll bet she'll do what __**I**__ would do—go with the second most exciting thing in my life. Still, none of this matters. I've done what I had to do, and tomorrow is Tuesday!' _At this final thought, Booth released a shallow chuckle.

Angela was thinking about her own bet, _If she guesses correctly, and I bet that she wouldn't, do I win or lose? If she guesses incorrectly as I bet she would, or wouldn't, or— do I win? Or is it, I win if she … wait. I'm lost._

_I think I'm about to win,_ Camille cried to herself in excitement. Great! _Mama's getting a new pair of shoes. Those black leather strappy Jimmy Choos with the gold zipper and the peek-a-boo toe! Or, the hot pink ones with the— wait. What did I bet on? I can't remember which bet I chose! Did I go with my first bet or my second? Do I want her to know the answer, or not? Oh, Camille! That's what you get for changing your answer. _ She glanced back at the wastebasket and scowled, then grunted delicately in frustration.

_Oh, I know she knows,_ thought Sweets confidently. _Will she be able to guess what he actually told us? That's the question __I am interested in hearing the answer to__. Fascinating. Wicked fascinating._

_How am I going to afford lunch for the rest of the week if I lose this thing? _Wondered Wendell._ Maybe I can get Hodgins to spot me a couple bucks till Friday. How embarrassing. _Wendell smirked and considered leaving the room to spare himself the humiliation, but his fear of humiliation was no competition for his desire to be there for the big reveal. _Oh well! _He said to himself, shrugging.

"Bren!" It was Angela's insistent voice that prompted Brennan.

Brennan looked around the room, her hands on her hips, a smug expression on her face. She unbuttoned her lab coat and held it out toward Camille. "Hold this for me," she said.

Camille took the lab coat and folded it neatly over her arm.

"Come on! The anticipation is killing me," Angela squealed in a whiney tone.

"You want to know what I think he was so happy about this Monday morning?" Brennan posed the question to the group like a ringmaster riling his spectators before the lion tamer puts his head into the mouth of the beast.

"Of course, Bren!" Exclaimed Angela.

"Why else would we have put some skin in the game, Dr. B?" Asked Hodgins.

"Yes, for the sake of puppies, _please _put us out of our misery!" Angela insisted.

"I think she's stalling! You're stalling! Come on, Mama needs a new pair of shoes!" This was from Camille.

Finally, Hodgins rolled his eyes and dropped his hands to his side. "Just … come _on!" _

"Well," began Brennan after clearing her throat. "I have reviewed the recorded behavior. I have listened to the failed hypotheses. I have brought my vast knowledge of Booth to bear, and I have made some of my own observations. Camille, you've known Booth the longest and are most likely one of his closest friends. I am quite surprised you were unable to ascertain the source of his levity." Brennan stared at Camille for a moment.

"I know," whimpered Camille, pressing her lips together and nodding with regret. "I know, I know." She moved her head side to side and dropped her forehead into her palm, thinking, _Goodbye, black strappy Jimmy Choos! _"Let's just— can we get on with it?"

"So, if I were to make an educated leap, I would say that Booth's frivolity this morning is the result of a very recent acquisition; something he's wanted for a very long time," she said walking around the center of the gathered circle. She was describing _herself, _of course, but her words also applied to what she guessed he would have told the guys. "Something he's studied and hoped for, and can't believe he has finally acquired," she said, stopping in front of Booth and grimacing so she wouldn't smile too broadly at him. "Something—he can share with his son. Something, the inner workings of which he will never fully comprehend," she said, pausing in front of Hodgins, "but that doesn't matter, nor will it impede his ability to enjoy it fully. Something dependable, with all the bells and buckles. Something that will last— well— a very long time."

"Whistles. It's bells and whistles, Bones." Booth murmured out of the side of his mouth.

She paused and stared quizzically back at him.

"Oh, enough with the dramatics, Bren! What in heaven's name do you think it is? I'm getting hungry!" Angela sat back down heavily on her comfortable chair with some help from Cam.

"My hypotheses is written on my betting slip which you will find, Dr. Saroyan, in the pocket of the lab coat draped over your arm," said Brennan with a sly grin.

"What?" Gasped Camille holding out the lab coat.

Angela lunged at the lab coat, grabbing it out of Camille's hands. Thrusting her hand into each pocket and thumping back down on her chair, she squealed, "It's been in your pocket this whole time?" She gasped, her eyes big as silver dollars.

"Of course, so can we get back to work?" Brennan walked away from the group to stand next to Booth in front of the plasma screens.

After a very brief pause, everyone but Brennan and Booth rushed toward Angela and began shouting all at once.

"What does it say? What does it say?"

"Read it, for God's sake!"

"Who won?"

"Do we split the winnings?!"

"What's it say?"

"Gimme a minute!" Yelped Angela, tossing the lab coat back to Camille. She unfolded the paper, then cleared her throat. "It says—" she paused. _"You cheated, Bren!" _She accused in a higher octave than usual as her eyes snapped up to meet Brennan's.

"What? I most certainly did _not!" _Shouted Brennan back. "I simply deduced—"

"How did you know?!" Angela demanded askance.

Brennan smiled complacently. Angela rolled her eyes, threw the piece of paper up in the air, and walked away from the group. "I still can't tell if I won or not," Angela said, heading over to the coffee table to collect the bowl of bets.

"Whoop! Whoop! I won! I won!" Shouted Hodgins, thrusting his fists up into the air. He was the first to retrieve and read Bren's betting slip after Angela tossed it into the air. "King of the- what does this make me the king of?" Hodgins danced around in a circle.

"I lost," Wendell chagrined, disconsolately. He had thought her guessing correctly was a long shot. He was wrong. "Dr. Hodgins, how'd you like to buy me lunch?"

"You're on! And I'm buying you an Arturo Fuente Anillo, my inexperienced friend. A real man's cigar!"

"Do the Dominican virgins come with the cigar, or do you have to pay extra for those, Dr. Hodgins?" Wendell asked teasingly.

Hodgins clapped Wendell on the back. "Nice question, Wendell. Uh, they are extra," he said, pretending to look guilty for his wife's benefit.

"I won," Camille quietly cheered quietly. "Yay!"

"I'm supposed to be her best friend!" Lamented Angela. Of all the people in Brennan's life, Angela had been privy to Brennan's emotional distress this past year. From what she saw this morning, Angela certainly didn't feel Brennan and Booth were back in sync and wasn't sure they ever would be. And how random was a stupid tv? Angela rolled her eyes, disgusted with herself.

Sweets glanced at the paper and chuckled. He'd voted against Brennan, even though he knew she was very much aware of the source of Booth's happiness. He was fairly certain she'd be able to ascertain what Booth would say instead of the truth. However, people would expect Sweets to have some magical insight into the Booth-Brennan relationship. By voting against them, for it was a vote for _the couple,_ not just for Brennan, Sweets felt he was somehow supporting their privacy.

Brennan and Booth, the only two not huddled around the betting bowl and the tiny slip of paper heralding the proof of Brennan's intimate familiarity with her partner, glanced sideways at each other.

"What does it say?" He asked quietly, his lips barely moving. "Mmmm?"

"Mmmm," she shrugged. "103 inch Panasonic Plasma television with a connective dongle, of course."

"You," he said in a deep voice, and shook his head. They grinned silently at each other sideways till their cheek muscles hurt. Booth considered reaching out to squeeze her hand, but knew he'd end up pulling her against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around her, and sinking his nose into her hair, so it was best he kept his hands to himself. Brennan wanted to lean up against him, take his face in her hands and drag her mouth across his lips and stubble, breathe him in, and kiss him until his toes curled, but there were Pringles to protect. Booth crossed his arms and squeezed them tightly against his chest so he wouldn't touch her.

Brennan shoved her hands into her pants pockets and silently looked down at the ground between them trying not to think about how his lips feel against her skin. She glanced over at the screens, sighed heavily, looked back toward Booth, and found him watching her. When her eyes traveled up to his, she found them full of warmth and something else. Something she was getting used to seeing in his eyes: humble appreciation.

He crinkled his nose and double blinked at her.

She smiled and looked away.

"I'm just gonna-we need to get back to work … on the bones," she said huskily, reaching for her lab coat which had been tossed on Angela's chair in the excitement. She pulled one sleeve onto her arm and up over her right shoulder. Booth walked casually up behind her and held the collar and lapel so she could slip her other arm into the left sleeve. While she watched her fingers push and pull the buttons through the buttonholes, Booth's palms rested longer than necessary on her shoulders where he'd brushed away some nonexistent wrinkles in the cloth.

Exhaling shakily, Brennan closed her eyes to savor the heat gathering under his hands and seeping into her muscles. She ached to lean back into him and let him wrap his arms around her, but she knew she couldn't. She swayed back just enough so he could feel her respond to his touch. Then she leaned forward slowly, feeling his fingers gently squeeze and hold for a millisecond before reluctantly sliding off of her shoulders.

"Booth—" she said, in a plaintive tone, as she turned to face him. All she had to do was look in his eyes and he knew what she couldn't say. _Don't stand too close to me, or I'll never make it. _

He flashed her a lopsided grin, nodded, and moved to the other side of the area as the rest of the group joined them in front of the screens. Brennan felt her cheeks. They burned with activity just below the surface. _We need to get out of here, _she told herself.

"Okay, people," began Camille, "we got 22 minutes left to cover whatever we've got left."

"Booth lost!" Chortled Hodgins in disbelief, tossing the betting slips in the wastebasket and rejoining the group at the screens. "Dude, you owe the pot a hundred bucks!" Hodgins snorted toward Booth.

Booth shrugged and tried to look disappointed. He flicked a quick glance up at Brennan and saw her stunned expression.

"Booth—you bet against me." Brennan said quietly. It was a statement, not a question. Her emotions raw from their recent exchange just moments ago, disappointment shone in her eyes before she could recover and hide it. Her mouth hung slightly open. Her shoulders fell.

"What?" He said, chuckling a little too cheerily. "How was I supposed to know what you'd say?" He glanced at her quickly then stuffed his fists into his pockets. He stared at the floor and rocked back and forth on his heels. "I told you you couldn't predict Seeley Booth with math or science," he added, smugly. His comment fell flat on the floor, like a raw egg. Splat. Ugh.

_Booth-you bet against me. _Brennan's proclamation still hung, lank, in the air.

No one said anything for a moment. In the midst of the pregnant silence, the faintest sounds became audible: the gentle whir of the hard drive fans, the creaking of Booth's leather shoes, the swish of panty-hosed thighs sliding against each other as Camille shifted where she stood, the pounding of one not yet fully surrendered heart and one ready and waiting one.

"Cause of death," Brennan spoke clearly into a silence dense with uncertainty. It struck her that 'cause of death' referred to Aleesha's death, but also the death of her own unsurrendered, not-yet-beating heart from the nasty black box. Her face went blank, slightly pale, and rigid, as if she were forcing herself to swallow something rotten and putrid. "Cause of death," she repeated, after clearing her throat. "We have been able to determine the cause of death. Mr. Bray," she announced in a confident tone, "please explain, and then demonstrate your hypothesis."

* * *

><p>Brennan hadn't anticipated the possibility that Booth would do that— bet against her. Upon learning that he had, and before she realized what was happening, she'd found herself bracing against an onslaught of unwelcome thoughts and sensations. Desolation, alienation, disappointment; sentiments she had become intimately familiar with as she had watched Booth turn away from her, love another woman, and then shut her out completely when that other woman left. <em>That was then, this is now, <em>she told herself, mentally stomping her foot. _This doesn't mean anything. Booth would never bet against me_—_there is a logical explanation that I'm simply unaware of right now. Get the facts, Temperance, then reevaluate. _She told herself this, but it didn't stop the bile of her anxious digestive system from rising in her throat. It didn't shake the specter of morbidity that clung to her chest like a wet tee shirt in the rain.

Booth immediately felt the shift in energy between himself and his partner. He hadn't anticipated that his betting against her would affect her this way. She was obviously upset. It clearly wasn't an act, of that he was certain. Her reaction was spontaneous and raw, painful to watch. He recognized that expression; he'd seen it on her face the night she told him she didn't want regrets and he'd had to tell her he loved Hannah. Booth felt cold anxious tingles scampering down his back. He shivered and fervently wished he could roll back the clock, change his bet, or better yet, grab her and hold her, explain.

Then he remembered the fiberglass-covered heart and closed his eyes. Hadn't she said last night, _Booth, it is not a fully surrendered heart just yet?_ He thought about her sitting in Sweets' office during all those sessions when she silently cried her heart out. He recalled Sweets' final advice last night:_ Let her experience those feelings and work through them. Be patient. Give her space; give her time._

It would be foolish to think they could go forward without finishing what they'd started in their quest to get everything out in the open. Even though they survived the therapy session from hell last night, and woke up this morning to laughter and discussion of mate selection amid kisses and strategically placed raspberries … the past wasn't going to simply disappear.

Then Booth thought about all the times he'd cried his own anguished tears over his dream of a life with her as his soul mate. Was there still a remnant of his former self worried she would change her mind?_ And what about that nightmare last night? Man, that scared the bejeezus out of me, _he recalled. Booth shivered involuntarily.

_We've come so far,_ he thought to himself as he focused on her features and tried to hold back the lump that was forming in his throat. _This is why we wait until Tuesday, _he reminded himself, _and then we talk first._

Unable to bear watching her crumbling before him, shutting down emotionally, boxing herself up, he pulled out his phone.

* * *

><p>Booth quickly punched out a message and dropped his cell back into his pocket, then waited anxiously for hers to alert her to his text.<p>

"Angela, return the image of Aleesha Grimes to the screen at 35%," instructed Brennan. "And bring it down to the skeletal level. Now take her up to 300% focusing on the cranium and the seven cervical vertebrae."

Angela tapped the surface of the remote and the bones seemed to move closer. Any larger, and those jaws could have opened and gobbled the team up. Booth imagined them speaking in the voice of Vincent Price and saying:

'_And though you fight to stay alive  
><em>_Your body starts to shiver  
><em>_For no mere mortal can resist  
><em>_The evil of the thriller!'_

_~ 'THRILLER,' Rod Temperton, 1983_

"I miss the old Ange-a-mathingy," Booth mewled wistfully out of the side of his mouth to Hodgins. "I loved it when we could stand around it, see the streams of green numbers floating in the air, then the images popping up in 3D. It was very …"

"James Bond," Hodgins offered, nodding slowly.

"Rotate the images of the cranium," instructed Brennan, ignoring the side conversation the men were engaged in, "and the cervical vertebrae 180º so we're looking at the anterior aspect of the trauma site,"

"No," Booth mused to Hodgins, "not double-oh-seven. It was more like … " he squinted into his memory banks, "the Matrix, huh?" He grinned contemplatively.

"Yeah," Hodgins mused, crossing his arms. "I loved that movie."

"I thought it was more like Star Wars," interjected Wendell, "Angela's old... technology."

Both men leaned over to look at the young squintern.

"You know," continued Wendell, hesitantly, "with the little hologram of Princess Leia popping out of R2D2's memory banks to give a message to Obi Wan Kenobi. 3D, remember? Just like Angela's thing."

"_General Kenobi, this is our most desperate hour," _intoned Sweets in a mock feminine voice that sounded more like Julia Childs than Carrie Fisher. "_You are my only hope_." Then he chuckled, self-consciously, his grin lingering perhaps a little too long.

Booth and Hodgins stared open-mouthed at both younger men.

"How old are you?" Booth asked Wendell with a quizzical look on his face.

"Uh-" began Wendell.

"He's absolutely right. Star Wars." Hodgins interrupted wistfully, rocking back and forth on his heels and toying with his beard. He glanced sideways at Booth. "There's hope for this boy yet," he snorted. Booth grimaced and nodded his agreement.

"And you," said Booth, nodding at Sweets, "Don't ever use that voice again."

Sweets chuckled awkwardly for a moment before Angela cut into their conversation.

"Okay, noisy boys," Angela said loudly, smirking sideways at the men. "The technology we had before was called the _Angelator_, not the 'Ange-a-mathingy'. This is the _Angeletron_ and it's much more powerful technology than the—"

"Whatever," Booth sighed dismissively in a forlorn tone. "I still miss it. You could reach out and-" he put out his hand as if caressing the panel of window dressing. "You felt like you could touch it."

"This technology is much more sophisticated, Booth-" Angela said with a sardonic smirk.

"Now," Brennan said loudly, turning to face the group and cut off their side conversation, "what you see here is a constellation of fractures indicating what amounts to atlanto-occipital dislocation, commonly known as-what Mr. Bray?" She raised her eyebrows in patient expectation.

"Commonly known as _internal decapitation,_" Wendell responded with a nod as he stepped forward.

Booth silently mouthed the words, _'internal decapitation'_, and grimaced.

"Ouch," blurted Hodgins.

"Ewwwww," grimaced Angela. "Like, her head came off, but was still on?"

"You could say that, Angela," confirmed Wendell. "However, this case involves more than the antlanto-occipital, er, the cranium and the top cervical vertebra, the atlas," continued Wendell, "in that the C2 through the C5 vertebrae also show fracturing in descending severity. Angela, if I may?" Wendell nodded toward the remote and took it when Angela held it out to him.

Brennan felt the buzz in her pocket alerting her that she had a text.

"Is this the cause of death, Mr. Bray?" Brennan asked then glanced over at Booth. Booth nodded toward her vibrating pocket like a puppy asking his master to toss the soggy ball he'd just dropped at his feet.

Brennan nodded blankly once, then took out her phone and looked at the cell display.

**R - U OK? Dont say U R. Cuz U Rn't.  
>XXX OOOOO XXX O XXXO<br>B-OX**

Brennan sighed, her brows tenting in an appreciative expression as she peered at the tiny screen and read his text a second time. She quickly typed a return text.

**Was it obvious? Dammit! You betting against me … took me by surprise. That's ****all. *shrug***

She pressed send on her text. _Why did I let his betting against me get to me? _Brennen pondered._ I was ambushed by my own psyche, my own chemistry. Excrement!_ She took a deep breath and concentrated on the screens. _Equilibrium, _she told herself. _Regain equilibrium__. All is as it should be. He had a good reason; I know he did. He will tell me later,_ she assured herself. _Focus, __Temperance!_

Brennan tapped out another text and pressed _send._

**I no U hav a good reason, B. Tell me later, K? : ) Just caught me off guard. That's all. ; ) B-OXXXXX : )**

Brennan sighed deeply, trying not to make too much noise. All eyes were on Wendell anyway. She stole a glance at Booth out of the corner of her eye and caught him peeking up through his lashes at her, a worried question in his expression. She smiled nervously, shrugging almost imperceptibly with one shoulder, then gazed back into his eyes. To Booth it felt like a nuzzle against his cheek. He could live with that, he decided.

Brennan glanced once again at her squintern, then caught Booth's eye and tilted her head slightly sideways toward Wendell. Her look told him this: _This one is smart. Watch this. _Booth raised an eyebrow quickly back at her, noticing that she seemed to have gained some energy from their exchange.

_Message received. I love you, _he shot back at her with a glance.

"Though this type of injury is almost always fatal," Wendell was explaining, "if treated and stabilized, a person could survive. What ended Aleesha's life was the damage of the extensor spinae, the nuchal ligament, and the fatal break within the vertebral canal of the spinal cord," he finished.

Brennan caught Wendell's eye, then looked pointedly toward their colleagues then down at the floor without moving her head, reminding Wendell to speak plainly.

"Okay, the killer twisted quickly and forcefully to the left," continued Wendell, "then reversed the rotation, again quickly and forcefully turning the neck to the right, hyperextending the cranium and vertebrae to ensuring the impossibility of re-articulation." He paused and looked at his colleagues faces for signs of comprehension. Seeing little, he continued very quickly, then turned to the screen to demonstrate. "This torsion eroded the occipital condyles of the cranial base and the articular facets of the C1 vertebra."

On the screen, the image did as he described, the swift action resulting in a small area of the lower cranium and two spots on the C1 vertebra pulsing red, followed by decreasing gradients of red as the fractures jumped down the stack of vertebrae with lightening speed. He tapped on the surface of the remote once again, reversing the process and bringing the image to 500%, slowing the motion by 75%.

The team stared at the bones on the screen. As if manipulated by invisible hands, the cranium rotated 90º left, then 180º in the opposite direction as thin red jagged lines, like a windshield shatter pattern, appeared on the top of the C1 and the sides of the C1-C5 vertebrae. Bits of bone from the erosion sites broke off and shot away from the column proper.

"As you can see, this fractured the facets of the transverse processes of the C2 through C5 vertebra grinding and breaking the occipital condyles, um, the outside parts of the vertebrae whose purpose is to stabilize the vertebral column. In doing so, he ensured that the victim's head would—"

"Fall over like a rag doll with a head full of marbles," finished Booth contemplatively.

"Exactly, Agent Booth," Wendell agreed, delighted. "Like a rag doll with a head about twenty per cent full of marbles. The weight of her own head is part of what killed her. The muscles and the supporting soft tissue attached to the cervical vertebrae were severed, or at least irreversibly damaged, such that the spinal cord snapped, or was torn to such a degree that the victim expired."

"And the million dollar question is … what could have caused this kind of trauma, right?" Hodgins asked rhetorically as he stepped forward, pushing the cart loaded with disarticulated bones and body parts including a macabre bust of Aleesha Grimes made out of spam sheathed in clear latex and topped with a mop of human-like hair. "We've determined that the sheer force required to cause this type of fracture is between 840 and 1220 Newtons. With a mass about the same as a gallon of water, or, as you see here, Spammy Pam," he said, gesturing toward the bust of Aleesha, "we're talkin' up to 250 pounds of force."

"Human force," stated Booth.

"Yes, Booth," confirmed Wendell. "If the human is the Incredible Hulk. If he's just a regular guy, he would need a little help."

"For such a clean break, it had to have been fast. We believe he used a tool of some sort," added Hodgins pursing his lips.

"Or if he's well trained—" remarked Booth, pensively. He tapped his lips with his fingertips, his brow furrowed in thought. "Special forces. Possible martial arts. Hm."

"Could he have used some kind of industrial equipment?" Camille stared at the bust and rifled through her mental catalog of machinery-turned-murder weapons she'd come across in her decades in law enforcement and at the medical examiner's office.

"Perhaps," commented Brennan, "But that would leave marks on the bone and there are none that we've been able to uncover as of yet."

"Any idea what kind of tool that might be, Wendell?" Booth asked.

"Well, we know what it can't be, Agent Booth. We know it can't be bare hands because if you try to twist the head with bare hands," he said, placing his palms over Spammy Pammy's wig and ears as he gripped tightly, "your fingers will slip, decreasing the force necessary for sufficient torsion."

"Twisting and grinding," stated Booth.

Wendell and Hodgins nodded in unison. Wendell squeezed his hands into a pair of latex gloves.

"Exactly! If you wear rubber, or any kind of glove really, to increase traction, again you have slippage. With this much slippage the killer would be unable to maintain sufficient force and velocity to inflict this kind of trauma in the way that he did. Dr. Hodgins and I suspect that he used a simple tool, something that allowed him sufficient purchase to whip her head from side to side _without _decreasing speed and force."

"What else do the bones tell you?" Brennan glanced at Booth confidently._ What did I tell you? _She told him with the slight lift of her eyebrow and a glance back to Wendell before looking at Booth again. _Intelligent!_

"There are no visible signs of struggle or defensive wounds anywhere else on the skeletal remains."

"—and do the cervical fractures support that theory, Mr. Bray, no struggle?"

"Yes, in that if she had struggled her muscles would have contracted, the vertebral column would have compressed and put pressure on the bones. The fractures would not be as uniform as they are. Bone fragments from the transverse processes would most likely be larger and perhaps have become lodged in other bone. Basically, more damage would have been caused."

"What do the fractures tell you about the kill and death positions of the killer and the victim, Mr. Bray?" Brennan was giving Wendell plenty of opportunity to shine.

"Uh—" Wendell paused.

"Was the victim standing or sitting?" It was Sweets asking pointedly. "Was the killer in front of or behind the victim? Did the killer have to bend over the victim in order to use this-tool? And why would she allow him to put something on her head? Were they engaged in a sport that requires—"

"—A helmet," finished Booth, nodding at the psychologist. "We shouldn't rule out medical equipment. This guy obviously knows a lot about skeletons."

All eyes turned to Booth, then to Sweets.

"Position of killer versus victim tells us a lot about the relationship between the two. It might also give us insight into the killer's personality," explained Sweets.

"Very good questions, Sweets," said Booth, impressed. He grinned at the psychologist.

"The bones can tell you what repetitive occupational or athletic motions the victim or killer engaged in on a regular basis," insisted Bones, "but we do not theorize as to their personalities, their motives, or the nature of their relationships."

"That's why you have us, heh," said Booth. His hands still in his pockets, he pointed toward Sweets with his elbow.

"Wendell?" Bones prompted the young squintern. "Do the bones tell you it was done from behind?"

"We've already theorized that it was a surprise. It would have to be in order for her to be relaxed. So, we believe the victim was unsuspecting," said Wendell.

"The victim was most likely sitting, Mr. Bray. How do I know that?" Brennan crossed her arms and cocked her head away from Wendell.

"When supine, or lying down," said Wendell, lying on the floor and relaxing to demonstrate, "the vertebra are not stacked as much as held together. If you were to twist my neck, the vertebrae, being further apart, would not have been seated perfectly in the way they are when pressure is being applied by the weight of the head. So - not laying down. If she had been standing, the weight of her dead body could also potentially result in bone-on-bone trauma." Wendell looked to Brennan uncertainly.

Brennan nodded and the corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly.

"Also," he continued, encouraged by what he interpreted as a smile, "we theorize that the victim was facing forward because the fracture patterns are consistent with a first quarter turn from center to the left, then back to the center on the way to the right. So, she was staring straight ahead … because again, the vertebra were perfectly aligned. She may have even been held in this perfect position. Perhaps by the tool."

"Mr Bray, go over every millimeter of the bones with the electron microscope," directed Brennan. "Look for minute traces of scrapes, color changes, hemorrhagic staining, especially on the cranium and mandible. If the head were to fall, post injury, the pressure of the weight upon the disarticulated vertebra could cause microscopic frictional markers."

"She was definitely awake, then," surmised Booth, absently taking out his gold Zippo lighter, flipping it open, removing the fuel cell and blowing on it, then flipping it closed again. "And she most likely let him put that thing on her head. So, she had to have agreed to it. She must not have seen it coming." He asked introspectively as he flipped his lighter open and closed two more times.

"Or maybe she did, and didn't realize what he was intending to do," offered Angela, chuffing. "Maybe it was a sex thing,"

Booth's eyebrows shot up. "Maybe. Perhaps a little S&M, maybe some bondage?" Booth bobbed his head from side to side as he considered this possibility. "Maybe that's how he distracted her. He was kissing her when he snapped her neck."

"Oh, God …!" Angela's eyes jammed shut and her mouth crinkled up in disgust. "A kissing killer. I think I'm going to be sick."

"Don't most people tilt their heads when kissing," objected Camille. For a moment every one present puckered and thought about kissing someone, paying close attention to how the moved their heads.

"That would depend on if they were the kisser or the kissee," said Booth. "Should we experiment?" He chuckled and grinned, the comment slipping out before he could censor himself. He bit his lips and blushed, looking anywhere but at Brennan.

"Okay, everyone, this is research!" Hodgins chortled enthusiastically. "Okay, women, turn to the person on your left-" he snorted. Brennan couldn't help noticing that, as she was standing facing the group, Booth was the person to her furthest left.

Angela snorted, grinned, and rolled her eyes. "Come over here, Jack," she said.

"Yes, Dr. Hodgins," agreed Brennan quite seriously. Clearing her throat and shifting her weight from foot to foot, Brennan waited. "Walk over to Angela and kiss her. We'll watch." Brennan held her head rigid, willing herself not to look at Booth, though she couldn't do anything about the capillaries running amok on her cheeks.

"Yes, ma'am," cried Hodgins, advancing on Angela and laying a long juicy kiss on her lips.

"Don't impregnate her, for Christ's sake, Hodgins," exclaimed Booth, chuckling.

"Wow. They never told us about this in grad school," he said, shaking his head and twinkling at his wife.

"His head turned to the side, but her head stayed straight. He could have been kissing her; caught her off guard, and broke her neck," observed Brennan in a clinical tone.

"Fascinating," commented Sweets, observing so many interesting exchanges over the past ten minutes that he was practically levitating in excitement.

"Again, I'd like to enter a plea of _'killing someone while kissing them is the most heartless thing I have ever heard of'_ … and I've heard some doozies," said Angela sardonically.

"We all have, Ange," added Booth. "We don't know if that's what was going on- Look, what we know is that Aleesha, and perhaps Banty, were sitting, unsuspecting, and had their necks broken. They were possibly wearing a helmet, or some other kind of device or tool, or something was used to give the killer traction as he twisted their heads. This gives us something to work with. Let's not rule out the possibility of some type of machinery. It sounds like something that twists the tops off giant soda pop bottles."

"We still don't know for sure if the victim was facing the killer, Agent Booth," remarked Sweets.

"And we're not going to figure it out right now. Bones, we got a plane to catch." Booth walked toward Brennan who grabbed her files and headed toward the door.

"Ange, do a search on industrial equipment that could cause this kind of injury using between 840 and 1220 Newtons. Start with any machinery that might be used for businesses within a one hundred mile radius of Haverford, PA, and Seattle, WA."

Booth gently guided Brennan with a hand on her back.

"Wendell, you are on the electron microscope examining the remains for microscopic trace of any sort," Brennan continued relaying orders as Booth propelled her toward the door of Angela's office.

"Sweets," blurted Booth, "I need a profile on this — bastard — by the time we land in Washington, got it?"

"Absolutely," Sweets answered, nodding confidently.

"Hodgins, I want millimeter drill and mass spectrometry analysis on every bone that has not had one completed yet. Make sure each of those bones came from either Haverford or Washington state. In other words, make sure there are no other contributors. We have yet to discuss the rogue phalanx, but we cannot rule out any possible overlap."

"Gotcha, Dr. B."

"Dr. Saroyan, we can't construct a DNA profile from the bones as no organic material has been preserved, however, are you familiar with the methodology using whole-bone powder and crystal aggregates to isolate fragments of DNA?"

"Certainly, I read about that in the recent issue of Forensics Bimonthly. What are you thinking?"

"Well, using the polymerase chain reaction methodology, can you engineer a DNA sample from what we believe to be Aleesha's bones and compare it to what we believe to be those of Banty Solicious? I have suspicion I want to rule out."

"Absolutely, Dr. Brennan," Camille nodded once. "I'll run samples on all the appendicular bones and confer with Dr. Hodgins."

"Angela," shouted Booth, "You will be receiving some digital files from Haverford."

"What kinda files?"

"Scans of a travel journal from one of our suspects. I'll email you about what I'm looking for specifically."

"Booth?" It was Camille, shouting to Booth's retreating back. She walked toward the door of Angela's office.

"Yes," he said, having to poke his head back into Angela's office as Brennan continued toward her own.

"A word? You still have a couple minutes before lift off, big guy." It wasn't a request; it was a command. "My office," she said, stepping past him and leading the way.

"Yeah, but we gotta eat, Camille!" Booth demurred. _Shit,_ thought Booth. _Just what I need. Almost made it without getting cornered by Camille. Just … excrement! _He tossed his arms up in the air, resigned, and took several long strides to catch up with one of his oldest friends.

Several feet away, Angela gingerly stepped into Brennan's office as the anthropologist stood at her desk, packing her files for the trip. In her hand Angela carried a small white gift bag with pink tissue paper peeking out of the opening like flames from a torch.

"Sweetie, I am so sorry," Angela said, slowly and remorsefully.

"For what?" Brennan continued to pack, but glanced, confused, at her best friend.

"For how difficult things are between you and Booth," she said, grimacing. "I, uh, I overheard you two— when you were on your own—the yelling and name calling? Sweetie, I am so sorry."

Brennan stared at her friend wondering what else she might have seen. She couldn't think of anything to say, so she simply shrugged like it was no big deal. She continued packing her bag.

"Angela, please prepare my communication devices and bring them to me in the lab in ten minutes."

"Bren—are you okay?"

Five minutes later, Angela walked out of Brennan's office and almost collided with Booth. She glared at him, daggers shooting out of her eyes.

"Oh, excuse me," exclaimed Booth, stepping out of the way for Angela to pass.

"You're damn right, excuse you! Just remember that I know where you live, ass hat," she spat, then turned on her heel and waddled as fast as she could toward her office.

"What's with Broomhilda?" Booth asked, walking toward Brennan's desk. Brennan gave him a confused look. "Angela?"

"Oh," she said, unbuttoning her lab coat and depositing her bag and the tiny white gift bag near his feet. "Nothing that I want to discuss," she sighed. "I think it will actually be easier once Operation Pringles is over. I don't know how Angela will ever trust me again after all the untruths I've told her."

"You had to lie?"

"I didn't lie, technically," she chagrined. "It was more like— lying by omission and not correcting her when she assumed something that wasn't true," she sighed, her face the picture of remorse. "But you know what?" She smiled wearily at him. He raised his eyebrows inquisitively. "It will be worth it; I know it will," she said, tilting her head to the side, wishing she could kiss him quickly.

"I'm glad you think so," he said, sweetly. They locked eyes and stood silently looking at each other for a moment, then Booth scratched the back of his head. "Well, I just got my ass handed to me by your boss—"

"Wha—Dr. Saroyan?" Brennan asked. "Curiouser and curiouser. What was that about?" She picked up her bags and preceded Booth out of her office.

"Nothin' I can't handle. I'll tell ya' about it later," he snorted, following behind her. He reached for the back collar of her lab coat which she'd unbuttoned but had forgotten to remove, and began pulling it off of her as they walked toward the platform where Angela had deposited Brennan's communication equipment. When Brennan stopped, Booth took the larger bag from her and set it down. The smaller bag he deposited on the empty examination table. He pulled her lab coat the rest of the way off of her as Brennan gave instructions to Wendell who was bent over the electron microscope examining a clavicle.

Collecting Brennan's bag from the floor and resting it in the crook of his elbow, he tossed Brennan's lab coat on the empty examination table. Picking up the gift bag with his index finger, he swung it in front of Brennan's face until she took it from him. He then grabbed her hand and started dragging her toward the exit. He felt a cold flash of adrenaline as he remembered the rules of Operation Pringles: No suspicious touching in the office! He growled regretfully to himself and he released her hand even though her fingers had comfortably and instinctively curled warmly around his when he grabbed them. Allowing her to pass in front of him, he propelled her forward with a hand placed on her lower back as she continued shouting directions at Wendell.

"Wait, stop pushing me, Booth! I have one more thing to tell Hodgins," she blurted as they passed by Hodgins' empty office. She made a swift right turn, only to be caught across the waist by Booth's arm and her heavy bag of files that still hung in the crook of his elbow.

"Email him," said Booth, swinging her back toward the exit, undeterred in his goal to get her out the door.

"But he should really have this information before—" she objected, attempting to go around him again.

"Call him," commanded Booth, grabbing her wrist to change the direction of her trajectory, then releasing her wrist and applying pressure to the small of her back to propel her, once again, toward the exit. "Text him, send him a telegram, send a carrier pigeon. Whatever. But you— are leaving with me. Now!"

Brennan, having relented almost without argument as she was aware of their time constraints, remained silent as they walked companionably toward the car. Booth knew the wheels of her anthropological mind were churning by the particular squiggly lines on her brow, the tilt of her jawline, and how it looked like she was chewing on a very tiny piece of skin inside her bottom lip.

"I'm almost certain it was a helmet or protective gear of some sort, Booth," she finally said distractedly after they both hopped into the car and shut the doors. She looked at him scrutinizingly and pinched her lips together. "What else could inflict such swift and forceful violence without leaving a single mark on the delicate features of the cranium and mandible? A single mark, Booth."

"Some kind of head-stabilizing medical equipment?" He offered with a shrug, looking back and forth for potential errant cars zooming down the rows in the parking lot.

"But, what else provides a grippable surface on the outside for sturdy purchase by the human hand?"

Booth nodded, his tongue jutting out of his mouth as he concentrated on backing out of the parking spot.

"You are always telling me not to jump to conclusions, Bones. I don't know what to tell you. You also tell me not to rule out any possibilities until they can be eliminated scientifically. How do you feel about grade school cafeteria food?"

"You are correct on both counts. However, have we not also discussed, and very recently I might add, that sometimes the simplest explanation is sometimes the correct one? Besides, I am neither jumping to a conclusion or—or ruling out any possibilities. I'm just presenting my thoughts to you for discussion. Cafeteria food is palatable only if the company includes a mini-Booth."

"For discussion. Oh, I see how it is," he chuckled loudly and gave her an exaggeratedly agreeable look. "Mini-Booth it is," he said, resting his left palm at twelve o'clock on the steering wheel while he fished in his right pocket for his vibrating cell phone.

"What's so funny?" She insisted. She stared at him, trying to keep track of both conversations they were having at the same time.

"Nothing. Its just that when I suggest something it's called guessing, or conjecture, or baseless speculation. But when you do it, it's called hypothesizing, or making an intuitive leap." He glanced at the tiny cell display. "I have a message from Bob Grimes again. Wonder if he remembered something." Booth punched a button or two and held the cell up to his left ear.

"So—?"

"So, what?" He looked toward her without focusing, as a verbal hologram of Bob Grimes eating homemade chocolate chip cookies appeared in the forefront of his mind along with the gruff tenor of Bob's voice in the message he left on Booth's cell.

"What's he say, Mr. Grimes?"

"Shhhhhhh! I gotta listen to this message!" Booth slowly drove down the aisle toward the parkinglot exit, carefully listening to Bob's gravelly voice. "Oh, he remembered something Aleesha asked him about shoes for a boyfriend."

"Shoes?"

"Yea, cowboy boots. She wanted a pair for some boyfriend Bob and Babs never met. Hm." Booth glanced at the display again, punched a button and dropped his cell onto the console between the seats. "I'll have to call him back after we see Parker." Booth grimaced, intrigue overcoming his features. He learned long ago never to dismiss even the smallest observation made by someone in regard to a case. It never ceased to amaze him how the most bizarre tidbits of information could crack a case wide open. He wondered if this might be one of those things. He bit the inside of his lip, stared through the windshield and let the information mix in with everything else they already knew about the case.

"So," he said, returning to their conversation about how when he guesses, it's conjecture, but when she guesses, it's called an intuitive leap. "I just find that interesting—my conjecture versus your intuitive leaps."

"Interesting how?"

"Just—interesting," he said, shrugging. "Amusing."

"You are quite easily amused, Booth."

"Lucky for you," he snorted.

Brennan gave him the stink eye and chuckled to herself.

"Anyway, I will bet you my winnings that Wendell will find traces of hemorrhagic staining on the maxilla and the zygomatic bone," she said dryly. "Even if she didn't bleed out, there would have been some release of fluid as the body began shutting down." She paused, then smiled at him as he maneuvered the Sequoia out into traffic. "By the way, I find I enjoy it when you orchestrate the process of getting me out the door," she said, equally as dryly. "You can be somewhat—forceful," she chortled, devilishly.

Booth chuckled and glanced over at his partner. "I'm a take-charge kinda guy," he said, snapping a finger in her direction. Then he winked at her.

"Oh, hoh," she chuffed, rolling her eyes as her stomach did a couple of flips and her face began to feel warm. She instinctively reached up to feel her cheek. "I wonder why I find your—" she raised her shoulders and tilted her head as she searched for how to describe what she wanted to call it. "Your display of male dominance— why do I find that so alluring? I am a perfectly capable woman, able to get myself from place to place. It must be a remnant from the mating rituals of our ancestors..." she said, shrugging it off. "I might even venture to call it titillating," she said, referring to how he maneuvered her out of the Jeffersonian.

A choking laugh burst forth from Booth's throat.

"What?!"

"Titillating," he gasped between chuckles. "How can anyone take that word seriously? It has 'tit' in it! Every single time I hear it—inside my head I am laughing my gluteus morpheus off," he glanced at Brennan to find her staring blankly back at him. "I mean, come on! It has the word 'tit' in it. The picture that pops into my head when I hear that word—how can anyone keep straight face? Who uses that word anyway?" Booth asked in an incredulous tone.

"You do know what it means, right?" Brennan gave him a mock-concerned stare.

"Who cares what it means, Bones! It's a ridiculous-sounding word!"

"I just think if you truly understood—" But she could see her providing a definition would be of no use. Booth was just about to fall off a cliff from uncontrollable spasms of hysteria.

"TITILLATING! Bwaaahhhhh!" Booth's gleeful laughter continued and morphed into the silent, teary-eyed, wheezing kind of laughter; the kind that cramps your abdominal muscles and, depending upon your age, could also relieve you of the contents of your bladder. This is the kind of laughter usually reserved for church and childhood tickle fights when you are most definitely on the losing side.

"Present evidence shows that I do. I use that word. You are a very simple man, Booth." Then, she couldn't help it, she burst into laughter just watching him. "Come over here so I can slap you," she teased him.

"Ah hah, ah hah," chuckled Booth, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes. "That felt really good," he said, starting to chuckle again. "Where were we?"

Brennan stared at him, her brow crinkled in mock sincere concern. "Are you _sure_ your _'mentis'_ is fine?" She asked slowly. "Because I am beginning to have doubts," she cajoled him.

"Run! Run while you can, Bones! It's not too late!" He continued to be amused with himself.

Brennan chuckled again. "Well, that's where you are wrong. The clock stopped ticking about a week ago, so, I'll take my chances," she said, grinning silently. "And you are stuck with me, 'mentis' or no 'mentis'. Got it?"

"Ho-kay," he smiled, "but you can never say you weren't warned."

"I would never say that," she said, grimacing and shaking her head. "Never. I have my eyes—_wide open_," she chuckled as she leaned toward him and pinched his cheek.

Then out came the cheesy grins. His to her; hers to him, followed by a smiling eye roll on Brennan's part.

"Where were we in the conversation," she began again, "before you became fixated on vocabulary containing suggestive syllables—" She paused, a thought popping into her head. "You know what I find humorous, Booth?"

"What, pray tell, do _you_ find humorous, Bones?" Booth said this, starting to chuckle again.

"The Volvo," she spat, then stared pointedly at him, huffing twice.

"Volvos?" His eyebrows shot up. "The cars?"

"Yeah, the Volvo! Who gives a car a name that sounds almost _exactly_ like female genitalia?"

"What?!" Booth stared at her, his eyebrows hanging so far over his eyes that he almost couldn't see past them. "What are you talking about?"

"Volvo sounds almost exactly like vulva!" Brennan laughed and slapped her thigh.

Booth stared at her. He didn't quite get it. It sounded like something he didn't want to get. Lady stuff, ugh. So, he laughed uncomfortably and hoped the conversation would die a natural death.

"I mean, can you believe it? Who does that?" She insisted.

Of course, the discussion wasn't going to die that easily. The scientist had to beat it to death first.

"Who was the marketing genius who said _'I think we should name our brand new, very expensive luxury car—a VOLVO'_? Next they'll be coming out with a motorcycle called 'the Phallus'. Haaa, haaa, huh ha!" Now it was Brennan laughing until tears came out of her eyes.

Booth looked at his partner and shook his head. "Maybe I'm the one who should run?!" He chuckled to himself because she couldn't hear him over her own giggles and coughing.

They rode on in companionable silence for some minutes once the laughter died down, then Brennan's thoughts returned to the betting fiasco.

"Speaking of bets," she said, finally turning to look at him. "I am not sure I can determine which caused me more anxiety this morning: learning that you bet against me, or being sabotaged by my own chemistry and physiology," she said, looking out her side window again.

"Bones, you know exactly what I was happy about," he said in a low gentle tone as he reached across the console and slid his fingers over the back of her hand, covering and squeezing it.

Brennan didn't respond by turning her hand to face his as she had before. She sat completely still, remembering the barrage of emotions that had ambushed her right there in front of everyone. She shivered involuntarily.

"I was surprised you didn't bet on me," she said, shrugging, trying to make light of it.

"I wasn't sure if you'd figure out what I would say _instead of that_ …."

"But … I'm brilliant!" She started in surprise at the high volume and plaintive tone of her own voice. "Woah, where'd _that_ come from?" She asked, the shock evident in the panicked expression on her face.

"I know you are brilliant. And beautiful. And sexy. And amazing," he said, squeezing her hand again. "And—"

"Don't patronize me, Booth. There's something going on here and I find it makes me very uncomfortable."

"I'm not patronizing you, Bones. Everything I just said is absolutely true."

"And subjective!"

"Subjective is all that matters in this case, right?," he volleyed back. "As far as I'm concerned, at least."

Brennan shrugged and looked out the passenger side window. He could see that the corners of her mouth had turned up just a little bit.

"Anyway," he said, dropping his chin to his chest and looking at her sideways through his lashes when she glanced at him. "I was about to add that apparently you make me feel like singing … or, at least, making an ass of myself on the company dime." He chuckled at himself as he glanced at the road, then back at her again. She was finally smiling. She turned her hand over to slip her fingers between his and return his affectionate squeezes.

"So—?" She asked.

"The bet? My bet?"

"Yes, Booth. You like to win. What were you thinking? I mean, literally? What were your thoughts that lead you to bet against me?"

"Meh, it was a game of chance. I took a chance. I lost. No big deal, Bones," he said teasingly with a sly sideways glance at his partner.

Her eyes told him it was a little bit of a deal to her. Her shoulders fell in resignation. "I don't want this to be a thing," she said. "It's not a thing, and I'm not angry, Booth," she said, rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb. She picked up his hand and kissed it, setting it down on the top of her thigh.

She was quiet for a while, staring out the passenger side window.

He glanced over at her a couple times, saying nothing. He didn't know if she was deep in thought about the case or something else.

"I just had this … extraordinarily uncomfortable sensation … in my abdominal cavity. It took me by surprise, Booth. It was exactly like when—" She stopped there, remembering last Monday morning standing on the sidewalk watching Booth and Hannah holding hands at the diner. She didn't want to say it, but he kept looking over at her, waiting. She glanced at him, then looked away. "Anyway," she said, "the accompanying thoughts were … illogical. Thoroughly ludicrous … and I couldn't box them up as swiftly as I used to be able to." She shook her head in frustration. "Is this what it is like to have your happiness dependent upon another person? You care without reasonable cause, about things that mean nothing? I don't like it."

"Bones. You are a human being," he said, "and, recently, you've been making yourself more vulnerable than usual. It doesn't mean anything. You're not—any less brilliant or less logical. You're human. Besides, the flip side of that anxiety is the wonderful feelings you are able to experience because you've made yourself vulnerable." He glanced back and forth between her and the road. "Check this out," he said, pressing a sliver of his tongue between his teeth and his lower lip as he strategized a complicated maneuver to make his point. Glancing quickly into the rear view mirror and both side mirrors, he slipped into the right lane where there was hardly any traffic. He slowed the Sequoia to the minimum speed limit so passersby would go around him if necessary. He released the hand she'd been clutching against her thigh, and reached up and behind her neck, sliding his fingers into her hair. He rested his palm inside her collar where it generated a fairly decent degree of warmth. Having just endured three hours of covert foreplay at the Jeffersonian, she wasn't surprised when his sudden movement, his touch on the delicate skin at the nape of her neck, and the heat that generated sent a shock of adrenaline through her chest and caused her heart to beat so fiercely it almost hurt. _Holy God,_ she thought, barely able to breathe. _What the—!_

She wasn't able to complete her thought because seemingly out of nowhere, all of the sudden Booth leaned toward her while simultaneously pulling her to him and planted a full-throttle, no holds barred, very sexy, deep wet kiss involving teeth, tongue contact, lips and anything else he could grope in 30 seconds. Then, he released her completely. "How about that, huh?" He panted as he quickly returned his focus to the road. It was a rhetorical question, but accompanied by a rakish grin that further melted her panties.

"Now my cheeks are getting hot," she said in a dazed, breathy voice once she could speak. "That was completely unexpected, not to mention unsafe!" She swallowed and tried to ignore the pounding of her pulse against her temples.

"But it was hot, wasn't it?" He lobbed a lopsided grin at her, his skin flush from a kiss that curled his own toes.

She slowly smiled back at him with a gleam in her eye resembling a blood alcohol level of at least .51.

"And that feels good, doesn't it?"

She breathed in deeply through a dreamy satisfied smile, then slowly released. She closed her eyes and purposefully choose to relish the warmth in her cheeks and the memory of his tongue against her teeth, the taste of his skin. _I'd like you to pull the car over,_ she thought, opening her eyes and turning to look at him, her head heavy against the headrest. The back of her jaw tickled from the breadth of her smile-smirk. _And I'm looking at you and wondering if there's enough room over there for me to crawl over the console and sit on your lap, thigh to firm thigh, elbows to strong shoulders, lips to mouth and teeth and chin. Oh my!_

"See? Now you have this goofy look on your face. I'll bet you have a fairly hefty chemically-induced rush that is the direct result of allowing yourself to be vulnerable to my rakish good looks and my devastatingly irresistible charms—"

_And if I straddled you, I wonder how long it would take before you'd drag your jaw across the skin of my chest and bury your face between my breasts. _She bit her lip and whimpered to herself._ And if I could get your shirt unbuttoned and sink my fingers into your hair, and if you'd let me unzip …_

He kept talking but she had no idea what he was saying. Oh, she was focusing on his lips alright, but she wasn't hearing a word he said. She was floating on a pastel rainbow-colored wave of oxytocin. She was remembering lying on the couch with him the night before. She was thinking about sucking on those lips and grazing his skin with her teeth. She was remembering how those soft, insistent lips of his felt on the skin of her chest and her belly, and how it might feel tomorrow, hip to hip, skin to skin. She was imagining ripping her own shirt off and letting him tattoo her with kisses all over again. She closed her eyes and let the oxytocin carry her away to the memory of how his warm hands felt on her bare back, his breath against her neck, the sound of his sighs when she kissed him slowly and deeply like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

"That's all I'm saying," he said with finality.

"That's all you're saying, huh?" She nodded, a crooked dreamy grin overtaking her face. "Booth, I love you."

"I know," he replied, glancing at her, then back at the road.

"But I didn't hear a word you just said."

"What?"

"You are my partner, Booth."

"Uh, yeah—?"

"—and we are going to have sex soon, _very soon."_

"Yeah, not soon enough, as far as I'm concerned," he chuckled, looking at her and thinking, _Where on earth is this conversation going?_

"And I didn't hear a word you were just saying, Booth." She moved her head side to side. "Not a single word." Out came the beguiling smile and the suggestive eyebrow raise.

"Yes you did. You were looking right at me."

"But I wasn't really," she drawled, dreamily. "I was having prurient thoughts about stopping this car—unbuckling my seat belt—crawling over there …" she pointed in his direction with her nose.

"Now, wait a second, Bones," he said, clearing his throat, "I gotta drive! We're on the highway. On a tight schedule. What does Prurient mean?"

"It means having or encouraging an excessive interest in sexual matters—"

"Uh, so, you were looking over here—" he said glancing at her quickly, one hand on the wheel, the other pointing at his thigh.

"Yes—"

"At me—"

"Of course—"

"And you were feeling an excessive interest in sexual matters."

She chuckled in that throaty Bones-y way that makes his heart skip a beat or just stop altogether. "Excessive," she said, raising one suggestive eyebrow.

"Care to share?" He chuckled and smiled, after a thoughtful moment. His neck was on fire, but, then again, it didn't have far to go after he executed that fabulous kiss!

She looked at him beguilingly. "Maybe later," she said, sighing and grinning at him like a cat about to pounce on a canary. Then she slowly looked away, leaving him to wonder about what she could have been thinking.

_Cosmopolitan Tip Number 'whatever', _she thought, _to heat things up in the bedroom, flash your lover while out in public. _She had nothing to flash, but she had grown quite warm, so removing some clothing would be a logical thing to do despite the benefit of wickedly teasing her mate. So she removed her chunky necklace and unbuttoned her shirt far enough that his morning love bites, all three of them, even the one way down between her breasts were more than visible. "It's so hot in here," she cooed, with a coquettish shrug of her shoulder and eyebrows. "Well look at that ... a couple of my buttons just—popped open," she crooned innocently as she fanned herself.

"Bones, I gotta drive—"

Seeley Booth missed his turn off. Seeley Booth came this close to going straight off the road. Seeley Booth was suddenly getting very uncomfortable in his confining driver's seat.

"You are a wicked, wicked woman," choked Booth.

"I have it on good authority that I am quite fun," she teased him in a low voice full of promise.

"Oh, you're fun alright," he said, swallowing dryly and licking his lips. He groaned and looked out his side window, leaning his cheek against the cool glass for a moment. "You're gonna get us arrested! Maybe you should button-" he stammered, glancing back at her unable to keep from watching the rise and fall of the blessings God bestowed upon Temperance Brennan for his very own pleasure. Booth's pleasure, that is, not God's; though God was quite satisfied with His work on all counts in regard to this woman.

"And I'm quite entertaining. Although, apparently you don't require much to be entertained," she chuffed.

"You're entertaining alright! You are all that _and_ a bag of chips …"

"I never did understand what that's supposed to mean ... that just makes no sense, all that and a bag of chips. It's not even a complete metaphor ... it's only half, not even half of a—"

"Bones! If you be quiet for a minute, I'll explain it to you. And, really, you should—it's broad daylight!"

"Go ahead, _'Enry 'Iggens,_" she said, in her best Audrey Hepburn playing Eliza Doolittle in _My Fair Lady. "Educate me. And it's only four buttons, Booth. No one but you can see_—" She wiggled her eyebrows, turned to face him and leaned down to get something out of the bag at her feet.

"OH, HOLY GOD! You did that just to torture me," he groaned, adjusting himself in his seat, and licking his dry lips. He rolled his eyes at her and snorted.

"Everything's foreplay," she taunted him, "remember?"

If he could have dropped his head on the steering wheel and cried right then, he would have. They would have been tears of painful anticipation emanating from a heart rife with colorfully libidinous thoughts. Since he had to keep the car on the road, he whimpered, then groaned as he dragged his hand down his face, pulling on his cheeks and chin when he got to them. Jamming his eyes shut, he decided to focus on the last reasonable thing she said. _It had to do with—what was it? Oh, yes, the phrase: 'all that and a bag of chips'. Chips? Pringles! Ohhhhhh! Fuzzy bunnies, fuzzy bunnies!_

"Okay. 'All that and a bag of chips'," he said, staring straight forward. He tried, unsuccessfully, not to watch her as she buttoned the lowest one, the one that covered the little white bow in the dip of her bra. He swallowed again, licked his lips, and started. "It's like a sack lunch you bring to school ... sandwich, thermos of milk, apple ... and a bag of chips makes it a full meal. The works."

"Hm," she grunted, smirking at him, her eyebrows pressing momentarily together then relaxing.

"You, Bones, are a full meal!"

"I suppose a real man needs a full meal."

"If he wants to stay healthy, he does," he agreed, his voice cracking under the strain. "But you know what would make that meal a _real _full meal deal?"

"What would that be, Agent _Real Man?"_

"Pie."

"Hm," she grunted and giggled, shooting him a warm smile, then looking out the window, thinking about how awesome it would feel to lay her cheek on the window glass to cool it off just a smidge.

They rode along in silence until they were two blocks from Parker's school. Then Booth spoke up.

"Bones, you know I would never bet against you, right?" He asked looking sideways at her, concern in his eyes. He wanted to get this out in the open before they saw Parker. "That would be just—" he shrugged. "Heh, stupid … and doesn't make any sense at all."

"Then why did you?" She asked, glancing down at her hands, then reaching over to rest her left hand on his thigh.

"Well, sometimes you have to throw yourself on your sword," he said, rubbing the back of her hand, then pressing his fingertips into the spaces between her fingers.

"What, like Samurai Minamoto No Tametomo committing Seppuku when he was surrounded by the enemy Taira warriors in the twelfth century? Ritualistic suicide?"

"Okay," he sighed, briefly closing his eyes as he slowed the car to a crawl. "Uh, you know, throw yourself under the bus. Sometimes you have to throw yourself under the bus." He looked at her, hoping for some sign that he was getting through.

"What? A sword, a bus, you were trying to kill yourself? Booth…?" she shook her head in confusion.

He bunched up his lips … and sighed.

"Sacrifice our relationship for the good of the team? Is that it?" For a moment she couldn't breathe.

"Bones, Bones—sometimes you have to **_take one for the team_**. That's all!"

"I still don't understand, Booth. Are you saying you wanted to give your money to the team? What do they need money for?"

"I knew you knew why I was crazy _'over the moon'_, as Hodgins would say. And I knew you'd get it right. I knew that," he sent her a gentle smile across the soft space between them. "Bones, sometimes you have to take a hit, you know, sacrifice yourself—so the team, as a whole, benefits. "And I don't mean the Jeffersonian team," he said, just above a whisper.

She squinted at him, watching his eyes, hoping for something that would help her understand what he was desperately trying to impart to her.

"I mean the **_Operation Pringles_** team, Bones." He looked at her beseechingly.

Brennan inhaled sharply in surprise. "Operation Pringles," she whispered in awe, her eyes glassy by this unexpected news. "Of course, I should have known-" That was when she unbuckled her seatbelt despite the lack of good judgement it entailed. She reached as far over the console as she could without actually climbing on top of it, and she smothered the right side of Booth's face in all kinds of kisses and licks and tickles until he actually did drive right off the road. Luckily, the only collateral damage was a small chunk of curb and a patch of sod.

**_~~~~~~ I have been sending out previews of a up-coming scene to readers  
>who have been dropping me a review or note. ~~~~~~~<br>_**  
><strong><em>~~~ It wouldn't be fair not to include you ... so just wanted you to know that.<br>You can also contact me on Twitter or email cat ... for the excerpt ~~~_**

* * *

><p>Team of daily supporters, take a bow! Thank you for your continual notes, reviews, words of encouragement, and, most of all, PATIENCE!<p>

**THANK YOU to THESE WONDERFUL READERS for having already done so for the most recent chapter:**

Welcome to the CLUB!  
>These are the people who let me know new eyes are on the story all the time! *claps hands*<p>

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These are the next 20 reviewers who by their encouragement spur me on to assembling the next chapter  
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These are the next 30 reviewers who bring me back to reality and remind me that I've done okay before and will do so again.  
>Through the encouragement of their reviews, I pull myself up by the bootstraps (did she say BOOTS?) and trudge through the 18th round of editing.<p>

Dobbi, appiedala, yoshimi0701, catethewritergirl, Fluffybird, devotedfan206, maryfran, Guest Mary, fantasyfanatic13, Alicia9876, Grandma Bones, Squintern447, daniellejoy07, daisesndaffidols, CrayonClown, lolopayne99, manicpixiedreamgurl, MiseryMaker, eire76, Dyna63, boneslover576, Catherine xx, eyeofbast, marceline19, leshagen, Clareg, and bfox1973, Monilovesbones, Dobbi, lolopayne99,

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**I HOPE I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN ANYONE!  
><strong>Unfortunately, I cannot send messages to those who don't have accounts yet,  
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><p>Thank you, as always to my beautiful editor: Diko, a.k.a. <strong>Seraphine96<strong>  
>Thanks also to Kimber3333 for editing and grammatical support,<br>and alwaysthere39 for technical support!

And to all my underdogs who are never anything but wrong in all the right ways, most especially the following:  
>BLG (A.K.A. Kit) and DWBBFan (A.K.A. Dirty D.)<br>and the rest of the fab 5!

Mwwwwaaaahhhhhh to you all!

**Thank you in advance for your reviews, especially you first timers! *wink* ㈳6**


	209. Booth's Boots

_** A/N Greetings people!** And especially an 82 year old lady named "Mary" with whom I have fallen in love because of her wonderful words. I wish I could reply to your reviews, but ff will only allow PMs to those with accounts! *ugly crying, I know* Please know that I cherish your readership and your reviews more than you will ever know! That goes for ALL Y'ALL out there who've stuck with this for 208 chapters! _

_**㇩5 The promised excerpt:** Remember I promised a sexy preview to all the reviewers of chapter 208? Well, thank you to all who read it and enjoyed it! I wanted to get it to __those 'guest' reviewers after the last chapter, (especially you, dear Angie ~ unfortunately, I have no way of getting your email address unless you put it in your review! (*More ugly crying*). See if you can put all this together and mail me here: "cat ('at' symbol) cabaneladotcom" See if that works!_

_**㇩5 A Big Change:** In an attempt to improve my writing and advance the plot more expeditiously, I have made a major change to my posting process. Extraneous parts that don't make it into **The When and the How: A Bone to Pick** because they simply don't move the plot forward or provide significant character development ... those pieces will be in their own repository which I have named "The Sexy Anthropophagist." You can find it by clicking on my hyperlinked name and scrolling down to my story list!_

_**㇩5 My Blessings Are Many:** This has never been more apparent than when the following people provided their support these past two weeks. I thank you from the bottom of my heart: Diko, BostonLegalGirl, Grandma Bones, DWBBFan, Dyna63, Kimber3333, eire76, __hill happy, chosenname _㈏6 I cannot thank you enough *hand to heart, finger pointed at you*__

**__Keep Lovin' Bones!__**

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>~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter<br>__㇩5__  
><em>_**__P.S. I am FREAKING LOVING____  
>Season 8 so far! WOW!<em>_

* * *

><p><strong>Booth's Boots<strong>

"_We are all a little weird and life's a little weird,  
><em>_and when we find someone whose weirdness is  
><em>_compatible with ours, we join up with them  
><em>_and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love."_

― _Dr. Seuss_

The Sequoia sat cattywampus to the road, half sunk into a grass easement less than a block from Parker's school. The peculiar position they found themselves in was a direct result of Brennan's spontaneous explosion of affection upon the right side of Booth's face when he told her he'd sacrificed his bet in the name of Operation Pringles. Jarred by the commotion of the car jumping the curb, they sat dazed for a moment, then stared at each other, finally breaking into nervous chuckles. Booth was the first to recover as it struck him that they were lucky there wasn't a sign post or, worse, a child standing on the sidewalk when they came flying at it.

"Okay, new rule. No _titillating_ me while I'm driving!" He pressed his lips together and peeked over at her briefly.

"I apologize, Booth. That was irresponsible of me," she said hurriedly, still grinning. "I'm sorry. It's not funny." She cleared her throat and furrowed her brow, trying to sound mature.

Booth stared at her and grimaced. "You," he said, cocking his head and squinting admonishingly in her direction, "are dangerous. Even without your gun."

"I am a human weapon," she agreed, biting her lips between her teeth.

"A force to be reckoned with," he said, shaking his head in feigned disdain.

"Okay, no _titillating _while driving," she agreed with a contrite grimace. "However, you're not driving now—" She said quietly. "Can I kiss you now?" She fluttered her eyelashes at him coquettishly, her lips twisting into a playfully mocking squiggle.

"I suppose—" he said, shrugging then emitting a long drawn-out sigh as if it were a huge imposition. "If you must—," His lips wiggled between grinning and frowning as he tried to feign nonchalance. He stared out the front windshield as if awaiting— something.

She was amused by his dramatics, though she didn't move. _Two can play at that game, _she decided, shrugging to herself.

"It is an acceptable sign of appreciation in many cultures," she offered, then waited until he looked over at her again. "Kissing, I mean."

"Okay," he said quizzically. "Then what are you waiting for?"

"Permission—"

"You don't need permission; you live here," he said intently as he reached over and put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him, her arms reaching around his neck and resting on his shoulders as she snuck her fingers into his hair. She looked from one of his deep brown eyes to the other and smiled contentedly.

"You know when I was just telling you I was having prurient thoughts?" The left side of her mouth bowed up in a somewhat bashful lopsided smile.

"Yeah," he said, barely making any noise as his heart skipped a beat. He closed his eyes, sunk his nose in her hair, and inhaled that scent of everything about her that he loved.

"You are this man that I have known for over six years," she started slowly, a crease in the shape of an upside down capital V forming atop the bridge of her nose. "When I saw you— on that screen— doing that ridiculous rockstar dance—"

He nodded, his smile deepening causing dimples to appear in his cheeks. He watched her expression softening when she closed her eyes and conjured the black and white image that had not so much surprised as delighted her barely an hour ago.

"I wanted to take you back to my office and—" she said in a whisper, opening her eyes.

"Uh huh?" It was only two syllables, but his voice cracked in the middle of them.

"—and pretend like it was Tuesday and I could show you how much I really do appreciate how you feel about us being together."

"Mhm—?"

With the middle finger of her right hand she traced an invisible path along his hairline, following her fingers with her eyes in the same way an artist watches the tip of the brush as it meets the canvas in the first strokes of what he knows will be a masterpiece. She continued the path slowly down his jaw then to his chin. When their eyes met, she found him staring, eyes wide and innocent, back at her. She didn't smile and neither did he; they simply existed for a moment in each other's space.

With the pad of her middle finger she traced the contours of his lips. When he parted his lips to nip at her fingers she thought she was going to fall apart. It had been a stressful morning. She had barely been able to touch him since seeing him, larger than life on the screen, dancing and singing with wild abandon in celebration of their evolving relationship.

She dropped her forehead on his and pressed her lips against his as he sank his nose into her cheek and lost himself in their kiss.

"Whoa!" He said, his head spinning. He squeezed her shoulders and reluctantly pushed her back into her seat. "Alright, alright. Show some restraint," he said in a low voice he didn't recognize. The comment was meant for himself as much as for her. "We're on a tight," his voice cracked on the last word. He cleared his throat and tried again. "We're on a tight, uh, schedule, and—" He stopped there because she'd grabbed hold of his tie and was wrapping it around her fist as she pulled him toward herself and began nuzzling the skin just below his right ear. "Ohhhh," he hummed, "that is not—fair!" His last word fell off of his lips in a whisper of resignation. "You really aren't—Whoa!"

She nibbled on his stubbly skin as her sucking kisses traveled from the back of his jaw to the edge of his lips. A low, tantalizing chuckle from deep in the back of her throat accompanied each kiss.

"Come on, Bones!" He chuckled and groaned, letting her take possession of his mouth in a deep exploratory kiss that curled his toes and hijacked his will power. "I'm toast," he cried in falsetto, then grabbed her by her hair and pulled her face away from his to look in her eyes. Flashing her a rakish grin, he smashed his lips into hers and then dragged his lips and teeth along her jaw all the way back to her ear knowing full well it would turn her into a heavy puddle of beautiful anthropologist goo. When he finally pulled away, he didn't release her shoulders until he knew she had accepted that they had to move on with their day.

After an electrically charged moment during which they stared at each other thinking prurient thoughts about lunging at the other again despite being half a block from the school and in broad daylight, they both chuckled nervously, exhaled slowly and sunk back into their respective seats. Brennan blew her bangs out of her face. Booth wiped his mouth and cleared his throat, then whipped the gear into reverse, peeked into the rear view mirror, and eased up on the brake until they bounced backward off the curb. Finally on level ground, Booth threw the gear shift into drive and headed toward the school.

"So," Booth blurted, gazing out the front windshield, "I take it I surprised you?" He hit the power window lever hoping for a cool breeze. "My betting strategy surprised you?"

"I admit I had been nonplussed, but now I am delighted, as if that weren't apparent by my rather effusive reaction," she cleared her throat and nodded as she dropped her head sideways on the headrest and gazed at his profile. "I thought it was ingenious, actually—your betting strategy."

"You sound surprised." He stole a sideways glance in her direction and met her beautiful blues for a moment, her confidence in him and her beguiling smile making his heart beat a little faster.

"No, not surprised. You're brilliance regarding the significance and nuance of social interactions is no surprise at all," she said. "What surprises me is," she grimaced, "— a hundred dollars, Booth?" She shook her head, her eyebrows pinched in disbelief.

"I would have paid a thousand if it would make you happy," he said, with a slow, earnest smile.

Brennan gasped. Gazing at his silhouette, awestruck, she had the sudden impulse to do something she would otherwise consider nonsensical; even foolish; she found herself fighting an urge to spout poetry. _How do I love thee, let me count the ways _… The words in her head floated by in a voice as soft as a feather. _I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach when feeling out of sight for the ends of being and ideal grace …' What does that really mean? _She found herself unable to remember when she might have memorized Elizabeth Barrett Browning's literary work except for the express purpose of gaining anthropological insight. She came up empty-handed. _So, how did that get in there?_ She wondered. _And when? Nonsensical poetry!_

As the unusual murmurs in her brain trailed off, she reached out and ran the back of her fingers from Booth's cheek down to his chin and felt a flash of muffled adrenaline pierce her breast. She took a deep breath and slowly released it through parted lips.

Booth reached up and squeezed her hand, put it to his lips, and kissed it before depositing it on his thigh, covering it with his own. He flashed a smile in her direction and chuckled. _How strange it is to be doing this with her, _he thought. _Will I ever get used to it? _He glanced sideways at her, catching a glimpse of her pensive expression.

"Do you ever feel an uncontrollable urge to quote poetry?" She asked, her voice childlike and uncertain.

"You mean like … _'I do not like green eggs and ham, I will not eat them Sam-I-Am? I would not, could not, in a boat—_', or, like, _'There once __was a man from Nantucket'?"_

"No—" She smirked and snorted.

"Oh, you mean like, Shakespeare? The quote I remember the clearest from _ye old bard_, is when Lady Macbeth says,

'_Out, damned spot! Out, I say! … Hell is murky! Fie, my  
><em>_lord, fie! A soldier, and afeard? What need we  
><em>_fear who knows it, when none can call our power to __account?  
>Yet who would have thought the old man<br>__to have had so much blood in __him!"_

_~ Macbeth, Act V, Scene 1_

"You know what she's really saying there, Bones?" He glanced sideways at her. She smiled, willing to let him have his say, so he continued. "She's saying it doesn't matter who knows we killed the king because no one will hold us accountable! Even back in the day the rich thought they were above the law! I tell you, Bones, people never change."

They sat in silence for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts.

"Then there's Romeo and Juliet. Now, that would have been an interesting case to work back when they didn't have mass speedometers and computers! Heh!" He chuckled to himself.

"They had their own methods back then, Booth. But that's not what I was asking about. Do you ever feel the urge to spout the more ethereal, non-rhyming, sonnet-like material—"

"The love stuff, you mean?"

"Yes."

"_Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate_— that kind of poetry?"

"Seeley Booth!" She stared at him as if he'd sprouted a second head.

"What? I went to college! I had to take electives! There were a lot of hot chicks in the Brit Lit poetry classes, Bones!"

She shook her head and smirked; stared out her side window.

"Why do you ask?" He glanced between her and the road in front of him.

"Hormones— Hormonally induced excitement, obsessive thoughts. A recurring mild though sometimes significant euphoria," she said, not making much sense to Booth.

He squinted over at her.

"The euphoria contextualizes average objects and events such that my perception of them varies significantly from my norm. I see them as more pleasing, interesting in an appreciative manner rather than a scientific one. I wonder if Angela's brain triggers the release of excessive levels of dopamine in her bloodstream," she said, more to herself than to her partner.

"Bones, are you telling me you are feeling ... sentimental, dreamy? You feel like creating something that expresses feelings?" Booth chuckled. "You know, like art?"

"No …. But I just quoted poetry, Booth. Love poetry— a stanza of Elizabeth Barrett Browning."

"I didn't hear you quote any poetry—" He smirked, keeping his eyes on the road.

"I guess I didn't say it out loud. But—have you ever known me to quote poetry?"

"You quote literature every once in awhile," he shrugged. "Poe, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton Bradley—Pascal."

"It's _John_ Milton. He wrote Paradise Lost. Pascal was a mathematician … and a philosopher. When I've quoted the higher minds it's always been in relation to a case … a suspect's vice … an elusive cause of death … the solution to a seemingly insurmountable puzzle. This poetry in my head was for no apparent reason. It's irrational— and unusual. For me anyway."

"Hm," Booth grunted, frowning in thought. "Why, uh, what poetry were you thinking about?"

"It's silly, Booth," she demurred, shrugging, and looking away out her window.

"I'll be the judge of that. Spill, lady," he puffed, then chuckled.

"Agh!" She looked at her mate and shook her head, then took a deep breath. _"How do I love thee, let me count the ways …"_ She rolled her eyes and grimaced over at him.

"Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh!"

Brennan stared at Booth.

"Hoh, heh, heh, heh, heh, heh, hoh!"

"Shut up!"

This made it worse. He cackled. He bit his lips and snorted through his nose.

Brennan rolled her eyes and shook her head, grinning guiltily. She finally chuckled, her cheeks burning cerise with embarrassment.

"You're not helping," she whined.

"Bones, Bones, Bones," he sighed, shaking his head, still grinning ear to ear.

"WHAT?!"

"Heh, heh, heh, hee, hee. You," he said, reaching over to pinch her cheek, "you are just high on love hormones … that's all." He grinned a cocky grin, still chuckling.

She slapped his hand away playfully.

"Laugh it up, Alpha Primate, I'm not the one who was prancing around the lab like a Moraebiïngian warrior entreating the Etruscan fertility gods to bestow favor upon his bride's womb!"

"The bungee fertility—_who?"_ Booth's brow creased in confusion.

"The Moraebiïnga are a tribe—"

"Alright, alright, you crazy lovesick anthropologist," Booth sighed, squeezing her hand and taking a sideways glance at her. "I'm supposed to be the sentimental one. Bones quoting poetry … what next?" He snorted, his shoulders bouncing in silent laughter. They drove on in silence until Booth pulled the Sequoia into a parking space in the school visitors' lot. "This is really happening, isn't it?" He said contemplatively, removing the key from the column, dropping his hands in his lap. He turned to gaze at his partner's beautiful smile.

"Yes, it is," she said calmly, nodding slowly. He was referring to their evolving relationship, and she knew it.

Booth leaned closer so slowly it was as if he were tipping over or being drawn to her like a magnet to steel. He cupped the side of her face with his left hand and pressed his lips against her mouth for one final warm kiss.

Dragging his jaw across her left cheek, he whispered in her ear. "It's starting to feel real," he said, kissing her on the cheek before leaning away.

"Of course, it's real," she sighed confidently. "But I think I understand what you mean. Up until this morning, it has seemed ethereal, fantastical—"

"Heh, exactly," he said aghast, though he was getting used to her voicing exactly what he was thinking. "That is exactly it, Bones! But, being at the Jeffersonian— with everyone there— and still being, you know, _us_— like this—" he said, reaching over and squeezing her thigh. He shrugged and grimaced. "I don't know. It still feels good, you know?"

"And _right. _It feels _right_," she agreed, grimacing, her lips curling inward.

"Yeah. This is why it was good to keep it to ourselves," he contended. "So you feel confident; see that it can work."

"And so that you can feel confident. You know, your behavior exudes a certain distinctive assuredness. Just as your Cocky belt buckle suggests. That is something I enjoy about you—when I'm not frustrated by it—but you're not always as confident on the inside as you portray on the outside. And that's okay, Booth."

He stared at her, a look of defensiveness flashed over his features then disappeared. He thought about that wretched nightmare last night and wondered if there was something he was hiding from himself. What was clear to him once again was that he couldn't hide it from her.

"This is just as important for you as it is for me, Booth," she said gently. "This—" she paused and looked around the inside of the SUV, then back up to his eyes, "this waiting, and learning, and taking care of ourselves and each other. It's important for both of us, right?"

Booth sighed and looked down at the keys in his left hand, flipping them in circles around his index finger. "You know that box— the one you told me about? That black box?"

"Yes?"

"And the not-yet fully surrendered heart?"

She nodded, silently, patiently.

He closed his eyes for a moment as he puckered and forced out a lungful of air. "I have this, uh, this voice in my head sometimes—

"So you've told me. God? The Holy Spirit?"

"No— well, yeah, there's God, but I'm talking about this other voice. He's the opposite of God. I call him the Filthy Stinking Bastard, FSB for short."

"The voice in your head has a nickname?"

Booth smirked in response, but continued. "He says we might not really be happening; maybe the tumor is back and I've dreamed all of this," he said, tossing his hands in the air and letting them fall loosely back on his lap. "Any moment I might wake up and I— we'll be back there, you know, where we were before. Or, worse yet, this will blow up in our faces somehow." He finally looked up at her. His eyes were glossy, his look serious.

"Filthy Bastard," she chuffed in an exaggerated fashion, then grimaced. "I'm sorry that he torments you, Booth. But, this _is _happening. You know I always tell you the truth." She reached across and firmly pinched an inch of his thigh tissue, digging her nails into his skin.

"Ouch! What—what the hell, Bones?!" He rubbed his thigh. "That's gonna bruise," he mumbled.

"Booth, in the past you have asked me to pinch you so you know you aren't dreaming," she shrugged innocently. "I've never understood the rationality behind inflicting pain to test a person's state of consciousness, but I'm willing to do it if it will assure you that you are fully conscious and that what is happening between us is not a manifestation of errant electrical impulses being volleyed across synapses by hyperstimulated neurons."

Booth snorted and shook his head, then stared at her for a long moment before kissing her on the nose and leaning his forehead against hers. "Let's go. Parker's waiting," he said quietly before leaning away to reach for his door handle.

Brennan tugged on his tie to stop him. "Operation Pringles is a success," she said reassuringly. "We've overcome the first hurdle. Well, the second, if you count that session with Dr. Sweets last night." They both snorted quietly. "And what that Filthy Bastard—"

"Filthy Stinking Bastard. _FSB_."

"Yes. What he insists will happen will never happen."

Booth pulled on his bottom lip, his brow wrinkled with uncertainty. He shook his head slightly. _How can you be so sure,_ he seemed to be saying.

"You would never let that happen, Booth. I would never let that happen," she consoled, gently squeezing his forearm. "In fact, I find myself looking at these couple of days, not as a test, but more like a practice run." She smiled her lopsided smile. "That's gotta be a good thing, right?

"Uh, yeah, well, really?" He frowned and nodded thoughtfully.

She nodded, then opened her door and got out of the car. Booth got out of the car and pushed the door shut with a satisfying 'thunk'.

"Hey," called Booth as he joined her on the sidewalk. "That 'Operation Pringles' bit? I like it! And we certainly _did_ pull it off!" He pinched his lips together and nodded proudly as he reached out and grabbed the hand she held out to him.

Brennan relaxed her arm inside his, their fingers intertwined, then held up her opposite palm for a high-five and grinned at him.

"What's that for?" He asked, smacking her high-five.

"Well done, Operation Pringles partner," she laughed and squeezed his fingers. "Congratulations on a successful operation this morning."

"Although—" he said dubiously, "I believe _you_ almost blew it," he said, poking her in the arm with his other index finger. "It's a miracle they didn't see right through us!"

"Me? I strenuously object!" She snorted.

"Oh, you strenuously object, little Miss _Sexting-Inappropriate-Messages-During-A-Meeting?"_ He snorted right back at her.

"Well— I wasn't the one who got caught prancing around the lab pretending to be a rock star!" She cocked her head and shot him an incredulous glare.

"How was I to know it would be recorded? That was not my fault!" He grimaced and shook his head. "Now, you … undressing me with your eyes. Talk about unprofessional!" He snorted and laughed, flashing her a twinkling toothy grin.

"Me? You were the one who couldn't keep your hands to yourself! How many times did you kiss me? I thought I was going to have to file a restraining order!"

"Hey, no one saw any of that," he insisted. "I—" he began with an air of superiority, "was _stealthy._ You're perfectly sure you did the math right on those bones?"

"Nice change of topic, mister!" She squinted and chuckled at him before continuing. "There's always room for error," she relented, "and there are always anomalies, Booth. I'll know more when we get to Washington. What did Dr. Saroyan say?"

"Hm. About what?"

"You said she handed you your ass," she said.

"Well," he said, slowly releasing his grasp on her hand. "How about I tell you once we're on the plane. Then you can tell me what's up with Angela and why she's so pissed at me."

"Deal." She winked.

"Oh—and by the way, some of the same Operation Pringles rules apply here—no _'hinky pinky'_ in the school cafeteria. I don't want to get called into the principal's office. Had enough of that when I was in grade school!" Booth smirked as he opened the door to let Brennan go before him.

"I take it the principle wasn't a female with a rather generous bust line," Brennan snarked.

"Oh, I would have been in there a lot more if that were the case," he snorted right back.

ДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдД ДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдД

Brennan and Booth were met outside the cafeteria by an agitated Parker who stopped mid-pace when they rounded the corner.

"I thought you'd forgotten, Dad!" Parker stopped right in front of the pair.

"Never! Are we late?" Booth looked toward a set of open double doors leading into a cavernous cafeteria. Wafting from somewhere beyond the doors was the aroma of industrial-sized vats of steamed meat and boiled vegetables.

"Not really. It's just I told everyone Bones might come. They're pretty psyched. Everybody thinks she's the awesomest adult ever," said Parker as he catapulted himself into Brennan's arms.

"What about me? I'm awesome!" Booth whined insistently. "I carry a gun!"

"Wha—I carry a gun," objected Brennan.

"Uh, I have a badge!" Booth pulled it out and flashed it in Parker's face. "FBI!"

"But—I have an immense knowledge of the human body and have seen rotting corpses," she countered.

"But—I have a _badge!"_ He grimaced, waving it about weakly before tucking it back in his pants. He reached toward Parker for a hug just as his son turned on his heel, grabbed Brennan's hand, and began pulling her toward the double doors. "What, no hug for me? I'm the parent here,' Booth mumbled, then scrambled to catch up with them.

After two interesting conversations around a long cafeteria table peopled with mop-haired fresh-faced second-, fourth-, and sixth-grade kids with plastic lunch trays and vinyl Justice League lunch bags, Brennan and Booth were more than ready to leave for the airport. _(Reader: I've posted those two cafeteria conversations elsewhere. See note below!)_

Parker walked them to the front doors of the school. "Love you, dad," he said before hugging Booth a final time. "Call me from your trip?"

"Don't I always?" Booth pretended to look hurt. Parker rolled his eyes at his dad and grinned. "I love you too, Bub. Stay out of trouble. Call you tomorrow, kay?"

"You've got my number," chuckled Parker, walking backward down the hall away from Booth.

"And you've got my number," Booth grinned back, reaching toward Parker for a fist bump in the air as he walked backward toward the vestibule where Brennan awaited him with a big grin on her face.

ДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдД ДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдДдД

Less than an hour later, Brennan and Booth were settled into their first class seats of US Airways flight 3490 out of Ronald Reagan National Airport and into Philadelphia International. From there they would board an Airbus A321 and take Flight 1547 into Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, arriving over six hours later in Washington State.

During their seventy minute layover at Philadelphia International, they each fielded several phone calls.

Booth's first call was from Bob Grimes, their first victim's father.

"Took you long enough to answer, cowboy. I think I counted 500 rings," said the gravely voice coming across the line of Booth's cell. "No matter. I got something to say. May be significant, or not. I'll let you sleuthy types make that decision."

"What can I do you for, Mr. Grimes?" Booth's smile was bounced from cell tower to cell tower and crisply deposited into Bob's ear giving the old man the sensation of being youthful and full of promise despite the subject of this call.

"Well, now, hold your horses, young man. One thing at a time. First, I gotta know what size feet ya' got."

"What?"

"Do you know what bidniz I'm in, young man? D'I tell you I own a Tony Lama outlet here in Philly?"

"Boots? Tony Lama _cowboy boots?" _Booth asked in a worshipful tone.

"Yessir! All kinds. Work boots, Western boots, El Pasos, Stockman, San Saba, Americana, Vaqueros. Boots for all shapes and sizes and for every wholesome activity under the sun. You can—"

"Are those— are you talking _100% Vaqueros?"_ Booth interrupted him.

"Yessiree, Bob. See how I did that? Yes sir, then my name. Purty slick, huh?"

"Black, with white welt stitching? Wait! Or, do you have—alligator hide?" Booth was picturing himself leaning back in his lumbar support office chair with his legs crossed, his feet up on the desk for all to see his gorgeous footwear. A large grin spread across his face. "I'm sorry, Bob. What did you just say?"

"I said, you can tell a lot about a man by the kinda boot he chooses."

"Huh. Interesting. I did not know that," chuckled Booth.

"Yep. And you, I gotcha pegged for a Western. Not too fancy, but not plain either. A work boot, but with a little more … personality. See? A man's boot. Gentleman's boot. I'm giving you a pair of 'em soon's you put my Leesha's killer behind bars. So, there's you're incentive, son."

"While I appreciate the sentiment," demurred Booth, "but it's my mission to solve this case with or without the promise of a pair of the most well-made pair of Westerns a man can buy, and more importantly—"

"I knew you would, cowboy. I just wanna show my 'preciation!"

"Sir, you do know that it's a felony to bribe a federal officer—"

"I knew you'd say that and I wasn't gonna say anything about it, except I'd like to get ya' something special and that's when it occurred to me that Aleesha had a boyfriend at one time who she wanted to get some boots for."

"You don't say."

"I do say."

"Who was the guy? I'll need a name and a description, if you can remember."

"Nah. Never met him. Never learned his name. He was older than she was, per her usual. He wore a size twelve, twelve 'na half."

"If you never met him, how do you—"

"Aleesha grew up playing on the floor of my shop. She knows—knew— boots. She knew to find the shoe size 'for she came to me with the request. You're, what, about a 'leven 'n' a half, cowboy?"

"Yes sir. Size eleven and a half—but, Bob, uh, Mr. Grimes, I really can't let you—"

"I knew it, 'leven 'n' a half. Okay. That means a twelve boot. So. Aleesha tells me she wants some fancy skins. Something with what we call a 'J Toe'. That's the sharpest toe point we make. She wanted lots of welting, but with one caveat: it's gotta be a steel toed shoe."

"Hm."

"Yeah. That's what I said. Problem is, you can't get a J Toe with a steel nose. Least, not from Tony Lama and I don't sell nothin' else. So, I tried to talk her into some stiff leather pointers. She said no, the guy has to have steel-toed shoes. Why, I says. She said he had balance problems or something like 'at."

"Interesting. What did she end up doing? You ever find the right boots for her boyfriend?"

"Nah. She'd moved on to some other fella and told me to drop it before long. I just thought it was strange. Thought you'd wanna know."

"Well, Bob, sometimes it can be the smallest thing that makes all the difference. This might be nothing, or it just might be one of those special things."

"You don't need to make blow sunshine up my britches, cowboy. I just wanted to get you something and I remembered. That's all. What size is the filly?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your lady doctor. Relax, I don't mean anything untoward. What size shoe she wear? I'm guessin' about a nine wide."

"Oh! Uh—listen, Bob. I appreciate your offer, we both do. We just—we can't accept gifts like that. But—I'll tell you what—next time I'm out there you can help me get my own pair. I'd really enjoy that, sir."

"Just take your eyes off the rest of that filly's fine features for a minute, you dog, and get me her shoe size. We'll talk about the rest later. Call me when you got her size, son."

"Well, just hold on. She's not shy about these things," snorted Booth. "Bones! I need your shoe size!"

"Nine and a half. Wide," she said, cupping her hand over her own cell.

"I heard that," rasped Bob into Booth's ear. "Now, go give me a reason to order these boots for y'all."

"Now Bob—I'm giving you her size so you can round up a good sample to show her. I will buy the boots though, sir, I have to insist. Really. We don't want to go to all the trouble of finding this guy just to have a jury kick us out of court for accepting bribes!"

"I see, I see. Okay, well—don't you worry your pretty little head about this. Now—quit wastin' your time on the phone with an old fart like me when you got a eye-poppin' filly sitting next to you and my daughter's case to solve. Now, git!"

"I couldn't agree more," smiled Booth as they hung up.

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"Bones, you are going to be an awesome mom one day," said Booth when they were both call-free as they boarded the Airbus A321 to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport .

"Of course I will be," she replied dryly.

"You were great with those kids at Parker's school—though for a moment I was worried we were gonna get banned from ever returning. Did you have to bring up cannibalism and the breeding habits of insects? And that stuff about, you know, the physiological changes a boy goes through to turn into a man?"

"Booth, you are such a prude when it comes to things of a sexual nature."

"I am not a prude. I just think there's a time and a place—_and the right person_—who should be responsible for that kind of conversation with a kid!"

Brennan smirked and rolled her eyes. "According to his increased respiratory rate, the sweat on his palms, the flushed appearance of his neck, and the pallor of his face, he was genuinely experiencing a very high level of anxiety over his suspicion that one of his bones may have vanished into thin air. What would you have had me do, go into a detailed explanation of how the corpora cavernosa and the corpus spongiosum engorge when stimulated by either intentional or unintentional thought, sight, or physical stimulation?" (Reader: the full cafeteria conversation they are referring to has been posted elsewhere. See note at bottom)

Booth sighed heavily. She had handled the boy's concern as appropriately as possible, given the sensitive nature of the topic. "Truth be told, Bones, I was proud of how you handled it. I never would have thought of explaining—that—as eloquently or delicately as you did."

"Thank you, Booth, but by now you should be used to being impressed by me," she said. "Poor kid. I hope he talks to his dad about his concerns."

"Oh, I called the school nurse while you were on the phone. I let her know what happened. She'll be giving the dad a head's up."

"Good call, partner," Brennan grimaced thoughtfully.

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As they awaited take-off, Brennan talked on her cell with Wendell and Booth made a quick call to Washington King County Sheriff Sharon Restovich. The remains of Banty Solicious had been exhumed and delivered to the Medical Examiner's office.

"Thank you, Sheriff," said Booth. "Please do not open the casket or, heaven forbid, let anyone near it. Dr. Brennan likes to see stuff exactly as they are without anyone messing with them. Now, we're probably gonna need to visit where she was found. That was in a park, right?"

"Correct, sir. Island Center Forest," she replied in a clipped respectful tone. "Would you like me to secure the perimeter?"

"You've been reading too many Kathy Reichs novels, Restovich," Booth teased. "We may need to do that eventually, but let's not go calling any attention to this case until we know what we're looking for, got it?"

"Well, sir, things get around here pretty fast. I tried to keep a lid on it, but we got loose lips here in the office, so—," she said, staring hard at the deputy she caught telling a friend the best-selling author, Dr. Temperance Brennan, was on her way to town with an FBI agent in tow.

"I thought I told you to keep this on the down low, Restovich!" Booth said tersely.

"You did, and I have no excuse, sir. It seems my, uh, deputy here overheard me and got all excited—"

"Then lock her up and take away her phone! We do NOT need to alert the killer so he runs out and messes with the crime scene!"

Dead silence on the other end of the line.

"Restovich?"

"Uh, yes, sir?" She sounded tentative, anxious.

"Why do I get the feeling you're about to tell me something I'm not gonna like?"

"Well, sir, the crime scene has already been messed with about as much as it could be—"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Well, uh, about three years ago that area was dozed and graded so they could put in a bike path," she said, bracing herself against his anticipated response.

"Terrific! That's just dandy," grunted Booth, glancing over at his partner who was in the midst of a conversation with Wendell.

"What would you like me to do, sir?"

Booth's lips pinched together in frustration. "Get me a list of contact information. I want the phone numbers of whoever found Banty's remains. I want Banty's family members and friends along with all their last known whereabouts. I want the ME who examined the remains, the people hired to put in that bike path, the names of the committee members involved in the decision to put in that bike path, and the names of all the people who raised or donated the money to make sure that bike path got made."

"On it, sir."

"And Restovich?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I also want you to covertly arrange to have your cadaver dogs available all day tomorrow. Schedule a practice drill or something. I don't care. Just keep—it—locked up—tight! No leaking this information—to anyone! Especially not your girlfriend!"

"She's my deputy, sir. And you have my word, sir. I will handle all of this myself," she gulped dryly. "We do have the best noses in the country here in King County since we've had our own share of—"

"Save the story, Restovich. Just get on it," Booth interrupted. "Yesterday!"

Brennan was not going to be happy. It was several years ago when Banty's remains were found. Would that matter? Sometimes he couldn't predict what her brain would come up with.

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"Wendell noticed the discrepancy between the femora and tibias with Banty's remains and what we would expect to see if those bones belonged to Aleesha Grimes," chagrined Brennan to Booth when they both had a break between calls.

"Well, you said he was smart," he said, when suddenly his phone rang again. "Booth!" He answered the call when he saw Officer Benton from the Haverford Police Department's name on the caller ID. "You got that corps of cadaver dogs reserved for tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir, I do, Agent Booth. The whole mess of them. We're ready at your mark."

"Good. How's Scarpetti—Scarlotti—whatever his name is over there with the journals?"

"He says he's on his second six pack of Mountain Dew. Says this Dr. Flynn Hubbard guy is as anal as a—well, I'll spare you the details, Agent Booth. Let's just say if you put a piece a coal up that guy's ass you'd have a diamond by lunch time."

"Believe it or not, that is a very good thing. He probably documented everything. Excellent. Send Scarlotti—"

"Scarpetti, sir," Benton corrected him this time.

"Whatever. Keep that man well lubricated with caffeine until we get everything we can get our hands on. Those journals may prove very telling."

"You got it, sir. Have a nice flight!"

"Will do, Benton," assured Booth before hanging up.

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Once they finally took flight, Booth and Brennan asked for a blanket to fend off the chilly sterile air of the Airbus cabin. They snuggled with their arms intertwined and their heads leaning sideways against each other. Brennan nuzzled Booth's cheek with her nose and lay her head on his shoulder.

"So, what was the deal with Angela before we left the Jeffersonian? She seemed pissed at me," said Booth.

"What?"

"What do you mean, _what?_ She called me an ass hat," he chuffed. "She was definitely pissed!"

"Oh yeah," Brennan said, glancing over at the white gift bag she'd set down in the empty seat to her side. "There was nothing I could do about it, Booth," she shrugged. "Not without blowing our Operation Pringles cover." She turned his face toward her by his chin and quickly kissed him on the lips.

"So, what gives? Why am I an ass hat?" He stared at her quizzically.

"Remember when we were in the back of Angela's office, you and I—it was before we saw your fertility dance on the surveillance tape?"

"Yep, what about it?"

"It appears she heard us shouting obscenities at each other."

"What? Seriously? We weren't really shouting at each other, were we?"

"If you recall, the volume of our voices was elevated," she admitted, shrugging, "and ass hat, douche bag, jack hole, bonehead, loser, poser, dick head, and fornicating skunk-humping dickhead fall under the category of obscenities."

Booth grimaced guiltily. "I suppose out of context that must have looked pretty bad. No wonder she was fit to be tied!"

"Fit to be tied with what?"

"Nevermind, that's Hodgins' territory," Booth snickered. "So, what'd you tell her?"

"Booth, I felt," she shrugged, "anxious and transparent. You have said she can read me like a book, right? I could barely look at her for fear she would see." She glanced at him dolefully, then looked away as she absently played with a corner of the blanket.

"See what?"

"The truth, of course! That I kissed you. That I am looking forward to having sexual intercourse with you tomorrow, maybe several times even, depending upon time constraints and your physiology's ability to replenish—"

"Whoa! I get the picture, Bones," he interrupted, glancing around the cabin, then sinking down a little further in his seat. "But, could you, uh, keep it down a little? This bird might be airtight, but it isn't sound proof—"

Brennan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Fine," she lowered her voice. "I didn't want her to know the truth that we are ... giving this a shot. Well, considerably more than _giving this a shot,_ right?"

Booth snorted and raised an eyebrow at her. Like you have to ask? It said.

"You know Angela has been urging me to 'buy a ticket on that ride' ever since our very first case together. Her analogy means that—well, in this analogy she is referring to you as a ride—a sexual ride—and the ticket—" she paused.

Booth turned several more shades of fuchsia, shrunk further into his seat, and dropped his forehead into his hand.

"What's wrong, Booth? Are you okay? Do you have a headache?"

Booth sighed and shook his head. "I'm just a piece of meat, aren't I?"

"Well, if you are, it is a very high quality cut, Booth. However, comparing you to meat would be an unfortunate choice, in view of the fact that I'm a vegetarian," she said pensively, then chuckled to herself.

"Oh, my God!" Booth blurted, trying to keep his voice down. "The images—in my head right now! Can we just—please—move on! Jesus!"

"Booth," she admonished, "men have objectified women by referring to them as all manner of inanimate objects or various species throughout history. I can provide you with a list, if you don't believe me. It's very well-documented—"

"I'll pass," he snarked and rolled his eyes.

They stared at each other stupefied for a minute. Finally, Brennan continued.

"Anyway, Angela was quite distressed about what she thought she heard us shouting at each other. She seemed to have lost her ability to focus on anything else."

"Okay—?"

"I assured her that things are not what they seem, but then she cornered me about our physical confrontation in my office! She said she peeked at the security screen when we both left right in the middle of our meeting in her office this morning. She said they all heard a commotion—that must have been my pencil holder hitting the glass window in my office—so she stepped out her office door to check on us, but stopped when she saw your arms flailing about," she said.

"Well, I wouldn't worry-" Booth began.

"—There's more! She said Dr. Saroyan saw us fighting in my office early this morning!"

"Hm," Booth grunted, looking away. Cam had mentioned this to him as well.

"She also said she felt there was considerable tension between you and I during the meeting. She said everyone noticed it." Brennan stared at Booth for a moment as they both played back their memories of that meeting on the screens of their own minds. "She said that if we could channel that tension into the bedroom—"

"Hooo, leave it to Angela—" interjected Booth, widely rolling his eyes.

"—she suggested we would have some _'mind-blowing hot monkey sex'_, I believe she called it."

"Well, she got that right," Booth snorted, leaning toward her to rub noses then kiss her quickly on the lips. "So—how'd you get around that one?"

"—Uh, I simply replied that there will be no monkey sex—today. That is a truthful statement, but still, I could barely look at her!" Brennan shook her head and leaned back against the headrest with her eyes closed. "Then I said something to the effect that you and I have strayed irreversibly from where we once were and, as a result, the possibility of us having sexual intercourse has taken a major shift in a direction that none of us could have foreseen."

"What? You lost me," he said, confused.

"That was the whole point. When in doubt, confuse with verbose ambiguity! So, I think it went right over her head, too. Anyway, she said she was disappointed in both of us," she finished wearily.  
>Booth draped his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder, pulling her up against his chest.<p>

"I do not enjoy being disingenuous, even for a good reason," she said. "I'll do it, but I will not enjoy it, Booth," she admitted, looking in his eyes. Booth grimaced back and shook his head sympathetically.

Brennan skipped over the last part of her conversation with Angela because it had to do with the white gift bag. She hadn't yet looked inside the bag, but she had a pretty good idea what was in there. Though she had no intention of telling Booth what Angela said when she presented the bag, Brennan couldn't help hearing her best friend's words in her head.

"The way things are going between you and Booth," Angela had said with a sardonic smirk, "you will never get to use this, but I have no need for it now that I'm married." She held out the small white gift bag. "Please don't look at it until I'm gone. I don't need anything thrown at me right now. If you don't want it, put it in the circular file, but just don't tell me. You have no idea how difficult this was to get ahold of." Angela had shrugged dejectedly and walked toward the door. That was when she ran right into Booth and called him an ass hat.

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"So—what's in the gift bag," Booth asked, trying to steal a peek past her. "From Angela, I assume?" He reached for the bag, only to have his hand smacked away by Brennan.

"It's personal," she blurted and grabbed the gift bag to her chest. She folded it awkwardly, and jammed it into the bag at her feet.

"Ow," he cried, rubbing his hand.

They sat in silence for several moments. "Whatever," he said, shrugging. He glanced away, then back at her. "I'll find out eventually, you know I will." He tossed a cocky grin at her. "Or, maybe I'll guess."

"Don't be so sure. There are a plethora of objects of that approximate size and weight so the possibilities are innumerable. Besides, there may be no reason for you to know what this bag actually contains."

"Whatever," he said in falsetto, still grinning at her with an amused expression. "But it sure ain't a paperweight—or back issues of Anthropology Today Magazine," he smirked and chuckled.

Brennan crossed her arms, lay her head back again, and closed her eyes, signifying this was the end of that particular topic as far as she was concerned.

Booth waited a moment, then decided to change the subject anyway. He tapped on Brennan's arm. "Would you really have tried to stop me if I was going to marry Hannah?" She rubbed her cheekbone against his shoulder and smiled.

"Most assuredly, Booth," she answered drowsily without opening her eyes. "In as brief a period as it would take a milliliter of oxygenated blood to be pumped through your aorta by your left ventricle," she sighed.

"In a heartbeat," he smiled, sheepishly.

"In a heartbeat," she repeated.

"Even if it meant I might hate you?"

"You would have harbored intensely negative feelings about me eventually anyway," she said placidly as she inhaled deeply, held her breath, then exhaled slowly.

"What?"

"It would have been inevitable, Booth," she yawned. "I would have continued to fight for your happiness and you would have thought me condescending, perhaps even selfish."

When Booth didn't respond, Brennan opened her eyes, lifted her head. When his eyes found hers, she said, "If that book Sweets gave me is to be believed, that is. Regardless, after confronting you, I would have then flown off to the Indian subcontinent and irresponsibly polluted myself with liqueur distilled from the leaves and flowers of the female cannabis plant." She chuckled.

"Well, it's a moot point," he said, raising his arm and wrapping it around her, pulling her closer. "What Sweets said about there being the possibility for a good future with love and happiness if I'd married Hannah—that was utter bovine feces."

Brennan laid her head in the crook of his neck and closed her eyes. She smiled against the patch of fabric covering his clavicle and sighed. "I know," she said.

"It's always been you for me. Always," he nodded, and drug his chin over the top of her head, kissing her hair, then resting his cheek on her forehead. "I always knew we'd end up together," he added, teasingly, chuckling quietly.

"And how is that," she said in a sleepy voice.

"Because this is America. In America, the devilishly handsome FBI Agent always gets the strikingly beautiful forensic anthropologist."

"You are such a dreamer," she said slowly as she drifted off to sleep.

While Brennan dozed, Booth thought about the conversation he and Camille had after the meeting this morning.

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"What's on your mind, Cam?" He asked, following her into her office.

"Close the door, Seeley," she said pointedly, leading him over to the couch and sitting down, though she didn't sit back and relax. "Have a seat."

"Cam, we're really on a tight, uh—"

"Have a seat, Seeley," she commanded, following it up with a pleasant smile that didn't quite make it up to her eyes.

"Don't call me Seeley, and I'd really rather stand."

Cam stared at her old friend, noted his posture. Shoulders dropped, but elbows held in. Hands deep in pockets, but no busy activity from his usually active fingers. He clearly didn't want to be having this or any conversation with her right now.

Booth half sat on the arm of the couch and took out his Zippo. He flipped it open and closed quickly tossing a_ 'whoosh-clack, whoosh-clack'_ sound into the silence between them. Cam reached out and tried to pluck the lighter out of his hand but all she caught was a thumb and four slender caramel fingers full of loose air when he yanked it out of reach. She usually wouldn't have reached for it, she knew better, but she usually didn't have to have this kind of conversation with him either; not with this much hanging in the balance, and not with this level of uncertainty about the outcome. She grimaced and imagined shaking her head in frustration, though she didn't let Booth see it. Then, she raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow and smirked at Booth.

"I called Sheriff Restovich in King County about keeping the Medical Examiner's office open after hours. It will be late before you get there, but if I know Dr. Brennan—"

"—That's what I figured," added Booth, dropping his lighter into his pocket and pulling out the two translucent orange dice with the white dots on all sides. "She'll wanna go straight to the ME's office to get a look at those bones—"

"That's why she's the best, Booth," she said flatly. "She's determined. Tireless. Unflappable. Usually, at least." She studied his response.

"I know," he answered, his brow furrowed defensively, his voice one octave higher than usual. "I know, Cam," he stage whispered and glared back at her, though not unkindly. It was a warning.

"Do you?" Ignoring his warning, she lobbed the accusation like a fast pitch on the tail end of his response. She stared at him, her eyes steely with determination, her expression blank, serious.

Booth rolled his eyes, stood, and walked in a tight circle.

"Are you going to mark your territory? Sit down, Seeley," she said in a low steady voice with a cautious edge. "I will not be put off, and I will not have my team—" She stopped there. She knew it wasn't necessary to tell him he better not screw things up for the Jeffersonian. That was her first priority as the head of the forensics lab.

"Camille—" Booth said, defensively. "Stop! I'm not trying to—put you off. We're on a tight schedule," he insisted, swiping his shirt cuff back and glancing at his watch.

Camille continued to stare at Booth's face, waiting for him to say more. She knew he needed to be given firm boundaries. Whether he remained within them or not was his choice—but he was always more successful when he knew where the lines were drawn. She knew it had been the shifting lines between him and Brennan that had caused their problems these past two years. He'd constantly felt like his house was built on loose sand. When he thought he had the lines figured out, or tried to establish some of his own, they moved—or Brennan moved them.

Booth met Cam's stare with a long unblinking stare of his own, then he bent, and sat back down on the arm of the couch, one fist lay on his thigh curled around the dice, the other fisted hand was nestled in the opposite armpit.

"I'm not interested in a pissing contest, Booth. I'm just concerned about you," she said. Booth looked away from her, shook his head, clenched his jaw, and smirked.

"How was Parker this weekend?" Began Camille, still sitting forward, her back perfectly straight, her intertwined fingers cupping her crossed knees.

"Great! We got to, uh—you know," he said, the 'we' meaning all three of them, but he wasn't going to say that. "We did a lotta stuff."

"Good. Seeley," she said, cocking her head to the side as she finally leaned back against the back of the couch. "Things okay between—the two of you?"

Booth locked eyes with her for a moment before answering.

"Well, he misses me," was his cagey response. He rolled the dice around each other in his palm. "I was supposed to take him fishing on Saturday, but the case—" he said, his eyes trained on the dice.

"I meant between you and—"

"—I knew what you meant, Camille," he said quickly, then looked up at her without saying anything more.

"Anything you wanna talk about?"

"Um, nope," he said, quickly.

Camille sighed quietly, turned sideways toward Booth and hung an elbow over the back of the couch, intertwining her fingers so her other arm fell across her chest.

"You know, Hannah Burley made a bunch of visits here while you were gone," she said, picking a piece of invisible string off her perfectly pressed crepe skirt.

"She did?" Booth didn't look up, didn't react. _I should sound pissed, _he thought. _I'm just not. And I'm not going to pretend to be._

"She did." Camille nodded, then met his eyes and grimaced and raised her eyebrows as if in apology—maybe for Hannah's visits— maybe for just saying her name.

"What for?" He asked, looking away, then at his watch, then back to her face, then crossing his arms and legs.

"Looking for Dr. Brennan."

"Any idea why?" Booth's lips curled down in mild interest. He knew she'd been there; he'd seen the note she left on Brennan's desk.

"You'd have to ask Angela; she's the one who finally talked to her."

Cam suddenly noticed this was the first time Booth hadn't jumped down her throat at the mention of his ex-girlfriend's name.

"You know she's leaving . . . probably already gone."

"Yep. Had lunch with her Monday," he said emotionlessly.

"Really."

"Yeah." Booth stood, pulled on the knees of his pants, planted his feet shoulder width apart, and took three practice swings at an invisible golf ball with an imaginary nine iron before winding up for the follow through. Tapping the side of one shoe against the other, he lined up to take another swing. Cam recognized this behavior. He was finished talking about Hannah.

"Sweets made you do it, didn't he?" she asked anyway, a slow grin sneaking across her face.

Both glanced at her and chuckled. "Anyway—" he said, shrugged, and shifted his weight left to right and back as he stepped back up to the invisible golf ball, and assumed the position.

"Closing of a chapter," Cam offered blandly.

Booth nodded and smiled with pinched lips, took his shot, stepped back and crossed his arms, then stared back at her.

"You okay, big guy?" she asked in a serious tone. "You've been getting a bum wrap around here, but I know this has been a—really tough year for you."

"Camille—" he paused, looking for what he really wanted to say to his oldest friend, the first one he was able to admit his love for Brennan to.

"An end of an era, Cam," he finally relented, exhaling slowly. "It feels more like the end of a tunnel. A really—really really long tunnel." He looked up and chuckled awkwardly. For a crazy moment, he felt like busting out with the truth, sharing his excitement with Camille. But then he thought about Operation Pringles—and the sound of Brennan's laughter this morning while he covered her chest with raspberries and three strategically-placed love bites. He had to press his lips together between his teeth to keep from smiling or calling attention to the light in his eyes.

"What'd she say, Hannah?" Camille asked, taking his comment and an unidentifiable shift in his demeanor as an opening, an invitation.

"The usual—goodbye stuff."

"She must have said more. You seem—" she shrugged, "like a man who got an eleventh hour stay of execution. Relaxed. Relieved."

Booth shrugged, cocked his head to the side, pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows, then shrugged again.

"I am, Camille. I'm relieved. I think I'm maybe even ready to, you know, move through it." He tugged on his bottom lip and thought about Brennan's words from the middle of the night last night—about how you don't get over the difficulties; you move through them. He smiled to himself. _Wow, _he thought, momentarily unable to believe the situation he's suddenly found himself in. He'd actually spent the night at Brennans' house! Sleeping right next to her! It didn't really matter that he hadn't known it at the time. What mattered is that he was there and so was she. _How different this Monday is from last Monday,_ he thought to himself. _Unbelievable._

She watched Booth's face carefully. Nodded without taking her eyes off him.

"You know. She wasn't a bad person. Hannah," she said carefully, without moving or blinking. "She was a good person, Seeley." They shared a meaningful glance. "She just wasn't—the right person. You know?"

"Yeah, well," Booth said as he blushed. They'd been down this path twice before themselves.

"You two gonna be okay—as partners?"

"Heh," he chuffed snarkily. "I don't know," he shrugged quickly. "It's not like we really have a choice," he said nonchalantly. This wasn't hard for him to sell—it was a true statement—but for a different reason than he hoped Cam could see.

"I, uh, saw you leaning toward her across her desk this morning," Camille said, again carefully watching for his response.

Booth looked up as a cold chill spread down the back of his neck. _What else did she see? Bones—oh no! _He knew that if Camille asked him directly, he'd have to look her straight in the eye and deny that he and Brennan were moving forward romantically, but he wasn't sure how convincing he could be, not with Camille Saroyan.

"I was hoping it wasn't an argument," she said, willing to let her words float in the air until he filled it with something else.

"No—well, yeah, actually," he chuckled through is nose. "But—not a bad one. No shots were fired—heh, if that's what you were afraid of." Half of his face twisted into a smirk. "No, Cam, it was an exhausting trip which started with me being yanked off a plane, if you recall. Then, back home there's Parker—then the session from hell with Doogie Houser, M.D. that went on for God knows how long." He whistled as he pretended to shoot a basketball through a hoop. "We're both just tired." He shrugged. "I think—I think once we get some sleep—we each get some sleep—nap on the plane or something. Like you said: it's gonna be a late night tonight." He set up for another seated basket.

She nodded, pinching her lips together.

"Can I go now?" He asked standing abruptly, planting his hands low on his hips expectantly. He took a step backwards toward the door.

"How'd that meeting go with Sweets?" She leaned back and relaxed, crossing her arms tightly next to her chest. This conversation wasn't over.

Booth stepped forward again. He leaned his head to the side, shrugged with his eyebrows, chewed on his bottom lip.

"How's Dr. Brennan—about Mr Nigel-Murray?" She asked.

"She's, uh, she's broke-up about it. But—I think she's going to be okay. She had some time here over the weekend. Did some," he paused momentarily and looked around the office. "Seems she did some thinking—processing—remembering, I think."

"Hm." Camille nodded without taking her eyes off him. "And you?" She said slowly, looking away finally and pretending to examine one of her perfect fingernails.

He exhaled loudly. "You know me, Camille." He shrugged.

"Yeah, but this was one of _Dr. Brennan's_ squints. He took your bullet, Seeley. That's gotta—" she shook her head.

He inhaled deeply, exhaled out of puckered lips and stared at the floor. After a moment he looked up and met her eyes. He pursed his lips, then nodded slowly, frowned. Then blinked a blink that said, _I'm working on it, old friend. I'll be okay. And thanks for asking._

"Sweets approved you both for duty, in case there was any question," she said after a tense pregnant silence.

He nodded silently, puckering his lips again. "Thanks, Camille." He started to walk toward the door.

"You know, it's going to be about a five hour flight—" she called after him.

"Six hours, actually."

"Six—Booth. Well, it's a long flight. Enough time for two people who have to work together to talk some things out—" She shrugged and let her suggestion hang in the air.

Booth rolled his eyes. "What is with you people? You and Sweets? Angela? Hodgins? That's all I hear, _'You two should talk!'"_ he snarked. _"'When are you going to talk?'_ Don't you people have anything better to do with your time? Maybe we don't want to talk, huh? Ever think of that? Maybe we're the only ones who understand that there really is nothing to talk about? The past is the past. End of story."

Cam winced, then smirked. "I know you better than that Seeley Joseph Booth. You NEED to talk," she said, staring hard at him, one eyebrow raised disapprovingly.

"Maybe not this time, okay? Maybe that's where I've screwed up before—ever think of that? Let sleeping dogs lie—" he said, waving his hand in the air as if he were petting an enormous floating puppy.

"Seeley—!"

"Camille, I'm telling you—" _Butt out,_ is what he means, but he doesn't have to say it. "I'm sick of talking. I just want to solve this case, get back home, kick back on the couch with a tall cold one," _or a tall warm soft someone, _his mammalian brain silently interjected, "and watch something mindless on my new 103 inch HD tv, or maybe fall asleep in front of it. Whatever! Why can't everyone just—"

"Don't get snarky with me just because you haven't had enough sleep—"

"Cam, we're fine. Okay? Everything's fine—we, we weren't fighting—_angry _fighting—okay?" He smiled at the memory, his features softening to the smallest degree. Anyone else would have missed the little sparkle in his eye, but not Cam. She knew his expressions and could usually guess what they meant. _Maybe they have turned a corner, _she thought. _Regardless, I think I just witnessed good sign._

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When Booth was convinced Brennan had fallen into a deep sleep, Booth stealthily reached down into her bag and pulled out the white gift bag. He slowly unfolded it and peaked inside.

_Crap, it's wrapped in that senseless crinkly loud paper, _he said to himself, tucking it under his free arm pit. Gingerly pushing Brennan off his shoulder, he unbuckled his seatbelt.

"I gotta hit the can," he whispered loudly to her when her eyes opened several times before she adjusted herself in her seat and pulled the tiny pillow from her back up so she could squeeze it between her cheek and the back of her seat. While Booth held his breath, he watched her fall back to sleep, then he rushed off to the bathroom with that gift bag hidden under his arm.

Once he locked the airplane bathroom door, he sat down on the tiny toilet seat cover and carefully dug through the crinkly crepe paper. He gasped when he saw what was nestled under five times the paper necessary to cover such a tiny item. Then his heart started pounding in his ears. This could only mean one thing. He sat, panicked, pondering his options. He chewed on his lips, his knee pumping up and down like a jackhammer. In the end he decided he just didn't have the heart to tell Brennan. Besides, she would figure it out soon enough. Then he'd have to deal with the fall out. Why rush it?

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Thank you, Lord above, for these wonderful reviewers whom I consider  
>the cream in my coffee, the caffeine in my chocolate: I LOVE YOU GUYS!<p>

_jsboneslover, DWBBFan, Maunzeli, Diko, SammieAtHome, alexindigo, daniellejoy07, bostonlegalgirl, pasha54, threesquares, babyface99f, Dyna63, Kimberrn, Kimber3333, EveyEve1215, yenyen76, mef1013, Melissa, kdgteacher7, latetobones, Tristan Thompson, MiseryMaker, JayBee188, elmasuz, Ellegant22, soxgirl69, grandma bones, Fluffybird, Marebear, eyeofisis57, Melissa, OhSnapItzAmelie, , ghlover8907, meezer-meow, coterie2, jazzyproz, hillhappy, Jo7, fantasyfanatic13, manicpixiedreamgurl, Aveburygirl, Martreiya, ILuvBonesNDool, Angie, dovepage1 Lbrs brensfan JBCFlyers19 dlh, roomwithamoose311, bubbles526, nannygs, Monilovesbones , Dobbi, ciaomichaella, Someoneslove, sarahlizlangas, sandyholl , Alicia9876, , Jenny, FaithinBones, TraciM, maryfran, daisesndaffidols, Boneslvr38, chosenname, yoshimi0701, alwaysthere39, appiedala, SquinTern447, katyrosek, eire76_

㈏6 You know you rock my world, don't you? ㈏6

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㈴0 **FINAL NOTE: PAY ATTENTION. YES, YOU! **㈴0

**WHERE ARE THE MISSING CAFETERIA CONVERSATIONS?!**

_Folks, I've been trying to tighten my writing by only including content that 1) Shows character development or, 2) Moves the plot forward. As a result, sometimes I have to cut pieces that may be funny, or sexy, or __thoughtful, but they are, nonetheless, extraneous. So ... instead of crying over sweeping them up and dropping them in the trash can, I'm putting them in their own little home, which I have entitled, "The Sexy Anthrpophagist: Missing Meanderings from TWATH:AB2P. You can get to that collection by clicking on my name, then scrolling down to my stories._

**_That is where you will find the first of the two cafeteria conversations referred to in this chapter. You will have that second conversation posted presently. I have to pace myself!_**

**_All my love and appreciation to all y'all Bones fans!_**


	210. Something's Going On

A/N Dear Readers: Thank you for coming back to read chapter 210 of** The When and the How: A Bone to Pick**. I appreciate your loyalty, kinds words, and prayers. My dad's cancer is advancing to the point where he is ready to throw in the towel if this final chemo treatment does more harm than good. As some of you know, I left my husband and the kids at home to come to Rochester to be with my parents and siblings so we can have some time to our selves to love on each other and listen to Dad about how he wants his last months to go. It has not been as hard as I anticipated it would be-the business end of dying with which I have been tasked to research for the family-until I find myself behind the wheel leaving the funeral home or sitting in the office of Dad's consulting client sobbing my eyes out. His client told me that I look exactly like my dad . . . that comment alone was worth the ten hour bus ride home for the week.

So - today I give you what will surely not feel like a chapter, but will have to do for now. First, that excerpt that several of you have seen because you contacted me via a review or email. Second, a review of the last several chapters, and finally a brief two-scene new chapter to tide you over until next week.

* * *

><p><strong>THIS IS the PREVIEW THE REVIEWERS HAVE ALREADY SEEN. IT IS MY GIFT TO YOU FOR STICKING WITH THE STORY FOR SO LONG. THIS IS A SCENE SCHEDULED FOR THURSDAY IN WASHINGTON STATE.<strong>

THE CONTEXT: Over breakfast, Brennan shares a secret with Booth. When he realizes she's serious, he abruptly decides they are finished eating because there is something they have go to do ... and waiting isn't an option. THis is the conversation that begins in the hotel elevator:

"You're addicted," said Booth pulling out of the kiss to lead her down the hallway toward their hotel room.

"I am. I am hopeless. Is this an intervention?" She asked, trying to keep up with him so he didn't end up dragging her.

"Oh, I have no intention of intervening. As a matter of fact, I encourage this addiction of yours. It feeds my own."

"Ahhh," she purred, making a low delighted sound which ended in a giggle. "Symbiosis," she nodded, flashing him a lopsided grin.

"Yeah, symbiosis," he said, winking at her as he slid the card key into the slot and grabbed the door handle.

He preceded her into the room. She found that odd, as he usually held the door and let her go first. The moment she breached the thresh hold, however, she understood why he did it: he wanted to be the first inside the room so he could corner her there, right up against the door. His arm reached out at head level and steadily pushed the door closed, moving toward it and taking her body with him. Once she was flat against the inside of the door he leaned into her and whispered into her ear.

"I want you so bad I can hardly breathe."

She didn't know if she should laugh or faint. It almost panicked her, frightened her-his raw desire for her. 'This is Booth', she reminded herself, softening and relaxing into him where their bodies connected. 'And I am safe. He will not steal my metaphorical soul, he will cherish it.'

Booth sighed, looking into her eyes and wondering what she was thinking. He didn't know how to interpret the almost panicked expression across her brow other than to recognize that it was perhaps a little hesitant, but most definitely willing. Pushing further against her and sliding one arm around her waist where it naturally left a space between her body and the door, he slid the fingers of his other hand into her hair and took her mouth in a slow, solid, yet gentle kiss that spoke volumes about how much he loved her and wanted her.

As she received his kiss and slowly responded, her knees went weak, her heartbeat rushed in her ears, and she felt light headed. Someone sighed, then someone else hummed in response and sighed back. Then the first one pressed further into the other and released a long deep whimpering sigh that ended in one prolonged word: "Hhhhhhhhoooooooooooh."

Brennan lay her hot heavy cheek against his warm one and dragged the side of her chin against the jaw leaning, warm and inviting, on hers; the jaw attached to the lips that were caressing the ticklish part of her neck, then whispering in her ear. "I want you. I want you. I love you."

"Yes," she dreamily sighed back, and realized she could no longer feel her legs. The only parts of her she _could_ feel were above her thighs and where his arms, hips, chest, hands, lips and face moved languorously against her, rocking her gently side to side. Those parts of her own body she could feel, they were humming. All of them. Then she melted and could no longer distinguish the difference between her own body and his because now they were wrapped together, melting into each other. When she opened her eyes for a moment she was surprised to find that she still had her clothes on. Now she understood what he'd meant when he told her that as far as he was concerned, she was sexier, even fully clothed, than any other woman he'd seen disrobed completely. She understood it, because that is exactly how she felt about him.

"I think I might have to have you right here ... on the floor," he whispered almost inaudibly against her neck between wet kisses and licks. His voice was so low, she wasn't sure he'd said anything except that she felt his jaw bones move to form the words between sighs.

"Do what you must," she sighed dreamily back, when she realized the first time she said it was just in her imagination.

"You make me crazy," he said against her lips as he smiled and continued kissing her. "Out of my mind ... crazy." He pulled her even closer, then held her against the door with is forehead to hers, and kneaded her hips. When he released and slid his hands up the sides of her she felt a coolness between them and realized he'd somehow managed to completely unbuttoned her blouse. Then the warmth seeping into her chest, sliding over her clavicles, and over her shoulders were the palms of his hands as he pushed the blouse open and over her shoulders until he could press his palms against the bare skin of her back.

_And this was only the beginning …_

* * *

><p><strong>REVIEW OF Events in Seven Parts or Chapters: Since the chapters have been spread out over a couple of months, I thought it would be nice to give you a refresher. This is followed by a brief, two scene chapter and the preview that the reviewers have been talking about.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 203 The Sense in the Sensibility<span>  
><strong>Brennan awoke to catch Booth basking in the scent of her hair and sleepy skin as he thought about the reservations he made for them at Hotel 1000 in Seattle. A suggestive and highly titillating discussion of how potential mates evaluate each other through all five senses ensued. Before getting out of bed, Booth covered Brennan in raspberries, then marked his territory by leaving three love bites on her chest.

**Chapter 204 Testosterone Rush  
>***<strong>At the lab, Camille emerged from a tense meeting with bureaucrats from both the Jeffersonian and the FBI to spy Brennan and Booth in Brennan's office in the midst of what appeared to be a heated argument.

*******After Hodgins interrupted him in the middle of his air guitar rendition of 'You Shook Me All Night Long', an embarrassed Booth made Hodgins, Wendell, and Sweets guess why he was in a such a good mood. When none of them guessed correctly, Booth told them he had been excited about his new 103" plasma screen tv.

*******Cam called Booth on the carpet for texting during the meeting in Angela's office, not realizing that he had been flirting with Brennan. To protect Operation Pringles, Booth told Cam that the texts had come from higher up the food chain than Cullen and that ignoring them was not an option.

**Chapter 205 Wanktards  
><strong>*******Despite Sweets' official report that '_Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan possess the appropriate commitment and sufficient motivation to move forward successfully as a team'_, Camille still had serious reservations.

*******Angela's reconstruction of both victims' faces revealed that they were strikingly similar in appearance, possibly even twins.

**Chapter 206 Punch and Judy  
><strong>*******The team eagerly discussed the possibility that the victims could be twins, hoping it meant the murders had been personal and targeted rather than two in a series of random murders. Sweets warned not to look for something that wasn't really there.

*******After pretending to lose her temper and yelling at Booth during the meeting, Brennan took a timeout in her office to regain her composure. Booth followed and the two staged a fake fight which involved her throwing a cup full of pens at the window and him walking around flapping his arms in the air.

*******Returning to the meeting, Booth took a call from Officers Benton and Scarpetti. Suspecting there would be more victims, Booth asked Benton to arrange for a cadaver dog search in Philly. Scarpetti began sending scans of Dr. Hubbard's travel journals to the Jefferson for analysis by the Angelator which would identify clues to the killer's identity, motivation and method.

*******While Booth was on the phone, Brennan noticed that the bones with Banty's remains couldn't belong to Aleesha Grimes. She ran to Booth and told him there might be a third victim.

**Chapter 207 No Progress, Strictly Fluff  
><strong>*******Brennan went into great detail to explain to Booth why the Femora and Tibias with Banty's remains were most likely not Aleesha's as they appeared to be too long, or to belong to someone who was several inches taller than Aleesha. Brennan and Booth decided not to tell the team about the possibility of a third victim until Brennan could confirm her suspicion by examining Banty's remains in person later that evening.

*******Angela caught Brennan and Booth spouting profanity at each other and misinterpreted it as an irreverent argument between the two.

**Chapter 208 Taking One for the Team  
><strong>*******Brennan was shown the surveillance tape of Booth's earlier air guitar performance. The entire team placed bets about Brennan knowing why Booth was in a good mood. Brennan correctly named the plasma television as his inspiration, but was startled to learn that Booth had bet against her.

*******Wendell demonstrated that the victim had been virtually decapitated internally. It was also determined 1) that the victim had been sitting, her head facing forward, at the time of her attack, 2) that the attack had come as a surprise, and 3) that the assailant could not have accomplished such a clean and forceful break manually, it would have required the assistance of a tool that would leave no mark on the bones.

*******Booth suggested the killer could have manually broke the neck of the victim if the victim had been wearing a helmet with a grippable surface.

*******On the way out of the meeting, Brennan left instructions for the team:

**—oOo— **Wendell was directed to use the electron microscope to reexamine all bone surfaces looking for any organic trace, striae, kerf marks, or stippling-anything that could provide a clue as to the murder weapon.

****—oOo—** **Angela was directed to conduct a search of all manufacturing equipment used to perform a twisting motion at a strength of 840 to 1220 Newtons. The search was to be limited to equipment used on the west and east coasts only.

****—oOo—** **Hodgins was directed to do millimeter drills on all remaining bones to confirm or eliminate the possibility of contributors other than Aleesha and Banty.

****—oOo—** **Finally, Brennan requested that Camille use the polymerase chain reaction methodology to engineer a DNA sample from the bones of each contributor.

*******Booth alerted Angela that she would be receiving digital scans of Dr. Hubbard's travel journals.

*******Camille called Booth into her office for a private conversation.

*******Angela confronted Brennan about the name-calling and the tension between Brennan and Booth. Not receiving even a slightly satisfactory explanation from Brennan, Angela gave up and presented her with a white gift bag which she requested Brennan not open until later.

*******On the way to Parker's school for lunch, Booth explained that he'd bet against Brennan hoping it would lend credence to their ruse of disharmony, thereby also protecting 'Operation Pringles'. Overcome with appreciation, Brennan threw herself at Booth, kissing him senseless, and causing him to drive off the road.

**Chapter 209 Booth's Boots  
><strong>*******Booth made a rule that Brennan was not to titillate him while he was driving.

*******Merciless teasing and hot fluff ensue while they are parked cattywampus on the median a block from Parker's school. The sexual tension brings them dangerously close to having an explosion of pie and Pringles all over the inside of the Tahoe.

*******Booth tells Brennan about the 'Filthy Stinking Bastard', that voice inside his head whose sole purpose is to cast doubt. Brennan reminds him that these insecurities, both hers and his, are the reason they are taking things slowly.

*******After lunch with Parker, Brennan and Booth fielded several phone calls:

****—oOo—****Bob Grimes told Booth about Aleesha's unnamed boyfriend who had balance problems requiring him to wear steel-toed shoes. She'd wanted to purchase some size twelve Tony Lama boots from Bob's store but the relationship ended before she could do so.

****—oOo—****Wendell figured out that the femora and tibias with Banty's remains were unlikely to belong to Aleesha Grimes. There must be a third victim.

****—oOo—****Sheriff Sharon Restovich of King County Washington confirmed that Banty Solicious' remains had been exhumed and delivered to the Medical Examiner's office for Brennan's examination upon late arrival in Seattle. Restovich also agreed to prepare cadaver dogs for a search the next day. She also revealed that it was no longer a secret that the famous Dr. Temperance Brennan was on her way to Washington State. Finally, she admitted that the site where Banty had been found has since been dozed to put in a bike path.

****—oOo—****Officer Benton reported that cadaver dogs were ready in Haverford, PA, and that Scarpetti says Dr. Hubbard's notes are pristine and already flowing electronically toward the Jeffersonian.

*******Once on their flight to Washington State, Booth asked Brennan why Angela had been angry with him after the team meeting. Brennan explained to Booth that Angela had overheard them yelling at each other. She had also witnessed the fake fight in Brennan's office and assumed it was genuine.

*******The final paragraph about Angela and Brennan's conversation has been edited somewhat since it's final posting… so here it is in its current form:

_"The way things are going between you and Booth," Angela had said with a sardonic smirk as she held out the small white gift bag, "you will never get to use this, but I have no need for it now that I'm married. Please don't look at it until I'm gone. I don't need anything thrown at me right now. If you don't want it, put it in the circular file, but just don't tell me. You have no idea how difficult this was to get ahold of." Angela had shrugged dejectedly and walked toward the door. That was when she ran right into Booth and called him an ass hat._

*******Booth asked Brennan what was in the bag, but wasn't given an answer other than that it was private.

*******While Brennan napped, Booth recalled his private conversation with Camille earlier that morning. Camille prodded him about his professional and personal relationship with Brennan. Giving nothing away, Booth blamed the discord between himself and Brennan on fatigue. However, his nonverbal behavior gave Camille the impression that the Brennan-Booth partnership was on the mend.

*******While Brennan slept in her airplane seat, Booth took the white gift bag to the restroom and looked inside it, seeing enough to realize that it held a meaning that Brennan would not like.

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**Chapter 210 Something's Going On**

"Angie, I'm not saying I don't believe you," objected Hodgins as he examined the results from the second mass spectrometer series. "I just can't see Booth calling Dr. B a 'jack hole' or a 'skunk-humping—' what was it?"

"Booth called Bren a _dickhead_, then _she_ called _him_ a _fornicating skunk-humping dick head,"_ she said, scrutinizing her husband's face for a sign that he really did believe her. Still not satisfied, she reached backward for the arms of the glider-rocker in Hodgins' lab. She bent at the knees, held her breath, and leaned backward until she gained enough downward momentum to land in the chair.

"I'm telling you, I just can't see Booth doing that, Angie, he's a boy scout. He lives by a certain code, you know?"

"You men and your codes. Listen, I've seen some pretty tightly-wound men come unhinged for want of something hot in a short skirt, but completely unavailable. And Booth, he's about to fly apart, I'm telling you."

"Maybe the case is getting to him."

"Come on, Jack! This is Booth we're talking about," Angela snorted. "When have you ever seen him this agitated over a case? The man's usually focused and driven. No, it's not the case that's got him all tied up in knots."

"Come to think of it, when have we ever seen him dancing around the lab like a teenager, Ange?" Hodgins snorted. Then, at the exact same moment, the two looked up and stared at each other.

"There's something going on," they said in unison, their eyes wide with amusement.

"Whoa," Hodgins whispered, wonder in his tone as he chuckled and walked toward her. "Classic."

Angela grinned mischievously, one lovely eyebrow rising suggestively. She shrugged one shoulder. "Well, there's definitely something going on," she said, giggling. "There was way too much tension between them for there not to be, if you ask me. So what if they seemed to be at each other's throats. Tension is tension, baby."

Hodgins narrowed his eyes at her. "You think all that—" he waved an arm in the direction of her office "—arguing and name-calling and pencil throwing—all of that was some kind of foreplay?"

"Hell yes, it's foreplay!" Angela snorted in a deep suggestive tone. "Heh!" She grunted, "It's a miracle they didn't drop right there and go at it on the floor in my office."

"Mmmmmm. I don't know, Ange. How do you explain him betting she wouldn't know why he was so cheerful this morning?"

"Come on, Jack! Do you really think he's that excited over a stinking television?" Angela rolled her eyes. "Seriously?"

"What? You think he lied?" Hodgins frowned as he rolled that possibility around in his head, then grimaced resignedly, making a little sighing noise a he did so. "He lied," he said almost reverently. _Well played, Booth, my man!_ Hodgins thought, an astonished smile stealing over his face. "That wanktard. It _was_ a woman he was psyched about. You know, Ange, I could have sworn I saw him glance back toward Dr. B's office when I mentioned his good mood might be as a result of him getting some action."

"What did he say?"

"He flat out denied it, of course."

"Interesting," Angela cooed, a mischievous raise of one perfect eyebrow wrinkling her brow. "Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive." She quoted Sir Walter Scott in a voice as smooth as silk.

"So, why not just admit it? It's not like the rest of us have been blind this whole time," asked Hodgins in an exasperated tone.

"Do I have to explain everything? I don't think he wanted her to know yet!"

"What?"

"Yeah—he's finally free. I mean, totally free, now that little miss toothpick is gone. Physically free and emotionally free to be with Bren! He just doesn't know how to tell her!"

"What? Were we in the same meeting? How do you get all that from—"

"Come on, Jack, I'm a woman. It comes with the ovaries." Smiled coquettishly.

"Again, why doesn't he just tell her?"

"Maybe he isn't sure how. Brennan says Booth has this thing about doing things perfectly—things that are important to him at least. He's only been wanting this, like, for about a gajillion years," she said. "I'd say this is pretty major for him. For both of them."

"Sure it is, but you said she told him how she felt about him. Remember? I'd think if he were ready now, she'd be all over that in a flash."

"Well, she's been pretty hurt, Jack. And he _did_ just propose to the Q-Tip five minutes ago."

"Good point," Hodgins conceded. "But that's water under the bridge, isn't it?"

"I'm not sure," she shrugged. "Maybe he's not sure either. They haven't been real close for quite some time and I'm pretty sure they haven't talked about it."

"I thought you said she gave him that 'I love you' note drawn in human bones," he looked at her askance.

"She did, but she won't tell me what happened when she gave it to him!" Angela said disappointedly. "All she would say is that she was pleased with how he'd reacted. That's all she said!"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? That could mean anything—or nothing."

Angela made big eyes at her husband and shrugged in exasperation.

"Maybe he's just trying to get his head around the fact that there might finally be a real possibility here—"

"What's there to get his head around, Hodgie, they've been hot and heavy everywhere but in the sack for six years—it's time to stop, drop and roll, baby!"

"Babe, this last year—their whole situation—that wasn't hot and heavy. More like frosty and depressing." He smirked across the lab at his recalcitrant wife.

"That was months ago, Jack! With _'you-know-who' _out of the picture, they could just pick right up where they left off."

"But, like you just said—_oh, Beautiful One Who Believes In Happily Ever After_—they still have a lot to talk about! Where they _left off_ was with Dr. B breaking Booth's heart into a million pieces then running off to the Maluku Islands—and then returning to find him playing kissy face with someone else." Hodgins walked toward his wife, leaned on the arms of her chair and rocked her forward so he could place an affectionate kiss on her beautiful forehead. "Follow that up with her ill-timed confession that—oh, guess what—she does love him and she doesn't want to have any regrets! Then follow _that _with him popping the question to '_she-whose-name-I-still-refuse-to-say-out-loud'!_ Babe, that's a lot to come back from," he said placatingly, rubbing her shoulder affectionately, then tucking a couple stray hairs behind her ear. "That's where they left off, Angie," he said, giving her a lingering smooch on her forehead, then a quick peck on the nose and lips before releasing the chair to return to his work.

Angela rocked back and forth several times, glaring at her husband.

"Besides, they were at each other's throats all morning," Hodgins said. "I suppose that supports your theory that he doesn't want her to know yet."

"I don't think Bren realizes what's going on. Did you see the shock and disappointment on her face when she found out Booth had bet against her? I don't think I've ever seen her that stunned. It was heartbreaking."

Hodgins shrugged and smirked, then went back to reviewing his notes.

"Well," Angela finally sighed. "They deserve happiness more than any two people I know." She relaxed heavily back into the rocking chair, dropped her head back, and closed her eyes. "Guess what I did?" She said quietly, her eyes still closed.

"What'd you do, Ange," said the disembodied voice of her husband.

"I gave Bren that last little 'gift that keeps on giving'." Angela released a high pitch sigh and broke into an impish grin.

"What? You mean that last—thing? Ange!" Hodgins sounded disappointed. "Why? Why now?" His tone told her that there was a glare awaiting her if she ever opened her eyes to see it.

"I just thought that … if something is on the verge of exploding, my little giftie might, you know, speed things up."

"For the record, I knew nothing about it, okay?" Hodgins said in a monotone. "I want no part of that. Poor Booth."

"What do you mean, _'poor Booth'?_ I'm pretty sure he can handle himself. An alpha male like that? He will _love_ it. Trust me!" She opened her eyes a tiny slit and cocked a suggestive eyebrow at her lover.

"But Booth is very private," he insisted, giving her an admonishing stare.

Angela chuckled and shrugged her shoulders. "Relax! If things aren't getting all hot and heavy, he won't see it anyway. So, no harm, no foul."

Hodgins came over and pulled her out of the chair. "Don't you have something you should be doing?" He said, not releasing her hands until he could get his arms completely around her shoulders for a quick squeeze and a kiss on the tip of her nose.

"Nope. I'm waiting on results from the journal scans. I have about another three minutes," she said, glancing at her watch. "This guy's handwriting, this Dr. Hubbard? It's unbelievable. You should see it; he's like a human typewriter. Sure makes my job easier though."

"What's Booth got you looking for?"

"Oh, dates, locations, names, weird behavior, descriptions of odd-shaped packages—" she tossed off. "This Dr. Hubbard recorded everything he saw, heard, ate, thought. Talk about anal retentive!"

"Well, that's a good thing, isn't it?"

"It's amazing, really. Makes my job easier. I've written a pattern recognition program to convert it all into text docs so I can use an algorithm to search on specific words, then categorize … recognize patterns."

As the scans arrived in her inbox they were scrubbed of all lines and incidental marks like coffee stains and doodles. Then it was textualized and loaded directly into her pattern recognition program. In the end, she would have a list of all the geographical locations, dates, and every name associated with, or mentioned, during that time. Odd comments would be grouped along with that information.

"You rock, babe!"

"Booth said I'm a genius," she chuckled, her brow furrowed in disbelief.

"You are!"

"Please." Angela rolled her eyes.

"Hey, it takes a genius to work with all the big brains in this lab," Hodgins said as he completed his final sample and helped his wife out of her rocking chair. "You have a beautiful brain. I'd like to kiss that brain!"

"You may want to retract your statement in a minute," she chagrined as they walked toward her office. "My brilliant murder weapon equipment search is a total bust, I'm afraid. Look at this," she said, dejectedly walking through her office toward the plasma screens. She picked up her remote and tapped it several times. An image of the northwest corner of the United states appeared peppered with tiny red dots as she spoke. "I've checked Washington State, Oregon, Idaho, and Montana-all forestry states with loads of manufacturing, solar energy, biotechnology, aerospace engineering and manufacturing—mostly semiconductors, random access memory chips, and wind energy, automotive parts."

"That's a lot of industry, Ange."

"And a lot of industrial equipment," she agreed, the left side of her mouth creasing in disappointment. "So, I cross-referenced those with what I found in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Maryland and Ohio." States along the East coast appeared on the screen with identical chicken pox markings.

"Mostly agriculture, natural gas, crude oil, bio/pharmaceuticals, auto parts, aircraft, steel, printing and publishing," Hodgins observed.

"Exactly. So, I drop out what they don't have in common—" 92% of the red dots disappeared, leaving sporadic clusters on both borders "—and I'm left with bio-industry, aircraft and aerospace manufacturing, and steel."

"Can you cross reference the equipment used in these industries?"

"Did that." Hundreds of images of manufacturing equipment flashed onto the screen like photos being tossed on top of each other in quick succession. "Came up with these two, no three, kinds of equipment. Then, taking the circumference of the head combined with equipment that exerts 840 and 1220 Newtons of force, but would not leave striae or kerf marks on the bone, and I come up with bupkis, nada, nothing, zilch." Angela let her arms fall to her sides. "I don't know what else to try!"

"Then let's go at this another way. Didn't Booth say it could have been a helmet of some kind?"

"Yeah, Bren seemed to like that idea as well," she agreed, beginning to tap on her remote once again. "I'll do a search on helmets of every kind. Sports, combat, safety, law enforcement. If I could maybe eliminate helmets that aren't lined with expanded poly styrene or thermocol that would protect the tissue and bones from trauma, and then run those through my algorithm for the size of the cranium—" She glanced over at Hodgins and to find a sappy grin on his face. "What?"

"I love it when you go all geeky like this," he said, grinning ear to ear.

Angela's lips slid over her teeth in a return grin before she kissed him quickly, and then returned her attention to her plasma screen.

"Oh! Did I tell you Wendell's work with the electron microscope panned out," Hodgins said excitedly.

"Really?"

"Yeah, he found hemorrhagic staining on the mandible and the maxilla, just as Dr. B said he would."

"Hot damn," she gasped. "She's scary sometimes," she said, referring to Brennan. "Can you tell me where specifically?" Angela tapped on her remote making a human skull appear on the plasma screen.

As if on queue, Wendell entered Angela's office and walked up behind them. "Hey Hodgins! Angela, I assume Dr. Hodgins told you about the hemorrhagic staining on the mental foramen along the oblique line of the mandible where the triangularis attaches?"

"It will be much faster if you man the battle station," she snarked.

Wendell reached out for the remote Angela held out to him.

"Thanks," he replied with a bashful smile. "Okay—" Wendell quickly accessed a file under his own name and brought up a skull marked with a red patch on the mid to lower jaw and another a little higher up and closer to the nasal cavity.

"Okay. Take a look here," Wendell began pointing along the mid-lower portion of the jaw. "I found staining here along the oblique line of the mandible where the triangularis, that's a muscle, intertwines with the risorius and the orbicularis oris. This combination of muscles is part of what distinguishes us from other mammals. They, the risorius specifically—allow us to smile." Wendell smiled as if to demonstrate, before continuing. "However, the murder weapon pressed against these muscles to the extent that blood was forced out of the blood vessels, leaving minute traces of bodily fluid on the mental foramen. A little further up, the same happened to the buccinator muscle causing staining on the alveolar process."

"So, something squeezed her face?" Angela stared quizzically at Wendell and Hodgins, her face crumpling in disgust.

"Looks like it," they both said, talking over each other.

"Or pushed against it—" Hodgins added. "Or, maybe she was forcefully pushed into something. Maybe before or directly after she was killed."

"However, it's both sides," added Wendell. "Remember, the killer twisted her head to one side, then equally as forcefully to the other. This created mirrored staining on both sides of her maxilla."

"Is it possible that she wasn't twisted, but was hit this way then that? Like, with a baseball bat?" Angela's brain was racing with the possibilities. "What kind of interior padding does a baseball helmet have?" She said in a low tone, speaking only to herself. She stared blankly at the men as if in a trance. After a moment, she charged toward her computer monitor and carefully lowered herself into her chair. She then began typing furiously.

"Okay, I'll need more detail on those stains. I might be able to match the shape with the inside of one of these helmets— " Her voice trailed off as the speed of her thoughts greatly exceeded her ability to spit them out. "Once I locate the—" she paused, but it was clear by her determined expression that her mind continued at 100 miles per hour. "So the helmet had to have had a liner, and maybe even cheek pads—"

"Do you understand what she's saying?" Wendell asked Hodgins under his breath.

"Kinda, but it's best to leave her alone and let her get to work when she's like this. I gotta check with Cam about the DNA anyway—what are you doing for lunch? I have a feeling I'm dateless!'

"Oh, you're not dateless, man! Your treating me to lunch since I lost my last ten bucks in that bet this morning."

"Oh, yeah," Hodgins chuckled maniacally and clapped Wendell on the back.

"Hey," shouted Angela when the men were almost out her door. "I thought you told me you couldn't get DNA from a mass spectrometer?"

"I can't, but Cam is using crystal aggregates from whole-bone powder to isolate DNA fragments from each bone. That will enable me to run the polymerase chain reaction using the thermo cycler here, thereby engineering a DNA sample for each bone—your eyes are rolling back into your head, babe. I'll stop there. It's a brilliant method—and it will give us the DNA."

"Great! Then we will know for sure who these bones belong to!"

"Well, what we will know is if the bones belong together. We won't be able to find the identity of the bone contributors unless their DNA has been catalogued in CODIS or some other human genomic database we can find. However, Aleesha's identity is already confirmed through her dental records. According to the mass spec, all the bones found with her cranium, except for the femora and tibias, belong to the same person, a person who spent most of her life in eastern Pennsylvania. Once we get the femora and tibias from Banty, Cam will drill through each bone, then clean and purify the bone powder to obtain all the dormant cells or DNA fragments. Once she has that DNA protected by enzymes, I'll be able to compare that DNA to this—"

"Okay, okay, king of the smarty pants brigade. Beautiful artist here, remember?" Angela said, shaking her head as if to clear the cobwebs.

"You're so brilliant, sometimes I forget that you don't love the science," Hodgins replied, then walked back to her and gave her a loud smooch on the forehead.

"Well, that's _waaaaaay_ more than I ever wanted to know about crystals and DNA," Angela chuckled as she turned back to her screen. "Um, Jack?"

"What, love of my life?"

"Sorry about lunch. Can you bring me something back?" She batted her eyelashes at her husband and shot him a dazzling smile.

"Sure," he said. "I was planning on taking out a second mortgage on the house anyway-"

Before they could escape her office, Hodgins and Wendell found themselves pelted with the contents of Angela's industrial sized paper clip container.

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"Dr. Sweets," said Camille, stepping two feet inside his office door and stopping, staring expectantly at the folder in his hands. "Do you have a moment?"

Sweets, who'd been slouching in his office chair reviewing case notes, paused to meet her eyes and gauge her mood. "Uh, sure, Dr. Saroyan, have a seat," he said, sitting up and straightening his tie after closing the file and setting it, face down, on the coffee table in front of him.

Camille advanced and sat demurely on the edge of the love seat. She crossed her ankles and her arms. She said nothing for a beat as if she were carefully considering her words. "Oh," she said finally, wringing her hands, "Dr. Sweets, you know that I respect you."

"Of course," he said, giving her a broad boyish smile as he rose from his seat and walked toward his office door, closing it quietly before returning to sit opposite Camille.

"I have never been good at beating around the bush, so I'm just going to say what I came here to say," she said with a steely glint in her eye.

"You prefer the direct approach," Sweets nodded with an agreeable frown. "I understand. By all means, go right ahead."

"I'm worried about Booth and Dr. Brennan," she began. "I know you are bound by the law, patient confidentiality," she said, squeezing her eyes shut and baring her teeth as if to soften a blow, "and I would never want to put you in a position that would jeopardise your relationship with the agency or your— well, with those individuals you serve—"

"But you are wondering what my official assessment really means? All that bureau mumbo jumbo?" He nodded in understanding.

"Exactly," she said, relaxing. "Should I be worried? Do I have a potentially explosive situation brewing? I do—not—like—being ill-prepared. All eyes are on us with this case—I just—I need—I want to be prepared."

"So, you've come to me for assurances in regard to Dr. brennan and Agent Booth's partnership?"

"Bingo, baby," she blurted. "About their partnership," she said, in a more demure tone. "Am I going to have a problem on my hands?"

"Hm," Sweets grunted, pulling on his bottom lip. "What has Booth told you? I noticed the two of you heading toward your office after the team meeting this morning."

"He was the definition of cagey. I don't think he said a hundred words the whole time he was in my office.

"Uh huh, uh huh. So, what were those one hundred words?"

"That he and Dr. Brennan will be fine; they are just tired. That he's relieved Hannah is leaving the country. That he's at the end of a long tunnel. That he's sick of people telling him that he and Dr. Brennan should talk." She stopped to think. "Oh, and that he and Dr. Brennan weren't fighting." She looked up at Sweets hopefully.

Sweets listened, his fingers tented in front of his lips, his eyebrows raised, though not in surprise. He nodded several times. "That all sounds very promising to me, Dr. Saroyan."

"Aghhhhhh!" Camille threw her hands up into the air, rolled her eyes and collapsed back against the couch. "Well, _now _it probably does, but you saw them in the meeting this morning! It was the Punch & Judy Show from the get-go. I almost needed a striped jersey and a whistle!"

Sweets chuckled. "I did see them in the meeting," he said, pursing his lips and locking eyes with her, "But I'm not sure you and I saw the same things."

"What do you mean?" Camille sat forward and glared at Sweets.

"Think about the nature of their exchanges this morning. Can you recall their body language? Did they exhibit what one would expect in two people at odds with each other—their shoulders held high, expressions pinched, arms held close and rigid as if ready to defend themselves?"

Camille sat back and stared blankly at Sweets as her mind replayed images of the morning's meeting. After a moment, she began slowly. "Their shoulders _were_ relaxed for the most part—I guess, weren't they?"

"What about eye contact? Did they avoid looking at each other?"

"No—there was quite a bit of eye contact—"

"Okay, how about posture? Did they seem closed off to each other, disengaged?"

"They both appeared to be relaxed and comfortable in each other's presence, but that doesn't make sense."

"Why not?"

"Because they kept bickering at each other!"

"But isn't that what they always do?'

"Yes. No! Wait—" her eyes flew open wide. "That's what they _used _to do," she whispered. "It was more like a dance than a boxing ring, wasn't it?"

Sweets gave Camille a slow, heavy-lidded smile.

Dr. Saroyan stared at the psychologist for a full 120 seconds. "I believe I have everything I came for, Dr. Sweets. Thank you," she said warmly, then stood, and swiftly walked toward the door, leaving him behind to think about an article he might write on how to get around the HIPPA regulations without losing your job or getting thrown in jail.

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**I apologize I have nothing more for you at this very moment. The next chapter is already fleshed out. ****Thank you, faithful followers and reviewers: Your notes brighten my days!**

Diko, SammieAtHome, farchester, LaciLucyLou, AussieBonesFan, yenyen76, soxgirl69, bostonlegalgirl, Kimber3333, Maunzeli, elmasuz, FaithinBones, DWBBFan, Someoneslove, pasha54, Melissa, kdgteacher7, Angie, Guest Mary, ghlover8907, sandyholl, Fluffybird, latetobones, Guest, Ellegant22, Monilovesbones, chosenname, brensfan, appiedala, Tristan Thompson, , EveyEve1215, TraciM, JBCFlyers19, Aveburygirl, tessdancer, daniellejoy07, Dyna63, mef1013, coterie2, manicpixiedreamgurl, grandma bones, ILuvBonesNDool, bubbles526, carolkujawski, Boneslvr38, yoshimi0701, hisnameisntphil, Becksbones, MiseryMaker, Martreiya, ciaomichaella, Guest, eyeofisis57, jazzyproz, hillhappy, daisesndaffidols, Alicia9876, Ondiac, mollygrl16, Lbrs, Irisrose7,  
>Dobbi, and Crayzdaiyz<p>

**And these are some of my tweeps who crack me up and keep me entertained as I write!  
>Thank you!<strong>

linda95, nannygs, tmcs28, OhSnapItzAmelie, Zoyacat, Jennifer_G9885, sky_gracie, Book_Junkie007, phq2021, weeceline, MichiUssi, gemlily5, katyrosek, linda95, Grumpychick, GivinGrace, mossadninja, bRigHteRStAR39, LaryBethTerry, xMarainaa, skftex67, PsychedRedhead, toooldtobehook, Sharon_M745, Cawfeegirl, antie_e25, I_Love_BONES, leriam10, samnickmike, ErynGrace_, dorahaws, LoveBones_BB, alinzar, geraghtyvl, Crayon_Clown, sammiesrefuge, DiANNe0985, farchester, Bexbel, imarielle, Tanee2003, OkBones.


	211. BRB

Dear Readers:

My father passed away on December 6th. My next chapter will be dedicated to him and should be coming out before the end of the month ... though it may be a shortie. I want you all to know that I have every intention of continuing my little Magnum Opus here - wild horses couldn't stop me - but, as I am sure you understand, this has been a necessary hiatus for me. My father was/is my biggest supporter, cheer-leader, and fan. He read all of my reviews proudly and told everyone we came across that "This is my daughter, Catherine. She writes for Bones." "No, Dad. I don't write for Bones! I write fanfiction ABOUT Bones. If I wrote for Fox Broadcasting, I would be a millionaire, right?" That didn't matter to him. As far as he was concerned, his daughter writes for Bones. "That's my kid," he'd say with pride and astonishment after reading every one of your great reviews. That you for keeping him entertained and for adding to his pride. He was a humble man. There is not another like him on the planet and I miss him every day.

"I carry your heart, I carry it in my heart."

~ e.e. cummings

Yours in everlasting BONES FANGIRLING,

MoxieGirl


	212. In the Clearing Stands a Boxer

A/N I can't thank you enough for all the support, Dear Readers. I come back to you with so many ideas I can barely fit them all on the page. Thanks most especially to my Twitter and FanFiction buddies who are too numerous to name here. Most especially, thank you to Diko, DWBBFan, BostonLegalGirl, Amanda, EveyEve1215, MariaGalician, alwaysthere39, jitzter14, ciaomichaella, LaciLucyLou, MossadNinja and so many others who interact with me on a very regular basis!

Sometimes we write for you, sometimes we write for Bones. Sometimes we write for ourselves. The best chapters, I've found, are the ones we write for ourselves. This is one for me and my dad. I hope it becomes a favorite of yours as well.

This chapter is dedicated to my dad. The character of Ed Williams is loosely based on him. There is a lot of him in this chapter, as there has been in previous ones even though I was the only one who knew it. Dad reads my reviews from heaven now. I hope he is pleased with my work. I hope it gives you pause to think. The poem "On Love" was written by my dad in 1961. I found it in a box of his old college papers and read it at his funeral.

_William Edwin Owen  
><em>January 15, 1942 - December 5, 2012<em>_

__"I carry your heart;  
>I carry it in my heart"<em>_

* * *

><p><strong><em>From Chapter 209:<em>**

_"The way things are going between you and Booth," Angela had said with a sardonic smirk as she held out the small white gift bag toward Brennan, "you will never get to use this, but I have no need for it now that I'm married ... If you don't want it, put it in the circular file, but just don't tell me. You have no idea how difficult this was to get ahold of." Angela had shrugged dejectedly and walked toward the door. That was when she ran right into Booth and called him an ass hat._

_Booth asked Brennan what was in the bag, but wasn't given an answer other than that it was private._

_While Brennan slept in her airplane seat, Booth took the white gift bag to the restroom and looked inside it, seeing enough to realize that it held a meaning that Brennan would not like._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 212 In The Clearing Stands A Boxer<strong>

_In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade_  
><em>And he carries the reminders of ev'ry glove that laid him down<em>  
><em>or cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame,<em>  
><em>"I am leaving, I am leaving—" But the fighter still remains.<em>

_~ Paul Simon, 1968_

* * *

><p><strong>While on the plane from Philadelphia to Seattle Booth had found himself in a lengthy discussion with Ed Williams, a stranger seated several rows behind him and Brennan. At first their coming together seemed random. By the end of the flight it was clear to Booth that their meeting was the product of some crafty planning by his good old friend, the Holy Spirit. The conversation with Ed had been the kind you can only have with a stranger; someone you'd never see again. It was no coincidence that the gentleman turned out to be a man of faith. When Ed shared this fact, their casual conversation turned provocative and annoyingly introspective for Booth. He now had a lot more to think about before his pre-copulatory discussion with Brennan. He had mixed feelings about this. Strong mixed feelings.<strong>

**Getting off the plane and thanking the man for the discussion, Booth sent up a prayer to the Holy Spirit to take over this whole mess because he wasn't sure he would have the fortitude on his own. Later that evening once Booth finally closed his eyes and gave in to his body and mind's craving for rest, the demons he revealed to Ed Williams bubbled to the surface of Booth's subconscious and shook him, literally, and deposited him on the floor . . .**

* * *

><p>Booth awoke in free-fall, smacking his head on the glass coffee table in the tiny living room space of Brennan's mini suite at Hotel 1000 in Washington. Attempting to claw himself free of the dream web wrapped around his still hazy consciousness, he remained disoriented by the pervasive dankness of the abandoned parking structure in his dream juxtaposed against the sweet sound of Brennan's voice which seemed to echo off the walls before landing gently in his ears.<p>

_"I know it's kind of late. I hope I didn't wake you. But what I have to say can't wait …"_

In his dream he could not see Brennan, but he could hear her as clearly as if she were standing right behind him. It was his turning and twisting, his thrashing about to find her that catapulted him off the leather couch, his cranium connecting with the edge of the glass coffee table.

"Excrement! Hooooly …. EXCREMENT!" Booth groaned through clenched teeth. He ground a crop circle into his hair over the pounding sting as if doing so would decrease the pain and drown out the instant replay of the crunch of man versus coffee table still ringing in his ears. "Dammit! Ahhhh, dammit, dammit, DAMMIT!"He pulled himself off the floor when he heard the undeniable sound of waves crashing against glass. "What the …?"

He swung around in the dark room, registering nothing but a pale yellow haze in the shape of an open doorway. He stumbled past the couch, still massaging the bump pulsing angrily just above his temple. He took three steps further and fell through the light into her combination bed and bathroom.

Brennan had heard Booth fall, heard the nauseating crunch of skin and bone against beveled glass, and sat up abruptly, splashing a tidal wave of soapy bath water and creamy bubbles over the toe end of the freestanding tub.

"Booth!" She yelped, trying to make sense of the incongruity between what she thought she knew and the indisputable evidence to the contrary. "Where did you come from? And … wha … How did you get in?" She stared at him, clean-faced and wide-eyed, her mouth hanging open, damp curls framing her face. She squinted at him, her mind whirring. She was confident it had been silent in her room ever since he'd left over thirty minutes ago. Disappointed in their sleeping arrangements though she was when she found out about them, she'd finally relented mawkishly. After he'd left, she'd undressed, twisted her hair up into a chignon, and then eased into the luxurious bubble bath he'd prepared for her. It had been silent, except for the occasional tinkling of water dripping from her washcloth or quietly sloshing about as she sank into the bubbles or propped her feet up on the ledge to watch the steam rise off her toes.

And then all of a sudden there he was.

"Are you intoxicated? Booth. What is going on?"

Booth fell forward. When his hands hit the glass wall separating the bathroom and the bedroom, she instinctively reared back sending another wave of water tumbling over the back of the tub.

"Bones!" He croaked before turning and running from her room and out into the hallway. From there he hit the stairwell and sprinted, two steps at a time, up five flights of stairs. Jamming his keycard into the lock mechanism, he swung his door open and dove for the bedroom. As the door reconnected with its frame he launched himself diagonally across the king size bed, panting and sweating, as a thousand anxious black tingles took tiny bites out of the skin on his back. He stared at the ceiling and vigorously rubbed his face for a moment, then pressed his palms into his eyes and lay motionless until his heartbeat returned to normal.

It had all happened so fast that Brennan thought perhaps she'd imagined it, but there clearly remained condensation in the shape of two Booth-sized palm and fingerprints on the glass separating the bed from the bath. Registering his considerable distress, she was out of the tub in a flash. She had her wet soapy hand on the door knob leading to the hallway before a sudden chill shot two crucial pieces of information into her consciousness: 1) She didn't know his room number, and 2) She was dripping wet and without a stitch on except enough bubbles to cover half the surface area of the tub – but not nearly enough of Temperance Brennan.

She rushed back into the bedroom and found herself face to face with Booth's hand prints, which had yet to evaporate from the glass wall. She pressed her palms and fingers to the glass inside his prints as she thought about her options. She then paced back and forth, chewing on her thumbnail, then snagged a bath towel from the built-in shelving on the only solid wall near the tub, and retraced her wet footprints to her anteroom.

"Phone, phone! Where the hell is my stuff?!" She rifled through the bag, her coat pockets, and the computer case – all which Booth had deposited right inside her door when they'd first arrived. Nothing! Then she spotted the cell on the coffee table which sat catawampus from the couch as a result of its brawl with Booth's formidable frontal bone.

Scooping up the phone, she depressed speed dial number one and waited. After fifteen seconds, she heard it: a tinny canned version of her own voice coming from the bedroom.

_"The phone rings in the middle of the night, my father yells 'What you gonna do with your life …"_

"Agh! Copulating donkey turds!" She ran into the bedroom and clawed at the overstuffed pillows. There it was, under the last one. It was a miracle it hadn't bounced off the headboard and fallen behind the mattress where she'd never be able to get at it without pulling the bed apart. Annoyed, she turned the phone off to stop the unwelcome serenade. "Focus," she told herself, slumping onto the mattress.

She decided to call the hotel front desk.

"Yes, Ms. Brennan, I will connect you to Mr. Booth's room. Before I do so, is there anything else I can do for you this evening?"

"Yes, please give me his room number," she said confidently, then closed her eyes and held her breath.

"I apologize, ma'am, but it's against hotel policy to reveal the room numbers of any of our guests, especially those staying in our Grand Suites. I apologize for the inconvenience." This is what she had expected, but she had asked anyway. However, this did tell her that he was o one of the Grand Suites!

"Then, can you answer an architectural question?"

The voice on the other end hesitated, confused, but then regained his professional demeanor. "I will do my absolute best."

"Where can I find blueprints of the hotel?"

"I beg your pardon, Ma'am?"

"A map!" She said loudly with a frustrated sigh. "Of the hotel!"

"A map? Of the hotel?" The clerk failed to hide his suspicious tone. "If you are concerned about emergency exits, you can find the one nearest to your room on the inside of your door—."

"Never mind," she said. "On second thought, I don't think I'll call Agent Booth just yet. Thank you!" She hung up and ran to collect the laptop.

* * *

><p>Up on the eighth floor, Booth was grappling with his own humanity.<p>

"Why now, you Filthy Stinking Bastard?" Booth growled at his imaginary archenemy, the antagonist who always delighted in laughing in Booth's face while torturing his subconscious. "Why now?" He whimpered into the empty room. "Now is not a good time for me to be freaking out, OKAY?!" He curled his fists around chunks of his own hair and squeezed until his scalp felt tight. "Lord," he pleaded, "take that horse's sphincter as far away from me as you can, please, please?!"

In his mind, Booth stormed onto Planet Booth ready to fight the Filthy Stinking Bastard in hand-to-hand combat if necessary. He wouldn't relent until he'd subdued the tugging that was dragging him closer and closer to the calcified pit in his gut, the pit that grew a new outer layer every year for too many years to count. That pit that was rattled by Booth's conversation with Ed Williams about sin.

"You can handle him, Seeley …" came a deep soothing voice from somewhere inside Booth's brain. Booth imagined himself stumbling over a pyramid of dusty rocks as he searched the sky of Planet Booth for the origin of that voice. No matter, he already knew who it was. It was God the Father and Creator. It was God the Son and Redeemer. It was God the Holy Spirit and Companion.

Huh, huh, wh-what? Haven't I had enough God talk for one day? He thought-said in the direction of the white slice of light on the horizon of the darkening purple sky blanketing Planet Booth. It was true; he had talked about God and faith and forgiveness for hours while on the plane. He was God-ed out for the time being.

No response from the firmament.

Booth tossed his hands in the cooling air and walked off, smirking in disgust. Why do I even ask? And what's left to say at this point, seriously? He mumbled to himself. He wasn't interested in the answer, so he hushed his thoughts, filling his mind with the opening verse from 'The Boxer', by Simon and Garfunkel. The Booth of his mind's eye sang the lines while the Booth laying on a king sized bed in a Grand Suite on the eighth floor of Hotel 1000 in Washington State hummed along.

_"I am just a poor boy though my story's seldom told_  
><em>I have squandered my existence for pocketful of mumbles<em>  
><em>Such are promises … all lies and jests ...<em>  
><em>Still a man hears what he wants to hear<em>  
><em>And disregards the rest."<em>

The God in Booth's mind's eye remained silent until the last notes of the verse trickled out of Booth's throat and disappeared. Booth basked in the silence and fervently hoped it would stretch out until morning. The hopes of a fool are a churlish comedy for all except their owner, thought Booth, not sure where he'd heard it before. God, however, had a tender heart for Booth's hopes, and an even greater commitment to Booth's character and his heart. As for God's character, Booth knew Him to be diligent and patient; impeccable in his timing, and flawless in his purpose. In God there are no coincidences, in other words. Booth knew this to be true, at least in his own experience.

As he thought about God's character, another melody by Simon and Garfunkel stole into Booth's consciousness. It simply appeared as if coming toward him over the horizon. He, of course, learned early in life to accept that this was a nudge from The Almighty.

_"When you're weary, feeling small_  
><em>When tears are in your eyes, I'll dry them all.<em>  
><em>I'm on your side, when times get rough …<em>  
><em>And friends just can't be found<em>  
><em>Like a bridge over troubled water<em>  
><em>I will lay me down."<em>

"Let's get this over with—" Booth relented. Dusting off his pants he hopped off the planet and back to the reality of a king-sized bed at the Hotel 1000.

Wide awake and able to think somewhat clearly, he began to begrudgingly face what he'd been skirting around all evening. Now that they had his full attention, the events that brought him to this very place and time presented themselves on the screen of his consciousness like images from a projector. He imagined the _click, release, and whir_ of Pops' old projector fan. Click, release, whir.

Booth's youth flashed before him as he stared, wide-eyed, at the ceiling. Then, an image of his father flipped by. What a mess that was. Then he saw his mother leaving. He tried not to think about it, but he missed his mother. It was one of the reasons he carried such a chip on his shoulder against his father.

_Click, release, whir._

His tumultuous teen years with Pops flashed onto the screen. Neighborhood kids in the woods behind the gas station. Boys shooting with spring-piston BB Guns at branches, then targets, then squirrels. All the kids making a big deal about how good of a shot that Booth kid was. When they got older, they took turns with a 12-gauge pump action shotgun. Booth was the undisputed champion when it came to hitting a target, any target.

_Click, release, whir._

He imagined the heat of the projector lamp against his temple—or was it genuine anxiety that made his cheeks hot? College, girls, parties, his first Mustang.

_Click, release, whir._

The Army Rangers. Fourteen kills. Corporal Teddy Parker. Silence, where there was once laughter, camaraderie, but it ended with a bullet that split time in half with a sharp whizzz, whizzz, FFFT! The sound of the lethal projectile meeting it's target … it still rattles around in Booth's ear drums.

_Click, release, release, release—whir._

The Gulf War, Somalia, Kosovo. Twenty-eight kills.

_Click. Click. Click._ No release. Something is stuck, jammed.

Gambling. Hustling pool. Camille … Rebecca. Parker.

Here Booth paused, remembering a baby in his arms, his baby. Those plump fingers and toes, the chubby belly, the wonderful tinkling of endless giggles and genuine awe of everything and anything. Parker was a splash of innocence in the middle of a life swimming upstream. Love without boundaries. Promise. A chance to right the wrongs.

Booth's throat began to tighten. He swallowed audibly, licked his lips, took a deep breath, and watched as Parker slid to the left off the screen, though he could still feel Parker there beside him. From then on, there would always be Parker. Parker to ground him. Parker to give him a compelling reason to quit gambling. Parker to embrace him and love him unabashedly and unconditionally. Parker to see him as the perfect, whole person he so desperately wanted to be for his son. Parker as his reason for redefining what he wanted out of life, and what he needed to do to get it. Time to take life seriously—to get things sorted out, whatever that meant.

Then there was a flash of a young forensic anthropologist on an auditorium stage at American University. A whirlwind case, a kiss, and a separation that flipped his world upside down, messed with his sleep, and persisted in begging for his attention like a starving puppy he'd tossed a slice of bacon to.

This memory sent a rush of warmth from his neck down through his chest. Parker had given Booth a reason; Brennan had given him motivation.

Booth sighed and rolled over onto his stomach, wrapping his arms around a huge starchy-clean pillow.

Then came partnership and purpose—with happiness and friendship on its heels. Before he knew what was happening, Love was ushered in by a quiet, confident, hand at the small of its back. Actual love. Absolute love. This thought came not in words but in something more pervasive. Love in the shape of a crooked smile and wide-open cool blue eyes- love that sunk into him and made its home there.

_Click, click, swoosh-swoosh-swoosh, ahhh! Oh, ahhhhh!_

He wanted to stop right there and go back to her room. He knew he'd frightened her and she would be worried. In his hesitation he sighed, resigned in the knowledge that he had a job to do here by himself. Before tomorrow.

* * *

><p>Back in Brennan's room, Brennan was in full research mode. Connecting to the Internet she found the site for the hotel. Within five minutes she'd located information on how many rooms the hotel had, the square footage of each room, and the quantity of each room layout per floor. She recalled from the elevator that a special key card was required for access to floors eight through ten, and also that Booth had one of those key cards. Thanks to the hapless clerk at the front desk, she now also knew that Booth was in a 2,000 square foot Grand Suite. Booth had supplied the telling detail that his room would have a panoramic view of Puget Sound. From this she deduced that he was in a West-facing suite on either floor eight or nine.<p>

Snapping the laptop shut, she reached for the phone once again.

"Please connect me to Agent Booth's room? Thank you." She waited for the connection and was only slightly relieved when he answered after what felt like ten rings.

On the eighth floor, in the Grand Suite with the panoramic view of the Puget Sound, Booth swallowed dryly several times, then sprang across the bed toward the phone when it broke the silence with its shrill announcement that Brennan was trying to contact him. His hand on the phone, he hesitated, allowing it to ring several more times before he picked it up. On the other end would be a voice that would confirm that he had not dreamed what just happened. Well, not all of it, at least. The confirmation was not a welcome one, but … he needed to hear that voice.

"I'm okay. I'm okay," he groaned insistently into the receiver before she had a chance to blurt 'Hello!' or, 'What the hell was that all about?' He swallowed several times and fell back onto the mattress, closing his eyes and running a ragged hand through his hair. "I'm … really sorry, Bones. I just … was a little disoriented."

"Booth, your face was pale, your pupils were completely dilated, you were perspiring profusely – I still have your handprints on the glass bathroom wall!" This was an exaggeration, they were long gone, but he didn't know that. She paused, grimaced, and allowed the ensuing uncomfortable silence to force him to say something.

"Everything really is fine … okay. Okay?" Despite his insistence to the contrary, they both knew that everything was not okay. Not at all okay.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Many hours earlier while on their flight from Philadelphia to Washington ... <strong>_

Booth sat on the seat cover in the miniscule airplane bathroom disgusted with himself. He'd looked in the gift bag Angela had given Brennan. Brennan had insisted it was 'private' and refused to let him see it. When she fell asleep, he stole away to the bathroom with it to have a look. Then his conscience got the better of him and he felt like a turd for doing that. The other issue he'd have to face with her was the meaning behind this very personal gift. Resigned to the disappointment Brennan would certainly feel once she was enlightened, Booth sighed heavily, stood and washed his hands in the teency-weency bathroom sink.

Stooping to pick up the paper towel he accidentally dropped on the floor, he picked up two other wayward paper towels, a crumpled cash machine receipt, and finally, a well-worn, piece of paper carefully folded into a perfect square. Throwing everything else into the trash receptacle, he paused to look at the square of paper. He turned it over and looked at both sides of the 3.5 inch square. It curved slightly from wear, as if had been carried in the back pocket of a pair of pants or tucked into a well-worn wallet. From the degree of the curve, the slight discoloration of the paper, and the rough and darkened edges at the exterior folds and corners, Booth surmised that this document had been preciously held and guarded for a very long time.

Looking at himself in the mirror, Booth thought about the notes he and Brennan had exchanged since last Monday, starting with the "I love you, Booth, with my whole metaphorical heart," Brennan had hidden inside the footies she had given him before his flight to Philadelphia. That note was precious to him. At that very moment, that note, written in tiny human bones, was tucked inside his own wallet along with several others she'd given to him. After twenty or thirty years those notes would probably could look a lot like the one he held in his hands now. If he ever lost Brennan's note, he would be devastated. He made a mental note to photocopy her notes and stash them in the top drawer of his dresser … just in case.

"This is not garbage," he said out loud to his reflection, glancing down at the folded paper again, turning it over in his hand. The outside of the square held no clue as to who it belonged to or what it was, though a shadow of ink showed through the paper, indicating there was text within.

Gingerly unfolding it, he noted it had originally been folded in half, then each side folded inward and overlapping perfectly toward the center with great care, formin 3.5 inch rectangle, not unlike a love letter. The magic is in the details, thought Booth, wondering if he'd read the signs correctly.

Rather than having a uniformly smooth, opaque surface like contemporary copy paper, the surface of this paper was textured like raw sanded silk. It was thin, yet stiff and nearly transparent. Upon closer inspection, Booth concluded that this wasn't a document produced on a contemporary printer. Each individual letter had been slapped onto the page in quick succession via a metal hammer keystroke against a fabric ribbon saturated in black ink. Booth had seen this before.

Three years previously Booth had become fascinated with several cases whose most compelling evidence included forensic examination of typewritten documents. Martha Stewart's ImClone stock trading case, the National Archive forgeries, and the faked George W. Bush National Guard performance correspondence, to name a few.  
>Already a collector of vintage artifacts, Booth had found himself in the public library checking out several books on the history of typewriters and typography. Eventually, he purchased a 1936 Underwood Noiseless Portable typewriter which he used on occasion to write letters to Pops and sometimes to Parker when he was away at summer camp. Pops enjoyed it immensely; Parker thought it was silly.<p>

"Why can't you email me like all the other dads do?" Parker had complained every single summer when Booth picked him up after camp.

"Because I'm cooler than those other dads," Booth had replied. "Besides, they all get the same thing … crappy little notes that take a second to write and send. You get something different … something that took time and thought and intentionality. It's just cooler."

"Different is not cool!" Parker had insisted.

"You won't always think that, Park," Booth said, tousling his son's dishwater brown curls. "Besides, girls like guys who are different."

"Dad! First of all, who cares what girls think … and second of all … I don't want to be different!"

"Believe me, son, someday you will. Being different is what makes you—you!"

"Whatever," Parker had replied, tucking two letters and a typewritten post card into his backpack. Booth later found a stash of those letters when he was cleaning Parker's bedroom. He'd saved every single one Booth had ever given him.

Today in his hands Booth held a note typeset on what he now realized was a leaf of 1961 scrivener's paper. Based upon the lack of variation in spacing for each typed letter, the distinct style of the lower case 't' and 'g', plus the outdated design of the sans serif ampersand, Booth recognized this typography as most likely from an IBM Selectric typewriter from the early '60s. Seventy-five per cent of the commercially sold typewriters at that time were Selectrics, so this was nothing out of the ordinary. What was written on the page, however, was nothing short of extraordinary.

In the upper right hand corner was typewritten,

_From Ed, Your Most Ardent Suitor_  
><em>March 28, 1961<em>

The body of the document contained seven brief typed paragraphs and a handwritten note. The paper was mottled with several typewriter ink smudges and the occasional correction made by a black felt pen over a smudge of white paste. It was a poem.

**_On Love_**

_God made animals to go by pair:_  
><em>For every pigeon there is a dove,<em>  
><em>For every horse there is a mare,<em>  
><em>But animals do not have love.<em>

_However gregarious animals are_  
><em>It is not uncommon to find just one;<em>  
><em>But man is very different by far,<em>  
><em>For he cannot exist alone.<em>

_A man may appear to walk alone,_  
><em>But his Lord is at his side,<em>  
><em>Another has a wife at home<em>  
><em>With whom he loves and does abide.<em>

_A man may be very strong,_  
><em>But he is melted by a simple kiss<em>  
><em>For to his wife he does belong<em>  
><em>In the sharing of Heav'nly bliss.<em>

_The little thing that makes life worth livin'_  
><em>(The little thing is not little at all),<em>  
><em>Is the constant spirit of sharin' and givin';<em>  
><em>This makes a man feel nine feet tall.<em>

_A man who has had the good fortune_  
><em>To attempt love and win<em>  
><em>Is a man who sings a happy tune –<em>  
><em>Is a man who wins happiness in the end.<em>

_He who loves today_  
><em>Is not forgotten tomorrow,<em>  
><em>For he is free, his heart is gay,<em>  
><em>And another's life he need not borrow.<em>

Booth sighed wistfully. It wasn't Shakespeare, but it came, without a doubt, straight from a heart that beat to the tune of someone's name. Across the bottom of the page in mottled navy fountain pen had been scribbled the words in clear boxy printing that slanted just slightly to the left and provided the name of this most ardent suitor's conquest, one Miss Catarina Diane:

_"To my dearest Catarina Diane. I've done nothing but think about you since we saw each other at your cousin's wedding. I will be home for Easter and would like very much to see you. Please write back, Cat. I will check my mailbox every day until you do._

_Yours in Spirit and hopefully more,_

_Ed_

Booth gasped and chuckled to himself as he leaned against the miniscule countertop. No, this was definitely not destined for the garbage can. Before long someone would be missing it. Booth recalled seeing an elderly gentleman walking back to his seat from the restroom twenty minutes before he got up to go himself.

Determined to reunite this keepsake with its owner, Booth exited the closet-sized mostly-plastic bathroom and peered down the aisle. There he was: the octogenarian Booth had seen earlier. He was seated five rows behind a slumbering Brennan. Perfect, he thought.

The gentleman had reclined his seat and appeared to be dozing. A thin gray airline blanket was tucked under his neat white beard, covered his 'little old man's paunch', and ended its coverage just below his knees. His mouth was relaxed in a shallow smile. Vertical dimples like parentheses sprang from the middle of each of his crab apple cheeks and ended somewhere under his beard. His eyes were closed against the harsh light of his seat mate's overhead lamp. He had a receding hairline that was thinning on top, a short beard and mustache, and bushy brown and gray eyebrows sitting atop a pair of gold-rimmed trifocals. The soft wrinkles radiating outward from the corners of his eyes told Booth this was someone who'd spent a great deal of time laughing. Booth didn't want to simply leave the paper on this man's lap without confirmation that it belonged there. Everything inside him told him this was the owner of the love letter, but what if he was wrong?

For a moment, Booth didn't want to disturb him. He was so peaceful! This man reminded him of a younger, more slender version of Pops. Booth couldn't help feeling a kinship with this man from the moment he got close enough to see the details of his features. Who wouldn't love a guy that wrote such a tender poem?

"Excuse me, sir?" Stage whispered Booth. The man didn't stir. He tried again, louder. "Excuse me. SIR?!"

The gentleman's eyes blinked open. He had very long, damp-looking lashes and deep blue eyes. He reared back, his fingers grasping for the blanket then fumbling with the button for raising his seat to the upright position.

"Did we land? Is it over?" He sputtered in confusion, sticking his tongue out to wet his dry lips, then smacking his lips together attempting to do the same for the rest of his mouth.

"No, sir. Sorry for startling you," said Booth, tentatively leaning against the head rest of the seat in front of the older man. "We still have another three hours to go, I'm afraid." He paused for a moment. "Sir, my name is Seeley Booth. I, uh, I found something that may belong to you … in the restroom."

"What?" The man's features tightened suspiciously. "Something of mine?"

"Well, I don't know, but I recall that you were recently, uh, out of your seat and-" he said, holding the folded paper out for the man to see, "I thought you may have dropped this."

"Who are you again?" The gentleman leaned further away from Booth and squinted until his eyes all but disappeared.

"I'm Seeley Booth, just another passenger. I found this on the floor. It looked important. It's from 1961. If someone held onto this for fifty years he probably didn't mean to drop it—?" Booth held it up higher for the man to see. "I think it's a note of a personal nature."

The man stared at Booth for a moment as if assessing his character. Then he squinted at the square of folded paper until a flash of recognition flew across his face before he could hide it, and his hand dove behind him in the direction of his pants pocket. Convinced, gingerly took the 3.5 inch square from Booth's outstretched hand and held it away from his face for a better look. He made a show of rubbing his thumb over the surface, then holding it out and squinting at it once more. Adjusted himself in his seat, he cleared his throat a couple of times, then glanced around the cabin to see if anyone else was paying attention.

Booth smiled as he watched the wrinkled face soften. The man glanced at Booth with a twinkle in his eyes, his dimples appearing just above the line of his close-cropped white beard. "Thank ya, Mr. Booth." He smiled and nodded, then sighed and grimaced appreciatively. "Ed Williams," he said in a steady voice as he offered Booth his hand.

Booth smiled back, then sat down on the edge of the seat across the aisle from Ed Williams. For the next ten minutes, Booth and Ed exchanged pleasantries: Is this business or pleasure? Are you coming or going? How long are you staying? Did you catch the latest game?

Ed Williams was flying home from Kentucky by way of Philadelphia where he'd been visiting his daughter, Diane, and her three girls, Emily, Cat and Amanda. He'd spent three weeks with Diane, left her house only six hours previously, and already missed her 'somethin' awful' and was tempted to turn around a go right back tonight.

Booth shared that he was out there on business and hoped it would be a successful and brief visit to Washington. Yes, he'd been here before and found it quite beautiful but a little too wet for his taste. He was looking forward to getting home to go fishing with his son.

They fell into a companionable silence after laughing at something they were surprised to find they had in common.

"That's a nice little poem on that paper," Booth mentioned casually during another lull in the conversation.

"What?" Ed leaned toward Booth and pointed at the tiny hearing aid in his ear.

"The poem. On your—on the note thing there," Booth said, gesturing toward Ed's back pocket where he'd stowed his wallet after returning the note to the same slot it had populated for the last however many years.

"Oh, yeah," replied Ed, snorting bashfully and placing a hand on his hip in front of the pocket. "Well, I was a very young and idealistic man back then. I thought love was that tingly feeling you get in your chest, the gnawing in your gut—and everywhere else. What was I thinking?" Ed shrugged, baffled at his own naivete.

"My partner would say that's all hormones and chemistry!" Booth twinkled at Ed as he nodded toward Brennan's seat.

"She's a smart one, that partner of yours."

"You have no idea," chuffed Booth, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

"My wife would say that's the kind of chemistry that makes you stupid."

"And she wouldn't be wrong, I'm livin' proof," snorted Booth, setting them both laughing again.

"Aren't we all?" Added Ed in falsetto on the downside of a chuckle. "And thank the Lord for those stupefying hormones. Without them, my wife never would have looked at me twice!" He grinned sheepishly at Booth. "Or put up with me for forty-five years."

"Ain't that the truth," agreed Booth, with an eye roll and a lopsided grin. "It's generally frowned upon to konk them on the head and drag them away by their hair these days. God bless mother nature, heh, the goddess of biochemistry."

"Giving Mother Nature credit for God's divine creation is frowned upon in my business, but I understand what you mean, Seeley."

"What business are you in? I assumed you were retired," Booth asked, intrigued.

"Monotheism. But I was married to the same person for long enough to understand the urge to pay homage to whatever brings two people together."

"Monotheism?" Booth stared at Ed, deep vertical lines sprouting above the bridge of his nose.

"I'm a deacon," Ed smiled as if watching an hapless animal that was about to fall into a carefully laid trap. "Almost became a priest though."

"What?" Booth started. "How—? You were married for—how many years?"

Ed took a deep breath and pushed it out. Gotcha! "Married for forty-five years. Before that, I was this close," he said pinching an inch of air from in front of his face, "to being ordained."

"So—you said you were married—for—uh, you must not be Catholic. No way they'd let a divorced man become a priest—maybe not even a deacon." Booth had perplexity written all over his face.

"Roman Catholic it is, but I did things out of order. Let me explain. At fifteen I went to a Carmelite Monastery as a novitiate. After that, St. Bonaventure with the Franciscans in New York for post-secondary studies and seminary, followed by two years of post graduate seminary at Catholic University in D.C."

"Wait, I'm no math wiz, but- what, are you like 110 years old? Where does the love letter to Catarina come in?"

"Heh, heh! I wrote that in— what was it— '61? I was nineteen," he said, matter-of-factly. "Eh, it was a crush," he said lightly, shrugging his shoulders all the way up to his ears, "or so I thought."

"But you were in the seminary! Nah, nah, nah. Seminarians aren't allowed to date."

"Right. I wrote it in an undergraduate literature class. It was just an exercise!" He said defensively tossing his hands in the air. "I'm tellin' ya'. It was just a harmless little poem about a crush. I wrote it, packed it away after I got the grade, and forgot all about it."

"So—what happened?"

"Well, there comes a time when you have to make a decision. The priesthood is a marriage. It's serious. But—something had been tugging at me, I can't describe it other than to say I felt like I was walking in one direction but looking in the opposite direction. I didn't realize what it was until I ran into Catarina at a wedding a couple of years later and—well, we weren't kids anymore. Seeing her just threw me."

"Hm," grunted Booth, digging his elbow into the aisle-side arm rest and absently pulling on his bottom lip. "Chemistry."

Ed paused and concentrated on the aisle carpeting without really seeing it. Then he sighed and continued. "It was more than chemistry. But—I was a very determined and committed young man. I was going to be a priest. Period. End of discussion," he said, staring Booth right in the eyes. "God in His infinite wisdom had other plans for me, I guess!"

Booth pressed his lips together and nodded slowly, captivated by the story. "So—what did you do?"

"I ran, of course. Like a bat out of hell—back to the sem!" Ed laughed at the memory, his dimples deepening and his eyes smiling. "Then I prayed. Man, did I pray. Then I talked to the bishop who happened to be in residence at St. Bonaventure at the time.

"Whoa," whispered Booth. "What'd he say?"

"Well," Ed sighed and shrugged, "he encouraged me to spend some time in silent prayer, to listen with my heart, and to be open to the calling, whichever God had planned for me. So, I did that and I started to put the pieces together. Then I came across this poem I'd written about Catarina four years earlier and everything became crystal clear. This was His plan for me—being married to Catarina.."

"Wow. And the deacon part? Where does that fit in?"

"After we were married and had a couple a kids. The call to serve, even as a lay minister, was still very strong. I was nervous, though. I thought I had to choose one or the other—Catarina or the Church."

"What?" Booth stared quizzically. "The Church wouldn't make you—"

"No, but I was afraid that if I went back I would feel an undeniable pull and realize I'd made a mistake. I just couldn't do that to Cat. But—the Lord works in mysterious ways and everything fell into place beautifully." Ed grinned at Booth like a cat that ate the canary.

"Hm," grunted Booth pensively.

"There are no coincidences. Turns out, my specialty is working with couples in crisis. Now, being married gave me experience that the priesthood never would have. See? It was all in the plan."

"From the beginning," said Booth, nodding contemplatively.

"From the beginning," repeated Ed, smiling warmly at his new friend. After a moment, he said, "Right now I'm on bereavement leave. Catarina passed away in December."

"Oh, I'm … sorry for your loss, Ed," consoled Booth, Copulating Donkey Turds is what he meant. After all this time, to lose the one you love. After all we've been through together. Booth swallowed dryly.

"I try not to think of it as a loss," said Ed, leaning back in his chair and pulling the gray blanket back over his arms. He expelled a long breath and stared at the back of the headrest at eye level in front of him. When he began again, his voice was low and warm, introspective. "Let me tell you, death is part of life. When you commit to be with someone until death do you part … that is exactly what it is! You don't think of that when you're young and healthy and you've got your whole lives ahead of you. Truth is, one of you is going to live past the other's final breath." Ed shrugged apologetically. "One of you's gonna go first, right? You start to think about that once you get on in life. You start watching each other for signs of everything. Alzheimer's, heart disease, diabetes. And then there's cancer. The big 'C'. With cancer, it all happens in slow motion. And the chemo treatments," Ed swallowed, and shook his head slowly, closing his eyes. His mouth puckered as if he'd bitten into something he now wanted to spit out. "I felt like I was watching my partner being tortured to death. Cat said she felt like she was running from a starving bear, but the cuts on her feet and legs were what was going to get her in the end."

Ed puckered and blinked several times, then swallowed and looked up at Booth. "There comes a point when there's nothing more you can do except be there for her. Whether I knew it when I signed up for it or not, this was part of the deal from the beginning." Ed stopped and squinted into his memory. He sat perfectly still for a moment, then cocked his head to the side and glanced at Booth.

"I can't even imagine what that would be like," mumbled Booth, thinking about all the losses in his life: his father, Corporal Parker, Rebecca, Brennan, Hannah … and his mother. The loss of his mother had been devastating. The very young, very serious and vulnerable Booth had blamed himself for his mother's departure. If he'd just been able to fight back, to knock his dad on his ass, his old man would have learned that he couldn't hit people anymore. Then his mother would have been able to stay.

Booth almost never let himself think about his mother. It was just too hard. Booth swallowed audibly and pulled himself away from these disturbing thoughts. A wife is not a mother, but she's the closest thing to a mother in many ways, and this man across the aisle from Booth had lost his wife. Losing a woman who loves you, cares for you; that, Booth could relate to. He stopped himself before he allowed thoughts of losing Brennan again to go any further than a flash of her beautiful face inside his eyelids. Not going there.

Ed's eyes had gone glossy, and so had Booth's. When Ed began again, it was in a whisper. "I needed to find something to hold onto after she died. It has been a privilege—a privilege, Seeley—to be her partner all her life and to do things for her in the end that I never thought I'd be able to do. I spent 45 years along side the best person I've ever met," he said quietly to the upholstery dead center in front of his face. "It wasn't always smooth sailing." He released a half-hearted sardonic chuckle. Then he nodded with intention and looked down at his knees. 'We have a wonderful family, Catarina,' I said to her the day before she died. She smiled-oh, she had a beautiful smile-and I know she was imagining all her kids and grandkids, lined up like Barbie Dolls standing right there on the kitchen table. 'We have this big, beautiful, crazy-wonderful family … and it's all because of you', I said. Cat looked into my eyes for a moment, then nodded slowly and said, 'This is our legacy, Ed, this family, and we made it together, you and me.' Ed's chin wiggled as he tried not to lose control of his emotions. Booth had a big ball of dough in his throat and what felt like an elephant standing on his chest.

"Now I ask you, sir, how is that a loss?" Ed cleared his throat, sniffed loudly, then locked eyes with Booth.

The thought of growing old with Brennan had always been a peaceful one, a joyful and romantic one. In their time together they'd already cheated death, hadn't they? But, how do you dodge the bullet that comes from inside your own body, your own brain, your own blood and bone, for goodness sake? How do you share a whole life- and then watch your partner disappear? How do you live on after that? Booth felt a migraine coming on.

"I apologize for going all maudlin on you, Seeley. You just came here to return something. You didn't need to listen to an old man-"

"That's enough of that," replied Booth sincerely. "It is a beautiful story, a beautiful life."

"It is," he said, smiling wanly. "So," he blurted, "tell me about this 'partner' of yours. You said she's a doctor?"

"Yep." Booth shot Ed a glowing smile that went all the way up to his eyes.

"Medical or science?"

"Science. Forensic anthropology."

"Oh, then she's really smart."

"Smartest person I know." Booth nodded as his whole face lit up in an appreciative smile.

"Hm. Think they're always right. Like to argue. Think it's a sport."

"Exactly," said Booth. "Heh, heh, heh, yeah. Exactly!"

"My wife? Catarina? Chemist. So, I feel your pain, my friend," he chortled and pat Booth on the forearm. "I'll say an extra prayer for you. But you know what?"

"What's that?"

"Don't ever forget that as smart as she is … "

"Yeah?"

"She chose you."

Booth grinned slowly. "Well played. Very well played." If they'd been drinking he'd have offered him the neck of his bear for a conspiratorial clink.

"Further proof of her brilliance, I always say," chuckled Ed. "Brilliant or not, she's not perfect. Don't be looking for perfection and thinking you don't have it when the love you experience falls short," he advised.

"Is that the advice you give all those couples in crisis that come to you for spiritual guidance?"

"As a matter of fact, it is," Ed nodded, crossing his arms and jutting out his chin. "I've always said there are two rules that every couple should live by: 1) Don't sweat the small stuff. 2) It's all small stuff. And that's the truth."

"Easier said than done," chagrined Booth.

"Yes, it is," affirmed Ed with an exaggerated nod as he leaned forward, coughed, then grimaced as he tried to get comfortable in the seat he'd been stationary in for five hours already. Once he was settled, he stared at Booth with a wiggly smile. "But here's the thing, love is not patient, and it's not even always kind. Human love, at least."

Booth almost blurted, No shit, Sherlock, but he didn't want to sound disrespectful, so he sat and waited for the septuagenarian to continue.

"Human love is jealous and self-centered, too. Whoever popularized that bible verse did humanity a great disservice." Ed furrowed his brow in contemplation, then he chuckled. "It was written about divine love … perfect love. Not the kind we can expect from each other. We'll always be disappointed!"

"It was Paul writing to the Corinthians. About love," offered Booth.

Ed continued as if Booth hadn't said anything. "Love gets lazy over time, human love. Believe me … I've experienced a good deal of it in my seventy some-odd years, Seeley." Ed pursed his lips and took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling several times. Just when Booth thought Ed was finished speaking, the man stared over at him and started up again.

"Maybe it was Paul to the Corinthians," said Ed, though he knew full well it was. But you know what, Mr. Booth?"

"What's that?" Booth was beginning to relax again, the tension of Ed's earlier revelation dissipating with every smile from the old man. Ed was clearly serious about his topic, but he was also a man who was greatly amused by humanity and not afraid to point out man's foibles, or reveal his own for the sake of a good conversation.

This is the kind of guy, contemplated Booth, that will always see the good in others, will empty his wallet into your hand if you ask to borrow a quarter, and would take you home and feed you if you looked lost. In a pinch … and if he thought you really needed it … and if you were lucky enough to have his love and admiration … he'd also hand you your ass on a platter with a little tabasco sauce. Then, he'd dry your tears, wrap his big soft warm hand around yours and stand beside you while you figured out how the heck you got yourself into such a big mess. Booth pondered this and felt his heart swell with affection for this man he'd known for such a brief time. Of course, that poem helped. How could you not love a guy who wrote a poem like that?

"Answer me this: when was the last time you met anyone who loved patiently, kindly, selflessly … energetically, even … one hundred percent of the time?"

Both shrugged and shook his head.

"Have you ever loved that way?" It was a pointed question that Booth was uncertain if he was supposed to answer. "Can you honestly say that you ever loved that way?"

"Uh ..." hemmed Booth.

"Not easy is it?" Ed jabbed an index finger in the air in Booth's direction. "It almost can't be done." One of Ed's eyebrows shot up in a question mark, daring Booth to challenge such a bold statement. "Christ is the only man who ever lived who could love like that."

Booth cocked his head to the side, crossed his arms, and pulled on his bottom lip, suddenly deep in thought.

"Human love is still love," the old man grinned as if he were Santa with a secret. "It's still love. Real love. But unlike divine love, it is imperfect. But here's the thing-" The man shuffled his feet, spreading them apart, and leaned into the aisle toward Booth. He stared straight into Booth's eyes.

"The beauty in human love is that it tries," Ed said in a loud whisper. "Love tries to be patient and kind and self-sacrificing. It tries. And it fails. And it tries again. Then, do you know what happens?"

"According to the book of Ed? No idea."

"It fails again … and again. See, that's what people these days don't understand. The love that fails, but tries again … that is the real love. It's the trying and the wrestling with it. That is the real love." The older man paused and stared without blinking at his new acquaintance. Then he nodded up the aisle where Brennan sat with their belongings, trying to sleep. "But you have to continually fight for it. Put on your boxing gloves, lace up your lightest pair of leather low top boxing shoes and fight against your humanity. Fight to stay in the game and keep winning. Have faith that the love is still there even when it feels like it isn't."

"Why are you telling me this, Ed?" Booth wasn't sure where this was going.

"Because-I guess because, in my experience, a person who picks up an old piece of paper on the floor of a public restroom and goes to the trouble of getting it back to its owner is a person who believes in love. A person who sits for an hour and listens to an old man talk about his own love story-a guy who does that has hope. You've let me ramble on all about myself, yet you've hardly said anything about your own story. You keep that to yourself. Now why is that?" Ed waited for an answer.

Booth shrugged. "Well-"

"Maybe because you don't think your own story is a good enough story. Maybe because your story has a lot of pain in it? Something tells me you are anxious that love is going to slip through your fingers and jump out the window without so much as a 'see ya' later'."

Booth stared blankly back at the older man.

"I'm telling you this because you are a good person, Seeley. I get the feeling that you have fought all your life, but you've mostly fought for other people."

Booth's chin dropped to his chest and his eyes darted to the ground.

"That hit a nerve," said Ed, quietly.

"You have a right to lace up those boxing shoes, put on the gloves, and step into the ring on your own behalf, and fight against your humanity-for yourself this time."

Booth looked up from the floor, leaned back in his seat so he was facing squarely toward the front of the plane for the first time since meeting Ed Williams, and gave a little jab to the empty seat in front of him.

"It's not ignoble to fight for yourself, Mr. Booth. Your being small does not serve the world. You deserve that love of that good woman," he said, nodding several seats ahead toward Brennan. "And you need to know that it is enough."

"Enough," repeated Booth, with another jab to the headrest in front of his face.

"Enough to fill that hole."

"Hole?" Booth asked, glancing over at Ed without moving from his forward-facing position.

"The hole that someone else left empty," Ed whispered.

"Whoa!" This time Booth twisted to the left so he could look Ed in the eyes.

"But first, you have to take care of business."

"What business?"

"I'd bet my eye teeth that you have something even more troubling on your mind. You've been holding it back ever since I told that I'm a deacon." Ed's eyebrows rose and his chin dropped as he waited for Booth's acknowledgement. "We are strangers on a plane. Who better to ask than clergy you never have to see again?"

Booth released a long sigh, then dropped his forehead into his hand. "And I thought I was good at reading people, but you, you're in a league of your own … " He grimaced, then exhaled again and began.

"I do have some things on my mind," he said to his companion who sat completely still, listening intently. Booth was asking permission.

"Have at it," encouraged Ed, as if this was Booth's reward for listening to the old man for the last couple of hours.

"There is something that's been on my mind, especially this last week, you know, since-" Booth shrugged and nodded toward Brennan. He was ready to ask the question, but apprehensive about whether or not he really wanted to know what the answer. Better to not ask than to ask and get the answer you don't want to hear, right? Except that this issue … well, it's a big one for Booth. And it's been on his mind for a long time.

Ed nodded sagely. His action said, go ahead.

"I feel like I'm at confession!" Booth chuckled nervously. "Forgive me father for I have sinned-bla,bla,bla."

"I can't hear confession or grant absolution, if that makes you feel any better," offered Ed. "Just talk to me."

"Uh, alright," said Booth, pressing his hands together as if in prayer, then crossing his arms awkwardly. "Second Corinthians, Chapter six, Verse fourteen."

"Ahhh. Yes. Let me guess. The anthropologist, she's not Catholic?"

"She's—not just non-Catholic, she's non-God," Booth said, baring his teeth apologetically. "She's an atheist." He chewed on his bottom lip and crossed his legs, his foot began bouncing up and down nervously.

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><p>Later, on the ride from the medical examiner's office to the hotel, Booth would unpack what Ed shared with him about the bible's proviso against christians being unequally yoked. For the time being, however, he just wanted to get past that question as quickly and painlessly as possible so he could ask Ed about what was really on his mind.<p>

"I have another question-about sin?" Booth said tentatively once the previous topic was exhausted.

"What about it? It's the human condition. We are born into sin and sin is what kills us," said Ed dryly.  
>"But, uh, is this confidential?" Booth glanced around the cabin. No one was paying any attention to them.<p>

"If you need it to be, sure," Ed looked for a change in Booth's expression, something that would tell him the answer he'd given had satisfied Booth. Nothing. "You have my word, as a man of God."

Booth sighed, his shoulders dropping. He'd never told anyone this. Not even Monsignor Mike at his own parish. Admitting it – saying it out loud, he feared, would somehow weaken the righteousness cloaking his guilt and saddle him with responsibility he's labored choke out of existence. Despite his efforts, his demons never fail to find him when he's at his weakest. They pounce on him in the middle of the night, or when he's had one too many drinks or when the sun sets on any day during which he was forced to take a life out of self-defense or defense of another life.

"I've done the worst thing a person can do," he said so quietly that Ed had to strain to hear ...

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><p>Thank you, from the deepest corners of my metaphorical heart, for your wonderful notes and kind words over this hiatus. I appreciate each and every one. Some of you sent private messages instead of a public 'review' after my announcement. I will leave those names off as perhaps you'd rather remain private.<p>

Ladies, you ring my bell. THANK YOU FOR SUSTAINING ME!

NatesMama, bostonlegalgirl, latetobones, eire76, Diko, chosenname, , stapes206, Tori9226, bubbles526, sandyholl, yenyen76, Melissa, soxgirl69, DWBBFan, carolkujawski, Fluffybird, FaithinBones, Gemini18, eyeofisis57, angelonde, Aveburygirl, fantasyfanatic13, ecenbt,Jo7, Monilovesbones, babyface99f, Maunzeli, Guest, kdgteacher7, dlh, Guest, Alicia9876, Tristan Thompson, Empyrean Skies, JBCFlyers19, EveyEve1215, appiedala, pasha54, yoshimi0701, ILuvBonesNDool, Mlbrunell, bostonlegalgirl, alwaysthere39, mef1013, gotyournose, Jenny1701, elmasuz, brensfan, SammieAtHome, TraciM, daniellejoy07, sarahspencer125, roomwithamoose311, Martreiya, thatdamnedrizzlesfan, manicpixiedreamgurl, Dobbi, mollygrl16, gemlily51, Aniaf, ghlover8907, jitzter14, redgirlang, akhesamaat, Dyna63, AussieBonesFan, ciaomichaella, erza scarlet the titania, lb, Nobiggggy, FayHannahRose, SuzanneHerdman, Hopelesshopefulromantic, OnceAWaywardDaughter, Phoenix Rysng, lisaclare, Becksbones, Angie, LaciLucyLou, jsboneslover, Rangers042376, plestex716, pippinim1, Lbrs, leea, LABonesLover, Jaddet99, strawberry79, EowynGoldberry, alexindigo, Martreiya, Karen, Viper003, Someoneslove, Heidi, Jencun, and hillhappy.

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><p>I promise you this ... 1) there will be plenty of fluff in the next chapter - plenty, and 2) Booth reveals what he's never told anyone before in his life ... and Brennan makes a comment that suggests something to him that he never would have guessed in a million years. Not even Sweets would have seen it coming.<p>

XXO  
>MoxieGirl<p>

MoxieGirl44 on Twitter


	213. The Book of Love

Dear Readers: Greetings and, hey, what an amazing season of Bones this has been! Here in the States we got to see 'The Blood in the Stones' last night and it was a doozy! I loved everything about it - especially the numerous and wonderful scenes between our wonderful Brennan and Booth. *Swoon and Sigh*

Thank you to all you wonderful people who sent me kind messages about the last chapter and the loss of my father. Your words have buoyed me through the last four weeks and motivated me to get this puppy posted. So, without further ado, I give you 'The Book of Love'! Hope you enjoy!

~MoxieGirl

Please join me on Twitter where I go by MoxieGirl44. See you in cyberspace!

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><p><strong>This chapter has Ed, a Catholic Deacon, talking with Booth about his concerns regarding being unequally yoked. Ed presents one view of God, the afterlife, and good versus evil. This is one Catholic's view to another struggling Catholic ~ not a commentary on what is universally right or wrong in this world regarding anyone's faith or beliefs of choice.<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 213 The Book of Love<strong>

_**Flashback to the Airplane ride from Philly to Seattle …**_

After several hours of enlightening discussion with Ed Williams, Booth returned to his airplane seat next to Brennan. She sat half slumped in her seat, her face tilted toward the window at what had to be an uncomfortable angle. He quietly sat down, leaned his head back, sighed, and closed his eyes.

"Booth," Brennan whispered in a low, somnambulatory voice. "Booth," she said, rolling her head toward his shoulder, her eyes still closed.

"Hmmm?" Booth lolled his head toward hers and arched open one tired eye.

She reached over blindly, searching for his hand. He opened both eyes, grabbed her hand and slid his fingers between hers, delivering an affectionate squeeze before resting their joined hands on his thigh. He glanced over at her and smiled at the peaceful calm that washed over her features as a result of his touch. He ran his thumb up and down the side of hers several times before lifting their hands to his mouth for a quiet kiss across the back of her hand. After delivering a final squeeze, he patted their joined hands, yawned, closed his eyes and dropped his head back on the headrest.

"I'm miserable," Brennan whispered. She sounded tired, but not miserable.

An amused grin flickered across his lips though he said nothing.

"Booth," she whispered a little more loudly, this time jostling their intertwined hands to rouse him.

"Umh?"

"I've been unable to transition from beta and alpha waves to a sufficient level of theta waves necessary to induce unconsciousness. Every time I experience a myoclonic jerk, I awaken and have to start all over again—"

"You can't sleep? What do you want me to do about it?" Booth nodded, his eyebrows floating toward his hairline in commiseration. "You never sleep well on planes, Bones."

"That's correct. I know it's foolish of me to expect a different result from the same set of circumstances," she mumbled, lolling her head back and forth before finally opening her eyes to gaze at her partner. His eyes were still closed.

"You want me to sing 'Soft kitty'?" Booth chuckled weakly to himself. He knew it was highly unlikely that she was familiar with this piece of pop culture - a reference to one of his favorite shows: The Big Bang Theory.

"Soft Kitty? Is this another AC/DC selection like 'You Shook Me all Night Long'?"

"Never mind," he whispered loudly, a smarmy half grin curling up one side of his face. He opened his left eye a crack and stole a glance at her. She didn't notice. He chuckled lightly again.

Brennan shrugged and returned her attention to her mate's face. "Your mandibular profile is quite pleasing to look at," she said. I love looking at you, she thought.

Booth smiled, his eyes still closed. He scooted sideways toward her and leaned his head in the direction of her voice until it connected with her forehead. After a moment, he grimaced, sighed loudly and soulfully, and shook his head slightly.

"What?" Brennan had heard his sighs and felt his head move.

"Umh?"

"What are you thinking? You just sighed rather disconsolately."

"Ohhh, nothing," he lied in a sing-song voice. A comment Ed Williams had made just moments before had skittered through his brain, leaving a streak of burnt orange in it's wake.

"What, you think your sin is too big to be forgiven? You're wrong. There's only one unforgivable sin," Ed had said ominously. "And it sounds to me like you're holding onto something God forgave and forgot a long time ago. You need to let it go—"

Booth tried to let it go, but here it was again, popping up to poke him in the heart just as he was relaxing in his seat next to Brennan. He sighed again and pressed his lips together tightly as if trying to restrain his thoughts from jumping out of his mouth. He was determined to put that conversation out of his mind until later when he could unpack it and examine it alone. _Compartmentalize, right?_ He thought, attempting to channel his inner Brennan. _Think about the other stuff Ed said—about faith, hope, and love—and how the greatest of these is love!_

_Brennan bit her lip. She knew something was bothering her partner, her mate. He was preternaturally still, still and quiet. Booth was rarely quiet._

"You say you are thinking about nothing, yet your body language indicates that it is definitely something troubling you. Now, is this the kind of something that I am supposed to enquire about several more times before letting sleeping kittens lie?" She asked innocently as a V-shaped wrinkle creased the skin above the bridge of her nose. "Or is it the kind of something that I should cease pursuit of and be content in the knowledge that you will confide in me when you are ready?"

Booth's heart melted. "You are a good person, Bones," he said, opening his eyes to find her beautiful china blue eyes focusing quizzically on his face. His eyes dropped to their intertwined fingers. He squeezed her hand and let his shoulders fall, only then realizing that he'd been tense again. "And I love it that you try so hard to understand me." He brought her hand to his lips and dropped a warm kiss on her skin, then looked up to find her scrutinizing his features even more intently.

"Well, then perhaps this is a nothing that you want me to continue to pursue. If that is the case, Booth, I am willing to listen, but I cannot read your mind. If you want to tell me, then tell me. But if you have no intention of discussing it at present, I will simply sit here and be with you."

"This is the kind of something that-right now—I don't think I can talk about," he said grimacing apologetically. "This is kind of like a fiberglass-wrapped heart kinda thing."

Brennan pursed her lips and squinted at him, nodded. "When you are ready to divest yourself of this burden you currently carry alone, I will be here to listen," she said. She then attempted to smile convincingly. "Just like you have done for me-many times."

Booth searched her eyes. "I'm sorry, Bones."

"Why are you sorry?" She squinted at him.

"You look a little-hurt."

"I am not hurt," she said, shrugging. "I am simply trying to assure you that it is acceptable that you not tell me. If and when you are desirous of telling me, I know that you will."

Booth searched her eyes, finding nothing but forthright honesty in them. She searched his eyes and could see that he was still troubled, but guarded. He would work it out until he couldn't any more. Then he would tell her about it. She was fairly certain of this, but nothing is 100% except the fact that nothing is 100% anything. So, there was still room for doubt. And that is what troubled her.

"I believe you, Bones," Booth said. "And it's really fine. I mean, it's not fine-" He paused looking for the right words, then found them. "Remember how you said you wanted to process a while before talking about our session from hell with Sweets?"

Brennan nodded. "I do." She nodded once for emphasis.

"I guess I need to process, too."

"I understand that need. Perhaps we will both have completed our processing at the same time. We can discuss them both then," she said with a satisfied nod.

"Deal," he said, smiling humbly and appreciatively into her eyes, then kissing her gently on the lips before resting his head back and locking eyes with her until she smiled and blinked, then crinkled her nose at him.

Brennan disengaged her fingers from Booth's and pushed up the armrest that separated them. She turned toward him in her seat and wrapped both of her arms around his left bicep, giving it a squeeze. She then slipped her left leg over his left knee and rested her temple on his shoulder. After she was settled, Booth lifted his arm and pulled her in closer, then dropped his nose into her hair. He inhaled that Bonesy scent and imagined it permeating every single one of his unsettled cells, soothing him completely. As he exhaled he felt the remnants of his disconcerting thoughts drift away like the vestiges of burnt paper caught up in a breeze.

Her ear and temple up against Booth's chest now, Brennan listened to his heartbeat and breathed in his warmth allowing both to sedate her. After two minutes she was so relaxed that the ensuing thoughts of her metaphorical fiberglass-wrapped heart didn't bother her. She knew he was part of the answer to that heart's lack of a pulse, she just wasn't sure how to go about reviving it. _It is irrelevant that I do not have the answer right now, she told herself, Booth will figure it out—we will figure it out together._

Booth chuckled.

"Umh?" She grunted.

"I love the little noises you make when you are-"

"—Contented."

"Yeeees! Contented. That's what it is! I love those noises." He emitted a sigh that started in a high tone and deepened as it traveled down his chest.

It was Brennan's turn to chuckle.

"What now? Are you gonna make fun of my contented noises?" Booth feigned indignation.

"No, I was going to say, 'That tickled'."

"What?" He asked. "What tickled?"

"The loosening of your vocal chords and the deepening in the tone of the reverberation made by your larynx when you emit an audible sigh," she explained.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. If it's my vocal chords, how do you know it tickled? What, are you telepathic or something now?"

"Just-let me finish, Booth!" Brennan smirked, only slightly irritated. "Your clavicles act as conductors sending those vibrations through my temporal and frontal bones and directly to my cochlea. That vibration induced gargalesis in my outer and inner ear which then caused piloerection across my epidermis."

"Uh, what?" Booth blurted the question in such a high pitch that a dog, if there had been one on the flight, would have flung itself onto its back and whimper-barked while jerking about in agony. "You can cause a- I can cause- I mean- did you just say-a pile of erections?" He stage whispered incredulously toward her ear. "From a loud sigh?! And what do gargoyles have to do with-?" He shrugged so forcefully that Brennan sat up. Booth didn't know if he should laugh or be worried about his partner who he was just finding out had skin that was virtually made of nothing but one big hyper-sensitive swath of erogeny!

Brennan snorted, feigning disgust at what was clearly a deliberate mangling of her terminology. "Your sigh tickled my ear and gave me goosebumps." The 'Duh', was understood.

"Which part of that—psychobabble—means a pile of erections?" Booth chortled and grinned.

"It's called piloerection. Piloerection, Booth. Think about it. An epidermal piloerection. What does that sound like it might be? Really?"

"Sounds like an overdose of Viagra to me," he scoffed, laughing at his own comment. "Ohhh—!" He kept chuckling.

"And by the way, I don't speak psychobabble. That is Dr. Sweets' area of expertise. I speak science mumbo-jumbo, remember?" She snarked indulgently and rolled her eyes.

"Okay, okay! I know that epidermis is skin," he said once the chuckling died down. "Skin erections? Oh! Goosebumps. Got it," he said, impressed with himself. "You always gotta say stuff the hard way, don't ya', Smarty Pants? Sometimes I think you intentionally use those big confusable words because they sound like something completely different, not to mention suggestive."

He leaned away from her so he could look in her eyes and send her a playful stink eye. She stared back, admitting nothing at first, though inside she was considering that he may have a good point. Just as she opened her mouth to point out that he deliberately mangled her jargon, he cut her off.

"So—the gargoyle? What's that all about?" He was proving her not-yet-made point about mangling.

"Gargalesis! It means tickling."

"Wow—see? You could have just said that Instead of going all pile of gargoyle erections!"

"You keep saying that just because you enjoy saying the word erections!" Brennan shook her head as if admonishing a child. She sat up straight, smoothed out her clothes, crossed her arms, and leaned back in her seat.

Booth tossed her a big toothy grin. "Come back here," he chided, pulling her back into his arms and squishing her to his chest in a playful hug. "Ahhhhh. This is how it should be," he sighed, closing his eyes after she'd snuggled back into place. "You and me, talking, laughing, just being ourselves." He stuck his nose in her hair again and planted a grinning kiss just above her temple.

"Gargoyle erections," mumbled Brennan. "A pile of them."

"Hmmm?" Booth couldn't help smiling at the academic tone of her voice as she delivered that ridiculous phrase.

"Tickley goosebumps. Heretoforth known by present company as Gargoyle Erections." Brennan snorted and chuckled, burying her face in Booth's tee shirt.

"Parker would love that," Booth said. "But he isn't going to hear it," he added quickly, "until he's old enough to own a mortgage!"

Brennan released a high pitched sigh, followed by a lower one.

"Those are the sounds," whispered Booth against Brennan's hair. "The little contented sounds you make when—" He couldn't come up with the right words: When we're touching? When you're in my arms? When I kiss you? When you look at me because I've said something you think is sweet? It was all of these. "The little ohhhhhs and ahhhhhs and high-pitched sighs and—you know—all the little happy noises you make— when we're—close. I love it." He squeezed her in a prolonged hug. "I love you," he mumbled against the skin at her temple.

"I know," she whispered, pressing her lips against his neck for a kiss then rubbing her nose against his clavicle before settling her cheek against his shoulder again. They both took a big breath and exhaled in unison.

As each was left to entertain their own thoughts, Brennan's turned to her concern for what was troubling Booth. Her eyes fluttered opened, her eyelashes scritching against the fabric of his shirt. She really had hoped he would have been willing to discuss what was bothering him. Usually, she'd have no problem setting this concern aside, but something had changed between them. The density of his dark emotion had seeped into her, weighing heavily on her chest—at least, that was how it felt to her: a palpable, dark heaviness.

Ever since they'd shared so much and come so far in such a short period of time, it was more important to her that he felt he could lean on her emotionally. My happiness, she thought, really is, in part, dependent upon his happiness now. As a result, I cannot completely disengage from my concern about what he is experiencing. She couldn't determine if she was disconcerted or comforted by this newfound interdependency. She was, however, impressed with herself for identifying the source of her angst, for lack of a better word.

She had heard Booth and Ed talking for quite some time. She missed most of the second half of their conversation as it had been conducted in hushed, sometimes emotional or conciliatory tones. The two sounded like father and son discussing a mistake born of poor judgment and paid for with an unbearable price. The first half of the conversation, however, she'd caught enough of to understand that Booth had been concerned about the disparity between his Catholicism and her Atheism.

Brennan gasped when she realized that source of her discomfort was due, in part, to a tinge of envy that Booth had talked so long with Ed. _Envy,_ she thought to herself, _that's absurd, isn't it? This intimacy piddle is messing with me!_ She searched for a more rational explanation for her reaction. Finding none, she decided to believe that the envy could be a very rational response to witnessing one's mate confiding in another person what they have yet to confide in their mate. Then she searched for an attitude that might diffuse her envy. _It is good that he has found – even if only temporarily – someone to confide in,_ she told herself. _I shall accept that and I will not ask again. Without even thinking about it,_ she nodded into Booth's shoulder.

"Booth," she said, gently tapping on his chest with an index finger. "I am your safe place to fall just as you are mine." It could have been a question; it actually was a question, but she presented it as a statement.

"Without a doubt," he replied, nuzzling her ear before kissing her on the top of her head. "Don't doubt that for a second."

She nodded in response, and closed her fingers around a fistful of his right shirt sleeve. This confirmation would be what sustained her many hours later when, in the middle of the night, Booth awoke from a frightening dream that had him calling for her help.

While the wonderful-smelling woman snuggled up against his chest scrutinized the physical sensations of envy as objectively as she was capable, Booth continued to skirt around the guilt that had been tormenting him for longer than he could recall.

God seemed absent whenever Booth tormented himself in this way. He assumed this meant he was supposed to figure it out on his own. But God wasn't supposed to leave me alone … ever … I thought …

Booth interpreted God's silence as further proof that He was disappointed. Finally, Booth would throw his arms up – literally or figuratively, or both—and take himself off to Saturday confession once again. However, no matter how he tried, those sins managed to attach themselves, like Peter Pan's shadow, to the souls of Booth's feet and follow him, silently, invisibly, right straight out of the confessional.

Despite all those trips to the confessional, Booth still came face to face with his demons in his moments of weakness. They pounced on him, sending him spiraling down a rabbit hole of shame and self-doubt. However, it was time that rabbit hole get filled with something good, something fruitful. In order for that to happen, Booth had to do what Ed recommended: He had to lay that cross down, be rid of it, and walk away for good.

For the first time in his life, Booth felt that he might actually be ready for that. First he had some things to figure out on his own. Brennan was right in that she was his soft place to fall. He reminded himself of this. She was his partner. In everything. Maybe if he could tell her what he was going through, it would help him let go.

* * *

><p>Upon landing at Seattle International Airport, Brennan and Booth deplaned and stood, wearily leaning against each other on the outskirts of the crowd awaiting the baggage carousel's mechanical delivery of the remainder of their belongings. Booth put in a call to the front desk at Seattle's Hotel 1000 where he'd made their reservations. Brennan was still in the dark about the rooms he'd gotten them - and even about the hotel - so he had to be cryptic in his comments.<p>

"This is Seeley booth. Calling to confirm a pick-up at the airport?" He glanced at Brennan who was yawning and staring through a gap in the crowd, zombie-like, at the empty carousel as it began circulating.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Booth!" A fifty-something baritone oozed from cell tower to cell tower and into Booth's ear. It was a rich voice that carried well, but still managed to be in hushed tones as if it belonged to a black suit and black sunglasses-wearing agent from the Secret Service. "My name is 'Benz', sir. Like the Mercedes. You may call me Benz. I will be personally overseeing your stay with us to ensure that all of your needs are met."

"Oh—kay?" Booth's words were drawn out and peppered with suspicion and a dash of regret. He didn't sign up for someone to be insinuating themselves into their privacy during their stay.

Benz recognized the uncertainty in Booth's voice and set about reassuring his first-time guest at the luxurious Hotel 1000.

"Not to worry, sir. You will not even know I am there. I will appear when you beckon and fade away when you turn around."

"Um, great—" said Booth relieved. If discretion had a voice, thought Booth, it would sound exactly like this guy!

"I have your account on my screen," continued Benz calmly. "You have arranged for the Hotel 1000 Special Delivery Airport Towncar to meet you at the airport for pick-up—"

"Yep. We've just landed. It will probably take us—" he looked at his watch.

"We are aware of that, Mr. Booth," Benz interrupted. "That was flight 1547 out of Philadelphia International." The disembodied baritone ribboned into Booth's ear. "We know that you landed at 6:47PM and will be fully disembarked by 7:02. Your driver, Sebastian, awaits you at baggage claim with a luggage cart."

"Oh, wow!" Booth was clearly impressed. For the price he was paying, he could have expected this, but he didn't know that. He turned his back to Brennan and switched ears as he searched the area for someone who might look like a limo driver named Sebastian. He mumbled into the phone. "Is that extra—the Town Car and the—uh, this Sebastian?"

"That is included in your package, Mr. Booth. I see we will be delivering you to the King County Medical Examiner's Office at 908 Jefferson Street! Very good."

"Yes—" Booth hadn't recalled giving them these details, but every call he made to the hotel had been hurried and covertly made.

"Once you have completed your business at 908 Jefferson Street, you will find Sebastian waiting for you if you call fifteen minutes in advance of your need to be brought to the hotel."

Brennan had been scrolling through her missed calls when she spotted their luggage and headed closer to the luggage carousel.

"Your luggage will be delivered to your suites where lifestyling and turn-down services will be provided prior to your arrival. We have a 'Luxe Room' with a beautiful vista of downtown Seattle on the third floor for Ms. Temperance—Oh, dear!— Can you hold?"

"What? What does that mean?" Asked Booth in alarm, bracing for a wrinkle in his perfectly planned arrangements, but Benz's voice had already been replaced with a whisper soft muzak rendition of 'The Girl from Ipanema'.

In fewer than thirty seconds, Benz returned and began speaking immediately. This time the tenor of his voice included a hint of conspiracy. "We would like to upgrade you, or Ms. Brennan, to a quieter location, if that meets with your approval," he whispered as if the two of them were co-conspirators negotiating a deal that was so exquisite and unorthodox that it could cost both of them their jobs.

"What's going on?" Brennan glanced at Booth as she held her own phone up to her ear.

Booth shook his head dismissively in her direction and turned his back to her. Brennan had lost interest as she began to listen to a message from Wendell on her phone.

"Well, that would meet with my approval as long as the room Dr. Brennan is being upgraded to is not on the eighth floor," Booth said discreetly as he turned away from Brennan and switched ears. That was the floor Booth would be on alone until Tuesday. "Uh, can you keep her on the third floor?" Booth bit his bottom lip, squeezed his eyes closed, and mentally crossed his fingers.

"Just one moment, Mr. Booth," said the concierge. "The second room you have reserved is on the eighth floor. It is one of our finest suites."

"Yes, I am aware of that, Mr. Benz," Booth said in a low voice. That's why I ordered it—! He thought to himself.

"It's just Benz, Mr. Booth," he said absently as he consulted the reservation system.

"Listen our luggage just arrived—" He watched as Brennan began pulling her instrument cases and various bags and finally a suitcase from the carousel. He hurried forward to help her just as a smartly dressed man in a dark suit and black cap advanced toward them carrying a placard reading, 'Mr. Booth and Ms. Brennan'. "You must be "Sebastian?"

Sebastian nodded discretely as Booth pointed to each piece of luggage and case belonging to them. "Could you—?" He spoke toward Sebastian, pointing toward a luggage cart.

"Certainly, sir," Sebastian replied and set to work as Brennan searched her bag for a tip.

"Bones, I got it!" Booth shook his head and glanced around, then stepped in front of her when she extended several folded bills toward Sebastian who had just loaded the last item onto the cart.

"Wha—Booth!"

"It's included. Trust me," he said, steering her toward Sebastian's retreating form which was heading for the door leading to the parking pavilion.

Benz' voice buzzed in Booth's ear once again.

"Ahhh ha! We do have a Grand Luxe Studio Suite available on the third floor—" Benz' voice actually raised an octave this time.

"You sound surprised, Benz," said Booth into the phone.

"Well, sir, it is just that when we upgrade, we don't usually upgrade to such a—" He paused, unsure how to say that this studio was several levels above what Booth had originally reserved. "Let me give you a brief description of what is included in a Grand Luxe Studio Suite at Hotel 1000—"

"Alright, but could you make it fast? I'm not getting any younger, buddy."

"I will simply hit the highlights—" Benz then launched into a lengthy description of the room that included an anteroom with a couch and coffee table which then lead to the bed and bath.

"We don't care about the chairs—" Booth insisted at one point, trying to speed up the process. "And we won't be watching any TV."

"Watching tv? Booth, what's going on?" Brennan interjected during a lull in her own messages. Booth shrugged and rolled his eyes like he had no idea what was going on either.

"It's the hotel," he whispered, covering the mouthpiece of his phone. "You know how these people have to get every little detail right!" He rolled his eyes again in an exaggerated fashion. "Don't worry, Bones, I got it covered," he said when her eyebrows rose in concern. "No sweat."

"French press with Starbucks coffee and premium Tazo teas—" Benz was saying.

"So, what do we have to do to get this done, Benz?" Booth was getting impatient, but then he remembered the fabulous bathroom from the original suite he'd reserved. Bathrooms are important. "Wait. What's the bathroom like," he discretely mumbled into the phone as Brennan ducked into the back seat of the Hotel 1000 Town Car.

"Ceiling-fed Italian pedestal tub and walk-in glass surround shower with rainfall showerhead. A large glass window adjoining tub faces the bedroom—"

"So, you can see into the bathroom from the bedroom—through a glass wall?" Booth stood in the open car door resting an arm on the hood of the car and speaking as quietly and deliberately as a Secret Serviceman himself.

"That is precisely what it means. However, there remains a soupçon of privacy in that the bed and bath are separated from the sitting room by a solid wall and cherry wood door."

"Well, that's a relief," snarked Booth, unable to keep his impatience hidden any longer. "What'd I gotta do—sign something?"

"No, sir. I have already handled it. You need but show up and go directly to your rooms. Sebastian will have your key cards. Call this number when you have completed your visit at 908 Jefferson Street."

Sebastian finished loading their belongings into the trunk as Booth climbed into the car behind Brennan and pulled the door closed with a satisfying 'thwack!'

"Will do, Brenz, we done here?" Booth needed to get off this call.

"Done as done, sir. We will look forward to your pick-up call!"

"Thank you, so will I." Booth hung up without saying goodbye.

"What was that all about?" Brennan looked at Booth quizzically.

"Absolutely no idea," said Booth, settling back into his seat. "Bones, were you serious about meeting with Monsignor Mike to learn more about the Catholic Church?" Quick change of subject, but he'd been thinking of asking her about this since talking to Ed Williams on the plane.

"Of course. Don't you want me to?" She stared at him, her brow wrinkled.

"It's up to you," he said, shrugging with his eyebrows and attempting to sound nonchalant.

"It is clear from your tone that you want me to think it's inconsequential, Booth. But I know that it matters to you," she said flatly. "If it is important to you, it is important to me," she said with finality then returned to scrolling through her messages list.

Booth smiled to himself. I love my life, he thought, for the most part.

"Is the Jeffersonian communicator in the trunk of the car? I could use it up here right now. And why are we in a Town Car, Booth?" Brennan took a moment to survey her surroundings for the first time since stepping into the vehicle.

"Everything's in the trunk, Bones. This is only about a fifteen minute drive." Booth glanced out the window, then looked back at Brennan. "We could make out—you know, play a little kissy-face?" He wiggled his eyebrows and sent her a smarmy grin.

Brennan rolled her eyes and pushed a button on her phone that connected her to the Jeffersonian voice mail system.

"Can't blame a guy for trying," mumbled Booth, settling back in his seat and chuckling to himself. He reached over and squeezed two inches of muscle tissue just above Brennan's knee.

"Agh! BOOTH!" Brennan yelped and dropped her phone while trying to hit Booth's hand away. Her eyes as big as saucers, she scooped up her phone from where it had fallen. "Dr. Saroyan, I will call you back momentarily. It appears Booth needs me!" She hung up and turned on Booth.

"That was Dr. Saroyan I was leaving a message for!" She cried, exasperated.

"I figured that out," he said between delighted chuckles.

"What am I going to tell her was going on here?!"

"Not my problem," he continued to laugh as he reached over to do it again.

"Booth!" She gasped and began hitting him playfully on his outstretched arm. "Just remember," she said while attempting to suppress the giggles erupting from her throat, "Payback is a bitch!" She tried to sound threatening, but it came out more like a strangled yodle.

"God, I hope so," he replied with a laugh.

* * *

><p>After leaving several messages for her teammates at the Jeffersonian, Brennan's mind sifted through a mental catalog of what she would and wouldn't need to accomplish at the King County Medical Examiner's office. She planned to have the Banty Solicious remains shipped to Hodgins on the first plane out of Seattle after she was finished examining them.<p>

Booth's thoughts wandered back to the first topic of significance discussed between Ed Williams and himself: the Bible's proviso against Catholics being unequally yoked with unbelievers. At least, that had been his understanding of the proviso before the enlightening discussion with Ed. As he replayed the conversation in his mind, reflections of streetlights, wet pavement, and dark ominous building facings leaped like gazelles across the glass of his side window. Booth crossed his arms and stuck a thumbnail into the groove between his two front teeth, both upper and lower, losing himself in the memory of Ed's counsel ...

"The anthropologist, she's not Catholic?" Ed intoned, nodding once up the aisle to where he knew Booth's partner sat.

"She's—not just non-Catholic, she's non-God," Booth said, smirking apologetically as he sat across the aisle from Ed. "She's an atheist, an 'Empiricist', she calls it." He chewed on his bottom lip and crossed his legs. His knee began bouncing up and down nervously.

"I see," sighed Ed, nodding sagely. His chest rose and fell like the motion of the ocean before crashing upon the shore. He allowed his lips to loosely vibrate, mimicking the sound of an idling Harley Davidson. Potato-potato-potato. "Yes," he said and nodded slowly. "I get this question a lot." Ed paused a moment to stare at Booth as if he were measuring him—weighing him, perhaps weighing his soul. Satisfied with whatever he read in the silence of the scales, Ed continued. "Did you know that over the last twenty to thirty years the percentage of interdenominational couples has grown to anywhere between forty and seventy-five per cent depending on what part of the states you live in?"

"Yeah, interdenominational, but—not among Catholics," parried Booth staring toward the front of the cabin but glancing sideways toward Ed without moving his head.

"That includes Catholics, Seeley," Ed said, dropping his head to the side sympathetically and somewhat apologetically. After sixty years in the God business, it still pained Ed that several generations of Catholics had fallen through the cracks where religious instruction was concerned.

In the years following Vatican II, wonderful changes were made in the Church. Pope John XXIII believed in making the Bible accessible to everyone. He eliminated practices that were no longer relevant and brought back rites that were rich and timeless in their ability to strengthen individuals' personal relationship with God. Mass went from Latin to the language of the people in the pews. However, as often happens with abrupt change, good or bad, important steps get overlooked in the haste of rapid improvement.

In the case of the Catholic church, what was sorely missing from the 1960s to the 1980s was optimal instructional materials for both the faithful and those tasked with the job of educating them. Their difficulty in understanding everything there was to understand about their Church, their Faith, and Christianity as a whole, was not their fault—though they didn't know it. Because they thought it was their fault, their shame both silenced them and kept them ignorant. As a result, many relied on their limited understanding of the Bible - which, at times, included taking it literally without consideration of the culture and colloquialisms of the times in which they were written.

The evolution of Catholicism was one of Ed's most beloved topics. The faithful he served were members and descendants of those lost generations. He enjoyed helping them understand how it came to be that there was so much they had missed simply because they were young during a time of great transition. It just so happened that Booth and his parents fell into that category as did Pops who fell right on the cusp of the transition and was ultimately responsible for Booth's religious instruction during those years.

Booth turned to face Ed squarely, his expression a controlled blank, but the rest of his body belied his discomfort. Ed's comment, 'That includes the Catholics, Seeley,' still ringing in his ears in reference to the high number of contemporary interfaith marriages. He uncrossed and re-crossed one knee over the other hoping to quiet the involuntary muscle spasms that threatened to bounce him right out of his seat. A vivid image of Pops sprang onto the screen of Booth's consciousness. Once Booth's Mom was gone, Pops had taken the responsibility of making sure the Booth boys developed strong moral compasses. Pops had always made it crystal clear that other people doing something didn't mean it was the right thing to do. Pops' gravely voice played accompaniment to the video feed in Booth's brain ...

"If some ding-a-ling got some cockamamie idea about getting blitzed and jumping off a bridge," Pops would pointedly drill Booth in a low gravelly voice, his brow rippled in waves of stern concentration, "would you jump right in after him, Seeley? I don't think so," Pops answered his own question and waited for a response from Seeley.

Booth always tucked his lips between his teeth and donned his poker face, and tried not to say something like, I would if there were skinny-dipping cheerleaders under that bridge! Unless he wanted to get cuffed on the back of the head, that is. After several moments of Booth staring blankly forward into the stale dusty air of the 1970's living room, Pops boring a hole into the side of Booth's stoic face, Pops' would lob a simpler question at him. "What's worse, Seeley, being a fool or being the fool that's following a fool?"

"I don't want to be either, Pops," Booth would say in a voice devoid of emotion. "Just wait till you get involved with some skirt who makes you wanna do all kinds of stupid stuff. You'll see who the fool is then." When Grams was still around, Pops would toss a wink in her direction earning himself a demure eye roll. After she died, he'd simply glance at her picture on the wall and get a faraway look in his eyes. Sobering-up after a moment, he'd continue with lecture #352. "You're gonna stand all by your lonesome in front of God on Judgment Day, Seeley. No one there to point a finger at besides your own stupid self. So, do what you think is right, don't hitch your wagon to some Johnny-come-lately who's trying to get a little tail. Got it?" The stern look in Pops' eyes would be steely enough to choke a Road Runner mid-beep.

Booth's response was to blankly stare ahead, clenching his jaw and feigning indulgent disinterest. Pops would then smirk and make a sucking sound with one side of his mouth.

"Do the right thing, son," Pops would fling at Booth after a beat as he bent at the knees and lowered himself carefully into his TV chair. "If you aren't sure what that thing is, ask your gut," he'd say. "Your gut works for God and it never lies."

Pops' counsel never failed Booth. When his heart and head were in sync, listening to his gut his worked pretty well. When they weren't in sync things rarely went well. He never traded someone else's opinion for his own, and rarely did he regret it. As a result, Ed Williams' forty to seventy-five per cent of other Catholics being unequally yoked didn't give Booth one iota of comfort.

Absently chewing on his lower lip, Booth once again considered the concerns that had been bouncing around inside his head like moths bouncing off a porch light just after dusk.

_If God said not to be unequally yoked,_ he thought to himself, _He must have had a good reason. Nothing good comes of deliberately disregarding God's commands, right? So, what are the potential spiritual implications of being unequally yoked?_ Booth puckered, then stretched his mouth to the right and bit the inside of his lip, then to the left and did the same thing, then back to the right. He scoured his brain for an answer he could live with.

_Maybe I'm being tested?_ He thought about Abraham in the Book of Genesis. God commanded Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, his own son, to prove his obedience to God. That story always made Booth very uncomfortable. _Does God do that anymore?_ He asked himself. _The 'God made me do it' defense doesn't hold up in court these days._ Booth had arrested several of those loonies himself. _But would God ask me to choose between Him and the most important person in my life? I just can't see how Bones and me being together could be a bad thing. Bones would never try to pull me away from God. She knows how important my faith is to me. She just doesn't understand it. There's no crime in that, is there?_

Then he had another thought. What about the dream of sitting in church with my family; me on one end of the pew and my spouse on the other with two or three little brown-haired, blue or brown-eyed Booths sandwiched between us like all the other good Catholic families? Will it be enough to have my kids with me, but not my spouse? I can't make her join me; I won't. If we don't work out, I'll still end up sitting in a pew alone for the rest of my life. Is this how my story is supposed to end?

Booth felt stuck between a rock and a hard-headed scientist. He sat quietly until the silence was broken by a sharp intake of breath which he was surprised to learn was his own. He noticed his hands and the tip of his nose felt cooler than usual, his knuckles and fingernail beds were pale. He clenched and unclenched his fists several times to get the blood flowing to the tips of his fingers. He listened hard to his gut. Nothing. Talk to me! What am I missing here, God?

"Relax, Seeley," Ed chuckled sympathetically. "You look like you've seen a ghost! It is not a sin to marry a non-Catholic. It's not," he repeated.

"What?" Booth blurted, shaken from what he thought were private thoughts.

"Relax," Ed answered carefully in a soothing tone, not taking his eyes off Booth. "These are some of the biggest questions we grapple with as Christians, my friend." Ed crossed his arms, then stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. He bounced his knees toward each other several times in a relaxed manner much different from Booth's anxious knee gymnastics.

"Well, I'm not one of those people who believes it's okay to bend the rules to suit the degrading mores of a self-indulgent society." Booth insisted this more fervently than he intended, then flinched at his own hypocrisy. He had bent the rules for his own benefit, but deep down in the place he doesn't talk about, he didn't see it that way. He had actively chosen to disobey some of the rules, not change them, deciding his infractions were ones he was willing to live with. There is a difference.

"Really?" Ed stared, unblinking, and smirked. "Even just a little bit?"

"Huh. Okay, Ed. You have a point. I have been lax with some of my choices," he admitted. "But we're talking about more serious stuff now. Permanent stuff!"

"For the sake of argument I'll agree with you here, Seeley," Ed interjected with a steady nod. "However—a sin is a sin is a sin."

"Right. God's rules are still God's rules," Booth said. "And—the Church can't just go changing the rules so people won't feel judged. That's not how it works. That's not how it should work." Booth stared, glossy-eyed, at Ed's face.

"I would not do that, Seeley," Ed said carefully. "I would not twist the truth to assuage the fears of a struggling soul. That is not in anyone's best interest." He watched Booth's expression transition from pinched and lost to exposed and self-conscious. The silence between them was at first heavy and strained, then it relaxed and thinned, loosening into comfortable contemplation for each of them. After several moments, Booth was ready to move on. He then focused on Ed's startlingly blue eyes which seemed to exude peace and acceptance. Ed's lips were bunched together as if he were holding something back.

In his many years counseling good people, Ed had come to understand that inner turmoil was an invaluable part of the healing process. The struggle of man against himself could bring anyone to his or her knees. Advice sought was ten times more likely to be abided by than advice offered unbidden. What wasn't yet clear to either Booth or Ed was whether the debate Booth was all tied up in was a noose or the knot at the end of a lifeline. So, Ed waited. And watched. And looked for his opening, his invitation.

Booth scanned his companion's presence for any hint of disingenuousness. It simply wasn't there. Booth just wanted someone to be straight with him—someone who understood the weight of what he expected of himself spiritually and respected his struggle. Booth's final assessment was that Ed was a good person. He didn't seem like a guy that would have taken the easy way out just because it was easier. Might as well listen to what Ed has to say, he told himself. The worst-case scenario, Booth figured, was that he'd still feel unsettled about being unequally yoked. The best-case scenario was that Ed might tell him something that could give him a deeper understanding of what God expected of him.

Booth sighed heavily, unclenched his teeth, and dropped his shoulders. He shook out his hands and reached across his chest to dig his fingers into his trapezius. He massaged the hard lump of muscle bunched up between his neck and his clavicle. I need a drink, he thought. Where is that flight attendant, anyway? He wondered, shooting a glance up and down the aisle. "I could use a drink," Booth mumbled.

"I know what you mean," Ed mumbled back, "a really short one followed by a really tall one!" The two chuckled and shrugged at each other. Focusing on one of Booth's eyes at a time, and finally confident the younger man wasn't going to pass out, Ed began. "Nowhere in the Bible does it say, 'if thou art Catholic thou shalt be yoked to another Catholic or suffer damnation for all of eternity!"

Booth chuckled nervously as he switched arms to massage the other trapezius. He cleared his throat and found his voice. "I just don't want to do the wrong thing," he admitted, in a tone that conveyed his own vulnerability.

"I know you don't," Ed replied, then closed his eyes for a moment.

"Or have a crappy life and then spend eternity in heaven alone because the only woman I can see myself with for the rest of my natural life doesn't believe in God," he said, making a horizontal slice in the air. "At all!"

"I can assure you, you won't have a crappy life." Ed gazed compassionately at Booth. "Look, when I was a kid everyone I knew was Catholic." Ed paused and grimaced. "Our lives rotated around religious instruction and daily mass. We had a hoard of kids receiving First Communions every fall, Confirmations in the spring, weddings, funerals …" Ed smiled reflectively and looked at Booth who had been nodding with rapt attention through Ed's entire list. "I think I spent more time on my knees or genuflecting than walking upright!"

"Me, too!" Booth said in burst of laughter. "Our family—we weren't that big ourselves, but we were part of a group in our neighborhood. Me and Jared, my brother, we went to CCD classes, sang in the choir, got confirmed, became altar boys, and served at mass with the same bunch of kids—" Booth smiled wanly and sighed. "I thought everyone grew up like that."

"So, the thing is, we grow up used to one thing—seeing only one thing—and we think the whole world is like that."

"Exactly," Booth said, nodding in wonder.

"Easy peasy, right?" Ed nodded along with Booth, his voice getting softer. "But then we find out—wow—there's a whole world of people out there who had a different experience than we did." Ed opened his eyes wide and held his arms up in the air as if to embrace all humanity at once. "And they come in different colors, speak different languages, practice other religions."

"Exactly."

"But," Ed said, poking an index finger into the air. "But, we still think our way is the best, the most righteous, God's favorite."

"We do," Booth agreed. "We do?"

"Why do we think that?"

"Because we are smart people—right?"

Booth nodded, waiting for the catch.

"—And if something wasn't the best, we would change it, make it better, right?"

"Absolutely," Booth nodded agreement.

"So we must be the best," said Ed shrugging and tossing a hand up in the air dismissively. "But don't beat yourself up about it. Everyone thinks the exact same thing—Methodists, Lutherans, Protestants, Buddhists, Agnostics—everyone thinks that they're the best. Christ came to show us that we are all just people. Young and old, big and small. Smart and not so smart. Men and women. Equal people. Boy, that was a revolutionary idea to the people of Biblical times, I'll tell you what!"

"Heh," Booth grunted and nodded, thinking how true this was.

"So, we go out into the world and we find out the others, they really are just like us. Lost souls, just like us. Lonely, just like us. Idealistic, good like us. Faithful in the best way they know how—just like us." Ed paused and let his last remark hang in the air between them until it evaporated. "They aren't evil; they're beautiful and kind and good," he whispered, then smiled.

"And lovable," added Booth with an air of deep appreciation.

"Right. But—there's still something inside you that clings to your origins. You remember what you were told as a kid. Give your whole life to God, but if you can't, do the next best thing: marry another Catholic and have lots of babies—because Catholics are the best of what's out there and that is what God would want, as we've already established."

Booth bit the inside of his lip and sat perfectly still, his eyes riveted to Ed's. Yes, he grew up believing exactly what Ed had described—but all of a sudden it sounded terribly, terribly wrong. Booth stopped breathing.

Ed said. "Any crossover could cause Romeo and Juliet-style consequences in your family, maybe your faith community. People could turn their backs on each other during a time when they needed each other the most," Ed chagrined. "Now tell me, is that a Christian way to live?"

Ed saw Booth's unease with this line of thinking, so he backed up a bit.

"Look, somewhere along the line you read Paul's second letter to the Corinthians: 'Do not be yoked with those who are different', and you interpret it, or someone else interprets it and you go along with it, that Catholics are not to marry people who don't believe in the Catholic faith. Then, that's reinforced because your parents—or grandparents, as the case may be—were raised on the Baltimore Catechism in the pre-Vatican II era when everything was still buttoned down and black and white; faith by rote memorization. Fire and brimstone and all that. I'm way over-simplifying this for brevity's sake, of course."

"Right. Okay." Really? thought Booth, but noticed he wasn't as bored as he might have been if this were a class or a discussion about something scientific.

"Then along comes Pope John XXIII … and everything changed."

"Right! Mass used to be said in Latin, right? And the altar was against the back wall; the priest said mass with his back to the people. It was like that when Pops was growing up," Booth recalled. "What were the other changes by John XXIII?"

To quote, 'God For Grownups' by Virginia Smith, my favorite author on the topic, the mind of the Church following Vatican II held, among other things, that translations of the Bible should be invitingly readable, and …

_'Understanding of biblical writings must take into consideration the times_ _and circumstances in which  
>they were composed, plus such relevant<em> _factors as their literary style the sources utilized, the culture,_  
><em>and the audience originally intended.'<em>

"We're allowed to read the Bible in the '60s and the '70s, but we don't have the skills, the training, or adequate materials to help us interpret and digest it. Which isn't our fault—we were suffering whiplash from radical reformation. It took decades for teaching materials to catch up with the new order of the Catholic faith. So, what did we do in the meantime?"

"What? What did we do?"

"A lot of people, people who were responsible for teaching the faith, leaned back on the only thing they knew—that rote memorization of the Catechism and taking the bible literally. So when Paul writes, 'don't be unequally yoked', they took it to mean 'to anyone other than people exactly like yourselves—and for Catholics that meant other than other Catholics."

"That's harsh."

"It is. It is a literal interpretation. But here's the rub; it's incomplete."

"Incomplete. Hm." Booth rolled that around on his tongue.

"Yes, it is incomplete. And out of context. It's also not the final word on who you should or should not love according to Christ."

"It's not?"

"No. Listen carefully to St. Paul's words to the Corinthians:

"Do not be yoked with those who are different, with unbelievers. For what partnership do righteousness and lawlessness have? Or what fellowship does light have with darkness? What harmony or agreement has Christ with a demon? What has a believer in common with an unbeliever? Come forth from unbelievers and be separate—touch nothing unclean and I will receive you." ~ 2 Corinthians 6:14-17

"First of all—it doesn't say, 'non believers in the Catholic faith' as you thought it meant. It simply says, 'non believers'. Second of all, it equates non believers with lawlessness and darkness and uncleanliness and demons."

"Hm. But just because someone doesn't believe in God doesn't mean they are all about darkness and evil—"

"Exactly, Grasshopper!"

"So, what does it mean then?"

"Well, Peter was writing to his followers in Corinth whom he'd heard were mixing with some really bad people who were involved in worshipping false gods, sodomizing children, prostituting their daughters and wives, being unethical in their business dealings. Paul was warning them not to fall in with those people or even be associated with them in any way."

"Because they were bad people, right?"

"Yep."

"Hm."

"Really, really bad people."

"So, what about atheists and agnostics? What about a Christian marrying one of them—or maybe not marrying them, exactly, but—" he corrected himself. He didn't know if that would ever happen between himself and Brennan, but he certainly intended to be yoked to her come hell or high water.

"What do you think, Seeley?"

Booth fidgeted for a moment without blinking. "I don't know what I think!"

"Yes, you do. What does your heart tell you?"

"My gut," he said. "I go by my gut. Like I said, on this issue, my gut has gone AWOL." Booth stared at Ed, then continued. "When something is wrong – like I'm thinking about making a bad decision – I can feel it right here." Booth pressed a semi circle into his gut with his fingertips. "I get this sick feeling. But on this issue – my gut is no help!"

"Because it's your head," chuffed Ed, sitting back in his seat.

"My head." Booth's eyebrows reached for each other across the bridge of his nose.

"Your head is fixating on the literal translation because that's all it knows, but your gut knows that's not the full story. And your gut knows your relationship with her isn't wrong. Your gut knows, perhaps, that this woman was made for you and that God has good things planned for you. You just gotta have faith." Ed nodded confidently, but knew that Booth wasn't sure yet. "So, Temperance—what's she like?"

"Oh, she's a good person – but she's an atheist."

"And –?"

"Well, doesn't that negate that she's the most loyal, loving, intelligent," Booth exclaimed incredulously, "courageous and generous person I've ever known and when I'm with her – or thinking about her, I just feel – at home, you know? At peace. Solid. Really good-about everything. And it's not a physical thing." Booth said. "Well," he added out of the side of his mouth, "I mean, there is that—

"I know," Ed responded in falsetto. He grinned at Booth.

"How can that be wrong?"

"That's what I'm saying."

"Ed, she's the only person that really gets me – and I think she really loves me, warts and all."

"Warts and all, huh?" Ed said with an amused glow in his eyes. Booth's pleasure in thinking about her was contagious.

"Well, you know, like, faults and all."

"I know what you mean, Seeley. She loves you in spite of yourself."

"Exactly. And, I mean, she's seen those warts, let me tell ya'." Booth rolled his eyes and grimaced, then chuckled at himself. "This probably sounds strange, but sometimes I think she's more committed to me than I am."

"Interesting," Ed said, squinting at his new friend as if peering through a microscope at the meaning of life in a petri dish.

"Yeah, like, she likes me more than I like myself," Booth said in an incredulous tone.

"And loves you more than you love yourself?"

"Yeah! No! What? Wait, that can't be good, can it?"

"Why not? We are our own worst critics. We know all our deepest darkest secrets and sometimes we disgust ourselves. Sometimes it's not that people love us in spite of ourselves – we assume they detest the flaws as much as we chagrin them – but isn't it our flaws, our humanity, that brings us closer, gives us the opportunity for growth and grace and even intimacy; love?"

Booth smiled to himself. How many times had he and Brennan discussed grace between themselves yesterday and the day before? More times than he could count. Yes, they do have a great deal of grace between them.

"Well, she's certainly more forgiving—of me, at least," Booth said as an afterthought.

"Hm. That's interesting," said Ed, tucking that little snippet of information away in case it becomes pertinent later in the conversation. "Does she lie, cheat, steal in ways you are uncomfortable with?"

Booth gave him a strange look.

"I mean, anything more serious than white lies or maybe occasionally taking liberties with office supplies."

"Huh, huh, no," he chortled. "She even pays her parking tickets. Heh, she once let the cops in New Orleans lock her up because a bunch of evidence at the time provided a good argument for her guilt."

"Was she guilty?"

"Nope. Well, actually, she didn't know if she was. She'd been drugged. It's a long story. She was innocent."

"Does she take the Lord's name in vain?"

"Not that I've ever heard – and I've known her seven years."

"Does she obsess over other people's spouses or belongings?

"No –." Booth furrowed his brow and thought how odd it was that she didn't seem to envy anything much at all.

"Does she keep holy the Sabbath?"

"Uh, no!"

"Okay, does she discourage you from going or make fun of you when you do?"

"Well—she doesn't discourage me," he said hesitantly. "She does make comments about Catholicism and the Pope that irritate me … but I don't think she does it out of malice, per say." Booth thought about this for a moment. "I–I think she just doesn't understand. I mean, I'd never tell her this … but sometimes her comments make sense, heh. I mean, people coming back from the dead? She thinks God's a psychopath because of the Old Testament—"

"Okay—well—but she doesn't do this to embarrass you or persuade you to leave the church or quit going to mass—?"

"I feel like we're judging her with this line of discussion," Booth said, shifting uneasily in his seat.

"Not judging—trying to figure out if you would be unequally yoked if you were together."

"We are together," Booth said, unintentionally defensively. "You have to understand—she grew up being able to trust only two things: herself and science. That's all. She doesn't trust what she doesn't understand—"

"Believe me, I know very well of which you speak!" Ed smirked, cocked an eyebrow, and nodded slowly. "Catarina? She's a—was—a Chemist! An empiricist! If something doesn't pass a double blind study—forget it."

"She wasn't Catholic?"

"Oh, she was Catholic, but she struggled with it. Struggled a lot. She said—how'd she put it? She said she just had a hard time believing 100% in 'an invisible deity who created humans only to turn around and destroy them out of anger at their disobedience, then later fathered a child in absentia, a child who spread flowers and unicorn farts and never hurt a fly but could bring people back to life and turn water into wine and who later, in the prime of his life when he could have done the most good by anyone else's standards, voluntarily got himself hung on a cross then reappeared and told his gang of cohorts to start a campaign against the hypocrisy of the day'."

Booth whistled incredulously and reared back.

"Hehhhhhh, yeah. Tell me about it!" Ed sighed loudly and drug a palm across his forehead. This had obviously been a big issue between him and Catarina. "She had a hard time making it make sense in her logical head. But she had faith, even if it seemed to be as small as a mustard seed sometimes. I'd like to think I had a lot to do with that."

"How in the hell did she still have faith with all that running around in her head?"

Ed shrugged. "I think she saw and experienced some very real things that just couldn't be explained any other way. Miracles," Ed shrugged sheepishly. "Life is full of miracles. I think she started to see that.

"And that worked."

"As her arguments got shorter and quieter, weaker, my convictions got stronger and I'd tell her more of my point of view, my belief in the miraculous."

"And it worked."

"It took decades, yeah. It worked, I guess. Though, she was curious why some people experience a fervor, an emotional—'attachment or need'—she called it—a need for, and a sense of, satisfaction from their faith. She never felt that—that passion that has always come so naturally to me."

"Hm," grunted Booth pensively.

"Consider the possibility that your ability to believe in something greater than yourself is part of what attracts her to you."

"What?" Booth displayed his best quizzical pinchy face.

"Well, if she found that unattractive, your faith, do you think she'd invest this much time in you?"

Booth puckered his lips and scratched his furrowed brow, deep in thought. This was a whole new way of thinking about their relationship.

"I guess I don't know," he finally said with a half shrug.

"That part of you that has the ability to believe, to hope, to trust—to love with your whole heart. That's an integral part of everything else about you," continued Ed, leaning over his armrest into the aisle. "And she's in love with all those parts, I'll bet."

"Hm. I never thought of it that way," Booth said after a moment of staring back and forth between Ed and the window past and behind Ed's head.

"I think Catarina felt a little cheated. Like, why did it come so easily to me and not to her? Was it an issue of willingness to submit to something other than herself? I don't know, maybe it's a personality thing. You know, why are some people more emotional than others? Who knows?"

"Hm. I think I get that," Booth pressed his tongue between his lips and dropped his eyes to the floor. "Brennan says there's a God Gene."

"There very well may be, but then that presupposes there is a God to put that God gene there, doesn't it?" Ed grinned mischievously.

"Ha!" Booth chuckled. "Heh, heh, heh. Well played!"

"He also gave us choice, right? So how does that fit into that scenario? Can an animal go against what they are hard-wired to do? The thing is, we can never know absolutely everything there is to know out there, not even in our own areas of expertise. So why would we even think we could know and understand everything there is to know and understand in respect to our very existence?"

The two sat in silence and contemplated the incomprehensible for a moment.

"But, we could talk for hours about this. Let's get back to the topic at hand—"

"Is my partner evil, right?" Booth brought them back.

"Right," Ed chortled. "Your partner. Heh, heh, heh. Does she respect her parents?"

"She doesn't not treat them with respect. It's complicated," Booth added dismissively.

"Okay, does she worship false gods?"

"She's an anthropologist."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"She's fascinated by people's rituals and cultures."

"But does she melt down her jewelry to make a golden calf? Does she worship Zeus or Baal? Sacrifice animals."

"She's a vegetarian. She doesn't even EAT animals."

"Is her life centered around money and notoriety?"

"No, though she has plenty of both—"

"Beauty?"

"She is very beautiful, but she doesn't obsess about it. Barely talks about it, as a matter of fact," Booth said distractedly, as he drummed his fingers where they rested.

"Okay. What is the center of her life?"

"Justice. No, truth. Finding the truth through empirical evidence. Giving people back their identities."

"And what about you?"

"The center of my life is God, Parker, Brennan, bringing bad people to justice."

"No, I meant you—are you the center of her life?"

Booth stared at the question before him and thought, 'We are the center'. He thought about how apropos that was for them even now. He smiled.

Ed interpreted that as a yes.

"Is there anything you see in her person that you find morally reprehensible?"

"Uh, no," Booth admitted squinting as he searched his brain. He didn't have to search long. There was nothing there to find.

"Does she incite you to do things you consider morally reprehensible?"

"Uh, no. If anything, she keeps me honest."

"Is she married to someone else?"

"No, heh. She refers to marriage as, 'the blending of familial obligations and the consolidation of money and property'," Booth said in a serious tone.

Ed chuckled for a moment. Then Booth joined him. Then they both stopped because they both knew, without either of them having to say it, that this was a big deal.

"She, uh, she doesn't believe in the piece of paper," Booth tossed off, then yawned and rubbed his face as if rinsing it with water from the sink.

"There is no paper in heaven, Seeley."

"I know," Booth said quietly as a pregnant silence ballooned between them. The sacrament of marriage, the spiritual binding together of two souls in the eyes of the Lord, as Booth believed it to be, has nothing to do with a piece of paper. It is the conferring of extraordinary grace from one unto the other; the helping of partner to get the other into heaven; the placing of the Lord in the center of the relationship, and of entrusting it to His care. This is what Christian marriage meant to Booth and why he was most deeply concerned about this yoke business. He wanted that kind of marriage. He wanted that miracle for himself and for Brennan.

"Are either of you dating anyone else?" Ed moved forward. The topic of marriage would have to be grappled with another day. But not today.

"Nope."

"Are you chaste in your relationship?"

"What?" This had to do with sex. Booth shifted in his seat. He seriously didn't think Ed would go there … but … there it was, right there on the table.

"What I mean to say is," continued Ed awkwardly, "do you, uh, respect each other—avoid taking advantage of each other—emotionally as well as physically?" Ed dropped his chin to his chest and peered at Booth over his trifocals. He didn't want to go there any more than Booth did.

"Of course!" Booth answered loudly, then lowered his voice, cleared his throat and said it again just above a whisper. "Of course."

"Well, Seeley, it doesn't sound to me like she's evil at all," Ed said. He removed his glasses, pulled out a thin white handkerchief and breathed condensation onto each lense then rubbed them between his fingers with the cloth. He held the glasses up to the light, then put them back on. After carefully folding the handkerchief and sliding it back into his pocket, he continued. "As a matter of fact, from what you have told me, and from what I can discern from your own character, I think this Temperance is a very good match for you."

"But—just being good is not enough to get a person into heaven, Ed. What about that?"

Ed took a deep breath and locked eyes with Booth for an intense moment. He then gazed up at the ceiling, crossed his arms and his ankles, sucked some air through his teeth making squeaking sounds, then cleared his throat.

Booth was on the edge of his seat. Surely Ed couldn't deny the major tenet of Christian doctrine—the belief in Christ and His death on the cross for the redemption of humanity.

"This is where things get complicated," Ed finally said, looking at the floor for several quiet moments. "This is the toughest issue of all of them, in my opinion," Ed said with a heavy sigh.

Booth grimaced and nodded dolefully. He wasn't sure what was going to happen next. His eyes dropped to the floor and his heart sank.

"Well, this I can tell you, son: Love is the most important thing to have. Love."

Booth nodded solemnly.

"And you must never give up hope. You must keep the faith. But most of all, you must always, always love the heck out of that woman. Do you hear me?"

Booth nodded again, his eyes getting glossy. He had to look away so Ed couldn't see the pink creeping up his neck or hear the pounding of his heart in his chest.

"It will not be easy. You will have to take full responsibility for the spiritual education of your children."

"I know. I'm more than willing to do that."

"And you need to study the beliefs of the faith and the Church so you know them backwards and forwards. Not to throw them in her face; you have to be patient. And ready. But when she asks you about your faith, your religion, you have to be ready with answers, not guesses. And you have to be confident."

"I will," Booth insisted, taking mental notes.

"Don't be upset with her if she pushes back or gets frustrated because those are signs that she's working on it in her head. Stand your ground—but gently. Firmly, but gently. Call in reinforcements—confer with your priest. It's gonna be a lot of hard work, my friend."

"Are you talking about converting her?" _Whoops,_ thought Booth, _I wasn't planning to convert her—was I? "_She'll never become Catholic, Ed." Booth smirked with a panicked glint in his eye.

"That's fine, but it doesn't mean you can't be committed to her being exposed to your faith so she can see the good in it. You can't know what will happen from there. And remember, it is not your job to convert her—it's God's. You are his helper. So, don't get discouraged." Ed said this all like he'd said it a thousand times before—which he had! THis was standard fair in his counseling of couples who didn't share the same faith.

When Ed began again, his voice was low and tender. Booth had to lean an ear toward Ed to catch all of his words. It wasn't until Booth finally looked up at the man's face that he realized his voice was as it was because it was filled with emotion.

"The power of love is that it silences untruths, it elevates the quality of life, it cures us and develops us in ways nothing else can. It frees us," Ed said, his eyes closed and unmoving under his lids. Then he recited a quote Booth had heard many times, though never before did it affect him the way it did this time.

_"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love,  
>I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift<br>of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if  
>I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.<br>If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames,  
>but have not love, I gain nothing."<em>

~1 Corinthians 13:1- 3

Here Ed stopped and opened his eyes. He stared off into his future where he imagined Catarina waiting for him. He dropped his eyes and met Booth's gaze across the aisle.

_"Where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge—" (__1 Cor 13:8)_

Here Ed stopped and time stood still. Booth was spellbound, listening to his own heart beating in his own chest. Was it his own heart alone, or was it Brennan's he could imagine so clearly joining his own? Or was it Ed's? He swallowed audibly, but said nothing as he waited.

_"—Where there is knowledge, it will pass away—"_

Ed gently waved a hand in the air as if conducting the very last note of a symphony in front of a grand audience. he smiled gently at his companion.

_"—For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears—"_ (1 Cor 13:9-10)

"The imperfect disappears, Seeley. Knowledge is imperfect and it will pass away. It will become nothing in the overwhelming light of the love of the Father."

Booth nodded and he understood. Have faith. Have hope. Give her love. The rest is up to God. And it is never over until it's over. In the end, love always prevails.

_"These three remain: faith, hope and love—" _said Ed, his voice was strained with emotion.

Then Booth spoke in a barely audible voice through clenched teeth as he tried to keep his emotions from spilling all over his face.

_"—And the greatest of these is love." (1 Cor 13:13)_

Ed nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. "Exactly," he whispered.

They both heaved heavy sighs and examined their fingernails or the seams of their pants or the threads in the headrest of the seat in front of each of them. Both lost in thought.

Ed brought his hands together and intertwined his fingers as if in prayer. He used his joined fingers to point across the aisle toward Booth, whose attention had been caught by Ed's sudden movements.

"Two things I want you to remember, Seeley Booth, if you remember nothing else," he said with the gravity of one making a final wish on a deathbed.

Booth swallowed and grimaced, ready to hear whatever this sage had to impart to him.

"Christ said, 'Love one another as I have loved you'. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Booth nodded once.

"Now, your anthropologist—"

"Temperance."

"Temperance. Right. Do not be concerned that she does not know God's name, for Christ promises us: _'Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, that you do unto Me. Now enter into the home of my Father*',_ right?"

Booth's eyes had filled up with tears once again. He dare not even nod for fear of losing it.

"Now, this is my interpretation, okay? I'm not speaking for the Catholic Church here. I'm Speaking for Edwin Owen Williams and no one else." Ed looked hard at Booth who didn't dare move. "But, I believe that when knowledge is melted away by God and all that is left is love—"

"Yeah," Booth choked out when Ed paused.

"He will tell her His name."

Booth heard the words and felt his face catch on fire. He turned his head toward the opposite side of the cabin, closed his eyes and held his breath so no sounds escaped his throat. Then, he allowed two juicy tears to jump the curb of his lower lids.

* * *

><p>In the back of the Town Car being driven by Sebastian the chauffeur from Hotel 1000, sat Brennan and Booth on the way from the airport to the Medical Examiner's office.<p>

Booth had been staring out the passenger side window, lost in the memory of that conversation with Ed Williams. Ed had indeed surprised him. Booth had surprised himself. He began to feel the familiar tart sensation at bridge of his nose between his eyes. He clenched his jaw and sniffed, praying it would pass quickly. They would be pulling up to the ME's office any minute.

"Booth, what's wrong?" Brennan reached out for her partner who sat staring out the Hotel 1000 Town Car window. "Did you just sniff? Are you getting ill? Let me feel your forehead!"

"No, I'm fine, Bones," Booth responded without turning around to look at her. "Just tired and my eyes are bugging me. They'll probably be all bloodshot in about an hour."

"When did this start happening? I've never known your sclera to vasodilate in response to fatigue. Are you sure you aren't allergic to something here in the car? Maybe it's this leather—" She pulled on his arm, until he turned around. "Booth?"

"I have something to tell you," he said, sniffing loudly then vigorously rubbing his nose before retrieving his handkerchief from his breast pocket. It had been close call, but he'd caught himself before he gotten emotional again.

"Okay," she said in an inviting and agreeable tone.

"First of all, I love you," he said covering her hand which had remained wrapped around his bicep even after he'd turned to face her.

"I know," she said expectantly, her brow furrowing in concern.

"Second of all," he said, then cleared his throat. "Second of all—second of all—" He couldn't believe it; he was choking, flinching, going for a bunt instead of a home run.

"Second of all—?" She nodded encouragingly.

"Uh, I looked inside that gift bad Angela gave you," he said, sighing loudly. Total strikeout.

"I know," she said, expecting more.

Booth gasped, his mouth hanging agape. "How did you know?!"

"I'm a genius, what did you expect?" She rolled her eyes and chuckled.

It wasn't until many hours later—after a visit to the ME's office—after a steamy interlude in her hotel room when they got there—after he'd fallen asleep on her couch and been jarred awake by the crunch of his temple on the hard, cold, beveled glass of the coffee table—after he ran from her room in a panic—after her frantic call to his room and his insistence that he was okay when they both knew he wasn't—and after his emotional call to her room an hour later—that he was able to tell her what he and Ed discussed during the second half of their conversation—the part about what had been tormenting him—the part he needed her to know before Tuesday.

**I think we've had enough God talk for a while...****so make sure you come back even if this was chapter was heavy and/or made you crazy!**

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><p>* The full content of the verses Ed alluded to are from The Book of Matthew: 25:34-40.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Shoutout to my peeps! Thank you for sticking by me!<strong>

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	214. You Can Run

_Gentle Reader ~ __Here we are, my fellow Bones lovers! Once again we face a impending hiatus of what feels like epic proportions! This season has been fantastic (understatement) ... some of the best episodes in the whole franchise. I will be counting down the days until September! So - let's make the best of it, shall we? Re-watch each Bones season from start to finish, reread all your favorite Fan fic ... write some of your own ... perhaps even sign up for twitter so you can commune with other Boneheads ... do whatever you have to do to keep the Bones Love simmering until September 2013! I plan to re-watch Season 8 which I see new things in every time I queue up a rerun of an episode!  
><em>

_As for me, well, I shall continue to write, as that is the desire of the nerve endings in my fingerprints as they communicate with my brain. Be good to yourself, and to one another ~ and say or do nothing that you would not have said or done to your best friend._

_These characters are not now, nor have they ever been, my property ~ they belong to all of us ~ but mostly to the people at Fox Broadcasting, primarily Hart Hansen and Mr. Nathan._

㈳5_ My love to you all! _㈴2_  
><em>_~MoxieGirl __Join me on Twitter at MoxieGirl44  
><em>

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><p><strong>Note:<strong> There was an excerpt accidentally omitted from the last chapter. I sent a post out about it ... but if you missed it, it has since been reintroduced into the last chapter. If you do not recall Booth telling Brennan how much he enjoys the lovely little noises she makes when he's being affectionate with her ... or if you were confused by the 'Pile of gargoyle erections' reference' go back and read the first half of the last chapter! Sorry, I know how rough it is to be you ... : D

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 214 You Can Run<strong>

"_You can run. You can hide. You cannot escape."  
><em>_~FSB, 2013_

Lying across the king size bed of the Grand Suite at Hotel 1000 in Seattle, Booth hung up the phone. Moments earlier he'd fled Brennan's third floor hotel room after being abruptly and painfully awakened from a nightmare by the forceful introduction of his cranium to the coffee table in her ante room, the small private entryway room outside her bed and bathroom combination. He'd assured Brennan he would be fine. It was lie, of course, and they both knew it.

"Everything really is fine—" Booth had insisted into the phone.

"Booth, you're about as fine as I was in Dr. Sweets' office when I saw what was inside that nasty, sooty, black box! I'm coming up!" She'd jumped off her bed and headed toward the door, only to be abruptly yanked backward by the hotel phone cord attaching it to the bedside table.

"Right, okay, I remember you in Sweets' office," Booth said. "I remember you getting up and leaving me with the baby duck. Remember?"

"I hadn't intended to run away—Booth," she had answered defensively. "I just needed—"

"Yeah, and see? Before you knew it, you were calling me from your car on the way to your place!"

"At least I called! I knew you'd worry—"

"And I did worry. I was frantic! Then you threatened to lock me out of your apartment if I came over, remember that part?"

"Oh. I'd forgotten about that," Brennan had mumbled. "I cannot deny that is accurate," she'd reluctantly admitted, sighing sulkily at the realization that she was losing ground in this argument. "But—"

"Look, I know it's not easy—Bones. I know that," he'd assured her gently. "I just need a little time to process, okay?"

"Booth—you don't have to talk if you don't want to. I won't ask any questions. I can be silent when necessary—"

"Bones, I need space, too, and just—just a little time—"

She hadn't wanted to beg, but her pride had flown out the window the moment she'd seen his pained expression pressed up against the glass wall of her bathroom only moments earlier. She still didn't know how he'd gotten back into her room. She was certain he'd left—that's why she had given up and gotten into the bubble bath. She had know one thing, however: that she would do anything so that he wouldn't have to face his demons alone.

"I am experiencing a very uncomfortable sensation in my chest and I am struggling to maintain an even pulse rate, Booth—" she'd gasped, just barely holding back a bead of panic. She cleared her throat. "I'll sit in the next room—do you have a little room outside your bedroom like I have here in my room? I'll even sleep on the couch—!" She felt the same way she'd felt that day she'd watched him through the glass of his hospital room as he was being prepared for brain surgery: frightened, powerless, silent and desperate that everything would turn out okay. She'd held her breath and waited for his response.

Booth had taken the phone from his ear, closed his eyes and tapped the earpiece against his forehead as he struggled with what to do. He couldn't have had her up to his room—it would have ruined the surprise for tomorrow. He had been too tired to go down there, though it ripped at the frayed edges of his heart to hear her distress and know exactly what she was going through. However, he'd had nights like this before. He could feel the nightmare coming on like an inevitable bout of nausea. He hadn't wanted her to see that—to have to see him go through that.

"Bones—"

Brennan had interrupted. "I apologize for not giving you the same consideration you gave me when I needed time to process." Then neither had said anything for a moment. Finally, Brennan swallowed hard and gave in. "Call me in the morning—or—if you need me for _any_ reason—." She'd taken a deep breath and exhaled silently, then she'd closed her eyes, held her breath, and pressed her lips between her teeth as she'd awaited his response again.

Booth had been flooded with such a mixture of emotions that he had grabbed one of bed pillows and squeezed it to his chest as if it had been her. He had felt grateful. He had been anxious to work through his own pile of emotional garbage so he could come to her tomorrow ready to talk. He had been sympathetic to her frustration over not being able to be there for him.

"If I need you, I swear I'll call," Booth had sighed in a supplicant voice.

"Or, if you want me—"

"You know I want you, Bones," he'd chided with a sorrowful smile as he felt a warmth flood his heart.

"I know, but you know what I mean. If there's anything—"

"You've already done it—" he'd answered, his voice warm and heavy with affection and appreciation, "—just by calling. Okay?" He had imagined caressing her cheek with his thumb and hoped she could hear it in his voice. "You have no idea how much it means to hear your—your wonderful voice and know that you're there—" he'd said, his voice rough and just above a whisper, "thinking about me; loving me—"

"I'm always thinking about you, Booth. Always. And you know that—that I love you—of course," she'd said. Then she'd been struck with an overwhelming sense of sadness. "It's just that I don't like you being up there all by yourself—" Her voice had taken on a gentle quality; any lingering bravado had been discarded leaving only the vulnerable truth. "I don't know why I'm being so emotional—it can't be my menstrual cycle because I'm in the, I just had my—."

"I know you love me," he'd said quietly, noting the catch in her throat. "And it's not your menstrual cycle," His sheepish appreciative smile had crawled through the phone line and nuzzled her on the cheek. "It's because you care about me." A warm tickle had crawled up his chest and he'd actually blushed a little. "I'll call you in the morning." He stood, awkwardly unbuckled his belt with one hand, and stepped out of his pants, tossing them over a chair next to the dresser. Unbuttoning the top three buttons of his shirt he was able to pull it over his head, extract the phone cord from the tunnel of fabric, and drop the shirt onto the chair with his pants.

"First thing," she'd insisted, gently brushing the back of her hand against her cheek as if she'd actually felt his fingertips there. She hadn't wanted to disconnect the call, but there had been nothing more she could do for him. She'd felt the warning signs that she was about to cry—the tickle between her eyes, the lump in her throat, the tightening of her jaw.

"First thing," he'd said with finality. He sat down on the bed and tucked the phone receiver between his shoulder and his ear, freeing his hands, and began tracing letters on his palm. "Hey, hold out your hand. Palm side up."

"Why Booth?" She half whined, her exhaustion taking it's toll on her patience.

"I'm drawing letters, alright? Just like earlier in the car, okay? _'Bee-dash'-_then_ 'Oh'_ and _'EX'. From Booth—"_

"I know. _From Booth with a hug and a kiss._ And this one is for you—" She'd tucked the phone between shoulder and ear and traced the letters on her palm. "_Bee-dash-Oh-Oh-Oh'_ and _'Ex-Ex-Ex._'" She'd felt a tingle like a plump red teardrop in the vicinity of her chest.

_"'Oh-Oh-Oh-Ex-Ex-Ex back atcha'_, Bones. Now, get some sleep, okay?" He fell back on the mattress and ran a hand vigorously over his face. He was so stinkin' tired.

"Okay. See you in the morning." She'd smiled wanly. She'd understood the need for solitary introspection. It's far too easy to get distracted when the thing you are supposed to be focusing on is something you'd rather run from. She'd felt the tickle between her eyes again though she hadn't shed a tear. She'd shuddered to shake it off.

"Deal," he'd said. That was when he'd finally hung up the phone, dropped an arm over his face, sighed, and then fallen into a deep but fitful sleep.

Five floors below, Brennan sat on the bed staring at the phone in her hand. She'd wondered if her earlier conversation with him in the car had pushed something to the front of his mind that should have been left in the dark. In her mind's eye she could see the reflection of the street lights sliding across the windows of the Town Car as it slid through the traffic carrying them to the Washington County Medical Examiner's office. After some playful banter and message-checking by Brennan, Booth had spent ten minutes staring out his window and brooding. He wasn't even fidgeting. Then he'd confessed about having purloined and rifled through the gift bag Angela had given Brennan as they were leaving for the airport earlier that afternoon.

Booth stared at Brennan astonished. She'd admitted that she was already aware of what he'd just confessed.

"No, really, Bones. How did you know I looked in the bag thingy Angela gave you?"

"How do I usually figure these things out Booth? Deductive reasoning! I couldn't get comfortable in that anti-ergonomically designed airplane seat so I thought I'd take a look in the bag, but it was gone and so were you." Brennan shrugged. "Basic deductive reasoning."

Booth clenched his jaw, bared his teeth guiltily and wrinkled his nose. "Busted," he murmured, dragging a hand across his eyelids and forehead.

"I don't care about that, Booth. Like you said, you'd find out eventually," she said, shrugging nonchalantly. "But I find I'm curious about your lack of interaction just now. You usually talk while we travel. There's an ominous aura about you—" She had been acutely aware of the drop in barometric pressure surrounding the man she loved.

Booth slid his long fingers between hers, which were still wrapped around his bicep. He pulled their hands down onto his lap and sandwiched her hand between his two, rubbing vigorously as if chasing away a chill. He then pressed the pads of his fingers into the tips of her fingernails as if testing for sharpness.

Brennan sat patiently, enjoying the sensation of her mate's fingertips as they wandered gently over her nails and fingerprint ridges. Hers were fingers unused to being held, caressed, and explored in the way Booth was doing it now—except by him, and then only recently.

"Hm," she closed her eyes and sighed so quietly Booth hadn't even heard it. She acknowledged to herself that she found this kind of affection more pleasurable than she had anticipated. Whenever she'd seen couples holding hands she'd always thought she herself would find it oppressive, maybe even repugnant. _How frustrating it would be to have someone wanting to touch you all the time, _she'd thought,_ making demands on you all the time, having expectations all the time!_ In past relationships those assumptions had proven accurate for the most part. Most men didn't understand her commitment to her profession—her drive to illuminate the past in search of the truth—regardless the hour or the demands on her time and energy. Most men she'd encountered lacked the self-confidence that allowed them to appreciate a woman who was consumed with something other than_ her_ ovaries, _his_ suitability as a mate, or _their_ compatibility between the sheets.

Make no mistake, she enjoyed male company. Men were fascinating animals. Fascinating and exciting, but simple when it came to the mating process. She very much enjoyed sex. However, she found that people with penises were usually desirous of more than she was willing to give at any one time in her life thus far. Sexual entanglements served their purpose, but rarely inspired in her a desire for much more.

However, Booth she enjoyed. He didn't demand much—or maybe he did, but there wasn't much she wouldn't gladly do for him anyway, so he occurred for her as fairly low maintenance. Besides, she wanted him to be happy. She wanted to please him. And she enjoyed touching him and being touched by him. His touch didn't feel like a demand, an infringement on her freedom. It felt like companionship. It felt like validation, and satisfaction and love. It felt like an addition rather than a subtraction as it had been with others. As a result, and rather than feeling an irresistible urge to pull away, she wanted to crawl into his breast pocket and stay there forever.

Of course, to verbalize all of this even to herself, this awakening within herself over the last several years and much more intensely this past week, is not something Dr. Temperance Brennan, World-Renowned Forensic Anthropologist and New York Times Best Selling Author, was accustomed to doing. She'd surprised herself earlier that afternoon by experiencing an absurd impulse to spout romantic poetry. This was entirely new, though surprisingly not as anxiety-ridden as one might expect of a scientific empiricist such as herself. No. While she submitted to this experience wholeheartedly, she liked to think her observations of herself and of him were as objective and clinical as they could possibly be in view of the fact that she was being constantly bombarded with hormones and the urge, quite frankly, to rip his clothes off.

They waltzed lately, Booth and Brennan, down a tenuous path of interdependence that brought with it a keen sense of the other's emotional state. When he was happy, she was happy that he was happy. When she was excited, he was excited with her and for her. Tonight, he was troubled. As a result, she was troubled that he was troubled.

That he was fidgeting finally, playing with her hand and fingers, as delightful and soothing as it was, was a welcome sign that his frontal lobe was engaged.

Booth disentangled their fingers and cradled her right hand in his left and began to examine her palm. With his right index finger he tickled the skin of her palm as if following the swirls of her handprint.

"Do you know what that is?" He asked as he continued to titillate the nerves of her palm. After he stopped, he repeated the gesture, hesitated, then smiled sheepishly up into her eyes.

"The palmar surface, or anterior aspect, of my right metacarpals, of course," she replied. "Below are my flexor retinaculum, deep palmar arch and the superficial arch …"

"No, Smarty Pants. Well—yes. But pay close attention," he insisted. He rubbed her palm as if erasing his previous touch, then repeated what he'd done earlier.

"Whatever it is, you're giving me a pile of gargoyle erections, Booth," she chuckled delightedly. "I'm actually finding this quite arousing ... which actually makes sense because, did you know that the hands contain more nerves than any other portion of the human system, and that the palm contains more than any other portion of the hand?"

"Focus, Bones!" He admonished, grinning, and started all over again. "But don't look—just concentrate on the sensations."

"If you are looking for my pleasure center ... it's a little further down," she snickered cheekily. That earned her the stink eye from her partner. "Though, I have to admit, what you're doing right now—I'm finding it actually quite—uh—"

Booth interrupted her by bending her fingers backward just before it got painful.

"I'm being serious here," he complained, his brow knitting together.

"Okay," she meekly responded. He made shapes across the palm of her hand once more. Brennan's eyebrows made a fleshy awning over her eyelids as she grimaced quizzically and shook her head. She peered up into his warm brown eyes, darker yet in the evening shadows of the Town Car back seat.

"Are you tracing the median, ulnar, and radial nerves—?"

"Heh, nooooo—" He grinned.

"Do you want me to point out the metacarpals one by one—why the fascination with my palm, Booth? Have you become fascinated with chirology? You may be surprised to learn that palmistry has a much richer and more scientific history than pseudosciences such as psychology." She stared, amusement in his eyes. "Its history goes as far back as religion or God. Yes, if one believes in God and the way His existence has been documented, one must also consider the proofs set forth by the likes of Sir Richard Owen, Professor Tyndall, and the studies and writings of Bharadwaja, Anaxagoras, Maharshi Valmiki, Cherio and others up to 3,000 years prior to Christ's birth." She chuckled lightly.

Booth gave her a playful stinkeye. "This is nothing like that. Didn't you and Russ ever do this? Me and Jared used to take turns writing on each other's backs. The other person had to guess what you'd written."

"Oh," she said, her voice rising and falling in delighted surprise. "Okay. Do it again."

Booth rubbed his palm over hers once again then slowly drew out a simple four character message: 'B – OX'

"Booth," she said in a quiet voice filled with awe. "That's 'B-OX'." She smiled brightly. "It means, 'From Booth, with a hug and a kiss!" She leaned her forehead on his. "You are such a vat of gelatinous romanticism. How am I going to work with you from now on? How will we get anything done?" She asked in a wistful tone. It could have been a complaint, but the tone of her voice suggested anything but.

"I think you'll manage," he said, leaning back to kiss the back of her jaw just below her ear. "You're smart. You'll figure it out," he sighed into her ear before taking his kisses up to her smiling lips. "I have faith in you," he whispered against her lips before sneaking his fingers into her hair and pulling her closer. She melted under his touch, grabbed fistfulls of his shirt and pulled him closer, kissing him back hungrily, delighting in the sensation of his lips and tongue and stubble scraping across her mouth and chin, her teeth. Her head was swimming. She was imagining bringing him down on top of herself as she lay back on the seat. The only thing stopping her was the sound of the brakes as the Town car came to a halt along the curb of the Harborview Medical Center where the King County Medical Examiner's office was housed.

"I can't wait to get back to our hotel room," she whispered salaciously between nibbles.

"Let's skip the ME's office and go there right now—" he breathed into her ear, sending sparkly tingles straight to below the her bikini line.

"Booth, we can't," whimpered Brennan regretfully, leaning back to look in his eyes and touch her nose to his.

"I know. But a man can dream—," he chuckled and kissed her delicious lips once again.

"As can a woman, actually. And I have an idea," she said, tapping on his shoulder, her eyes jumping wide open in excitement. "How about, once we are finished here, we go back to our room, take showers, and then—"

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute—" Booth interrupted her before settling back in his seat. He still hadn't told her about their separate rooms and now he was feeling a little nervous about that. He wasn't sure how she would feel about it. He wasn't so sure about how HE felt about it either, come to think of it. Being with her kept the Filthy Stinking Bastard at bay.

As Booth leaned away and the car came to a full stop, Brennan's dreamy thoughts slithered back into her brain like billowing smoke being gathered back into a chimney.

"What?" Her raised eyebrows quizzed him about what he was going to say.

"Uh," he grunted, peeking out the back window. "I think we're here—" _Saved by Sebastian_, he thought. He was about to spill the beans about their separate hotel rooms.

Any hope she'd had for receiving an explanation for his earlier brood would not be forthcoming. However, it was just as well. They had a case to dig into which would require his focus.

As if he could read her thoughts, Booth began speaking quickly as Sebastian put the car in park and prepared to open their doors for them.

"It was pajamas, I think. Black," said Booth, chuffing as he wagged a finger at Sebastian, signaling that they weren't ready to disembark just yet. "In the gift bag. And I am sorry." He shrugged, sighed in exasperation, and shook his head slowly, biting his lower lip. _I'm an idiot,_ his gesture meant.

Sebastian stood sentry, his hands clasped in front of him as he faced away from the Town Car.

"It was an invasion of your privacy." Booth waited for forgiveness, staring into her eyes without blinking, marveling at how dark they appeared in the sparse light provided by the din of the early evening lampposts. _You are so beautiful—in every light,_ he thought, sighing again but gently this time. Though he hadn't said that out loud, Brennan saw it in his eyes and it made her heart do a flip-flop. She couldn't help smiling back at him once again as warm patches of pink blossoming on her cheeks.

She shook her head. "You are beating yourself up unnecessarily. Lets move on," she cajoled him gently in a barely audible voice. "Just be aware that—" She stopped, she was going to say something about his previous somber mood, but reminded herself that he would tell her when he was ready. After a lingering moment, she broke eye contact. She wanted to reassure him. She knew those dark thoughts of his would return. "Listen," she said instead, "I worry about you, Booth. You're my partner."

"Yeah" he said shrugging. He put an arm around her and squeezed her sideways for a moment.

Brennan's eyes dropped to her hands resting in her lap.

"I've been wanting to tell you that though I may not have said much about it today, I remain somewhat anxious about that fiberglass-wrapped heart. Dr. Sweets says that defense mechanisms that have taken decades to form do not fall away in one day."

"He's right," Booth said, fully listening to his partner, leaving behind any of his own concerns for the moment.

"It troubles me that I do not get to decide what influences me and what does not. Dr. Sweets says this is the human condition—to be in flux, constantly being pushed and pulled, trying to find our way while being simultaneously guided and misguided while we struggle to discern one thing from the other. I understand the forces of nature—for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. It is the same with things of an intangible nature—feelings, thoughts, dreams. If we are to be inspired by ethereal ideals such as love and happiness, we must acknowledge that there are also negative and disheartening influences that weigh on us."

"That makes sense," said Booth, the sound of her voice, confident and open, relaxed him. She was as soothing as a salve against the sting of his previous pained thoughts, which never seemed more than a heartbeat away. _She is the antidote to what ails me,_ he mused to himself.

"I fear that those uncontrollable influences might make it challenging to move forward—"

Booth stared at her, speechless.

"With the case, Booth," she hastened to add when she saw his reaction. "With the case—not with our relationship! I am fatigued from travel and—other things—." At this she couldn't help grinning. He was the reason she hadn't had much sleep in the last couple of days. "I'm not complaining," she hastened to add. "I'm just aware that fatigue and unwelcome concerns might impose themselves upon my attempt to focus on the details of this case." She looked expectantly at her mate. "This case which deserves our full attention, Booth."

"Oh," replied Booth, nodding slowly as he read between the lines. "Yeah, I see what you mean." He could see that she was talking about his focus as well as her own. Message received, he nodded back and smiled with a twinkle in his eyes.

"And I know that that which affects me affects you as well." She searched his eyes and saw that this made sense to him. "Now, there is a time and a place for the investigation of the concerns attached to that fiberglass-wrapped heart—This is not that time, so I am focusing on compartmentalizing."

"That's what I've been trying to do, too!" Booth blurted in exasperation. "But have you ever noticed that sometimes, when you have a quiet moment, things have a way of creeping up on you and all of a sudden—bam!—you're in the middle of this—shit storm—and there seems to be no way around it! And you know what?"

"What, you have explosive diarrhea, is that what you're saying?" She looked puzzled and talked right over his words.

""No! What's that go to do with—? Oh!" He replied and spoke rapidly. "The shitstorm. It's a—a—term that means— like, being bombarded with a lot of crap—emotional, you know, psychological stuff."

"Oh!" She replied. "Oh. That is quite colorful. It does make sense though. Hm—a shit storm." She pursed her lips and nodded.

"Well, that fiberglass-wrapped heart thing is messing with you, and I wanna hear about it—but there's a shit storm going on in my own head," he whispered in an agitated tone. Brennan felt his frustration and knew it wasn't directed at her. She nodded sympathetically and squeezed his fingers in several pulses. "I have to tell you about it, Bones, but I can't do it in just a couple of minutes—it's—complicated."

"Okay, then let's both do this," she said conspiratorially as she scooted back just a bit so she could talk to him straight on, face to face. "This is how I prepare myself to focus on one thing when I have many thoughts competing for my attention—"

"You have such interesting ways of saying things," he smiled.

"I know. Shh!"

"'_Competing for your attention', " _he said in a haughty manner._ "_I like that. I'm gonna steal that—"

"Booth, focus!" She grabbed him by the chin and made him stare straight into her eyes. "Okay. First, you must choose something equally interesting or inspiring to replace the—_shit storm_," she commanded.

"Our relationship is the only other thing on my mind right now, Bones—but I think that's part of what's bringing this storm on—you know, finally having the soft place to fall and all—" he said in a burst of revelation. "I think that's why I'm thinking about this stuff so much—not that I blame you—" he assured her.

"I know—and this is good, but we will talk about those things. Right now we must both divest ourselves of any thoughts or emotions attached to anything other than this case."

"Agreed."

"Put that pile of excrement—"

"Shit storm—"

"Shit storm, whatever, put it into a box, catalog it, and relegate it to the back of your mind. Okay?"

"Alright."

"Now think of something good—something that has the power to captivate your mind, removing the barbs of any nasty distractions." As she spoke she closed her eyes and took a very deep breath. "Now, breathe in, then out. In, then out. Do you have something wonderful and positive in mind?"

"I'm thinking about you," he said, eyes closed, mouth grinning as he took several deep breaths and exhaled them slowly. "You and those black pajamas!"

"What pajamas?"

"The black pajamas Angela gave you."

"It's not pajamas, Booth," she snorted, opening her eyes.

"How do you know? Did you look?" He opened his eyes, challenging her.

"No, but pajamas would take up more space than what appears to be in that bag."

"That depends on the pajamas. Maybe they're not jammie-jamas, but more like hot-babe-in-a-thong jamas. This is Angela we're talking about—"

"Hm. That is a possibility," she said, opening her eyes. "I hadn't thought of that. I don't usually wear hot-babe-in-a-thong pajamas."

"That's a pity," mumbled Booth. "Well, why not take a look?"

Brennan stared at him with a half smirk as she retrieved the gift bag from her belongings. She held his gaze until she had the bag opened, then dropped her eyes into it. Rooting through the crunchy paper without success she pulled each piece of crumpled paper out of the bag, one by one, and handed them to him.

"Hm," she grunted jostling the bag around as if shaking pop corn to distribute the butter and salt evenly. "Well—"

"It's pajamas, isn't it? I knew it."

"Uh –" They were certainly black. And very small. It was the final pair of inscribed panties, the last of the gift set Angela had gotten her. The first pair had said, '_If this whole anthropologist thing doesn't work out, I can always fall back on my modeling career'. _Another had _'Give an anthropologist a bone and she'll know exactly what to do with it'. _Another promised, _'If you can read this you're on the top of my ToDo list today.'_

"I'm right, aren't I?" He sounded like a kid guessing over a Christmas present.

This pair was black with red embroidery on the backside. She couldn't quite make out what was written on this pair due to the confined space inside the little bag. She could see, however, that it was in blood red block letters the likes of which you might find on the side of a shipping crate warning: 'Fragile: Handle With Care,' or, 'This Side Up'. She hoped it wasn't something too solicitous: 'Enter At Your Own Risk', or worse yet, 'Slippery When Wet'. It wasn't, of course. It was something much worse, but she wouldn't know that until she got to the hotel and took it out of the bag.

"Technically, you are incorrect," she drawled slowly.

"Ha! So—that means 'non' technically it's a yes! See, I've figured out what your fancy little terms mean. "_'Not technically' _means that, actually something_ is _what you're saying it isn't, except that—wait, what does this mean about Angela?"

"What do you mean 'what does it mean about Angela'?"

"Do you think she knows—about us, about Operation Pringles?"

"I don't think so. It is more likely that she has lost hope in a conjugal union between us. That's what I think. At least, if what she said to me when she gave it to me is to be believed. She was fairly disgusted with me. And she called you an AssHat, if you recall."

"Right," said Booth, unconvinced. He flicked a glance at her through suspicious eyes and was surprised to find that she was actually serious. He shrugged. She smirked and shrugged back, rolling up the white bag and stuffing it back in her bag.

"Well, this definitely gives me something to take my mind off what I was thinking about before," Booth said gleefully as he crunched the crepe paper still in his hands into little balls and tossed them on the floor.

"Booth. That will take only about twenty seconds, then you'll be back to where you started."

"Oh, I could stretch it out to a full hour, believe me." He got out of the car. "But wait, aren't we supposed to be focusing on the case? Now I'm just going to be thinking about your underwear."

"Typical," Brennan mumbled as she took his hand and scooted toward the open car door he'd just gotten out of.

"It is panties right?" He said hopefully under his breath, poking his head back into the car.

"Yes, you are correct," she admitted, blushing and smirking.

"Whoa," he said in a low voice. "Fantastic." He grinned stupidly, standing stock still while visions of anthropologists in black panties danced in his head. Brennan had to push him out of the way so she could get out of the car.

That was earlier this evening, before the interesting revelations they found waiting for them inside the medical examiner's office. Brennan couldn't think about that now—this time she would compartmentalize the case and focus on her partner who, she was convinced, was about to face the only secret he'd kept from her all these years, the secret he'd been brooding over all evening long.

Five floors up from Brennan, on the 8th floor of Hotel 1000 in Seattle, Booth became aware he was back in his worst recurring nightmare the moment he fell into it from a great height, though he wasn't sure how long it had been in progress. Sometimes it was like that—like walking into a theater halfway through a movie. This was a nightmare he'd had repeatedly over the last decade or so, but there was something different this time. This time he wasn't alone on the bed he was shackled to in the middle of a dark, damp, parking structure. This time there was a woman sitting on his hips. A woman who knew him better than any other.

She wore a sleeveless gauze nightdress with a plunging rolled neckline. The fabric hung from the fullest part of her breasts down past her knees where it pooled around her on the bed. She wore nothing at all under the nearly sheer nightdress. He knew this because he could see straight through the fabric to what lay, warm and inviting, beneath it.

"_You—can touch me,__"_ she purred, suggestively sliding both of her hands over the nightdress from her belly up her rib cage then over her chest. When she squeezed her breasts and rocked back and forth on his hips, two hills of cleavage rolled over the curb of her plunging neckline then dropped out of sight when she fell forward to hover over him. _"You want to touch me—"_she whispered into his ear, salaciously grinding wide slow circles over his hips and everything in between. _"—I can tell."_

Hell, yes, he wanted to. He wanted to slip his fingers under the hem of that nightdress. He wanted to slide his palms up her legs to knead the roundness of her thighs, then let his hands wander over the rest of her curves. He clenched his jaw and stared forward with sightless eyes, trying not to think of lifting that dress over her head, pushing her over and crawling on top of her. He reminded himself that this was a nightmare; his worst nightmare. He'd never known nightmare sex to end well.

The devil has many faces and many of them are beautiful. Booth knew this from experience. What was disorienting about this particular succubus was that she looked like Brennan and sounded like Brennan, but, but—she smelled different, moved differently, and her breath tasted of ash and death. That—made his blood run cold.

Where she had been sitting on him a searing coldness had permeated his body. At first he'd confused it for heat the same way a hot poker, upon contact with skin, appears cool before the body registers it as intense heat. Booth tried unsuccessfully to rear up and fling her off his hips where she'd been stationed for the last—however long?—he didn't know. He had a vague recollection of being fed warm apple pie from a thin white saucer at some point. What had been in that pie? Ether? Belladonna? Either of these toxic substances in low enough doses could do this to him without killing him. Ever since she had beguiled him with that pie, he hadn't been able to think clearly. Besides, there was nothing he could do as long as his wrists were handcuffed to the frame of the bed.

When the scene began to twist and warp around him like water spinning around a drain, the she-devil pulled a seed the size of a large marble off of a chain that had been dangling between her breasts. Hot, black, viscous fluid began to seep through and pucker the surface of the object as if oozing evil perspiration. The fluid cleaved to her fingertips and slowly traveled over her wrists until it reached her elbows and hung there in a bulbous glob. The succubus threw her head back and laughed, then extended her tongue and licked a swath of blackish purple from the tip of each elbow up to her fingertips. By the time her tongue made contact with the black pit, her mouth, lips, teeth and chin were stained a macabre shade of molten death.

All of this was new: the scantily clad succubus straddling him, the pie, the searing cold across his hips, the attempted seduction, the nasty oozing object. For one blessed moment Booth felt something pull him outside of his body leaving the fear and disgust behind. That was when he realized what the she-devil was holding in her hand. It was the shriveled pit, that blackened, angry piece of his heart that appeared like a cancer when he took Jared by the hand and walked away from his father's home forever—or did it start before that? Regardless, it was the hardened pit that had kept him from allowing people to get truly close to him; close enough to see who he really was. This was the pit of shame, inadequacy, guilt, failure to protect his mother, and the twisted love he still felt for his father.

As Booth was sucked back into his body, the succubus thrust the object into his mouth, and pinched his lips together. He strained ineffectually against the handcuffs and screamed screams that tore at the inside lining of his throat but went no further. When she lifted his chin and held his jaw closed she pinched his nose threatening to asphyxiate him.

"_Swallow it!"_The succubus hissed against Booth's ear. _"You made it. It belongs to you. It's your filthy stinking pit!"_ She pulled her sweaty fingers off his nose, scratching him in the process.

Booth gasped and took two gulps of air before she pinched his nose closed again. Finally, he was forced to swallow that pit which seemed to have doubled in size since she'd first thrust it into his mouth.

When she leaned forward to lick some black oily goo from his chin, Booth got a glimpse of what, or who, was behind her.

Marching toward the bed in slow motion was a macabre collection of men, their faces tension-filled and pale, their eyes black and furious. They were foreign military. Booth, in his dreamlike certainty, knew that these men had walked from a very long distance without tiring or slowing until they reached his bedside. They brought with them a chill, a frozen sheet of air that hit him like a wave of ice water and pierced him with a million sharp needles of remorseful agony.

Images rushed at Booth in foreboding flashes of light and clay until his cognition was hampered by the shockwave of screams issuing forth from the men's angry lips. Each man had a single small dark hole rimmed in rippled angry flesh in the center of his forehead or his temple, or a discrete round tear in the sturdy fabric covering the upper left side of his chest. Bullet holes. He recognized these faces from the dossiers he'd received from his Major General: Orders to eliminate these_ 'threats to the United States and our allies'. _Trailing behind each man was a gaggle of women and children whose dirty faces cried cold translucent blue tears and cursed his name in Arabic, Somali, Albanian, Serbo-Croatian, and some Mogadishu dialect he recognized for the memories it invoked, but knew nothing more about.

The widows came to scream at him. Though he couldn't understand their words, he could imagine what they were saying: _How could you? I loved him! We needed him! He was protecting his country, just like you are! How could you?! _The children said nothing, but stared at him while the tears slid down their dirty cheeks. Blue tears against caramel or night black skin stained with dust and dirt.

Booth toughed it out when confronted with the zombied faces of his victims. He bit his lips when the widows howled at him or threw sandals, dirt, bowls, spit. But when the children came—when the children stared at him with the big emotionless eyes of the fatherless, he broke out in such a rank sweat that it was as if they'd all urinated on him at once. Many times he'd awakened with a metallic taste in his mouth and found he'd bitten a hole in his lip.

This was his penance. He prayed that if he endured this punishment long enough, the dreams would disappear. Until then, he pummelled himself with the question whose answer alluded and tortured him.

_What kind of man,_ he asked himself for the 775th time, _signs up for a job whose main responsibility is killing people he doesn't know in a foreign city he's never heard of, and for reasons he would never be told. Who does that? More importantly, why, in God's name, did 'I' do it?_

"_Some things in life are inexplicable, others are incomprehensible; and war,"_ Ed Williams' compassionate voice echoed in Booth's head,_"is one of humanities greatest tragedies. That's why we have sacraments of healing; sacraments of atonement and redemption, sacraments that restore us through infinite grace."_

Man's pride and greed have organized the destruction of hundreds of thousands of the nameless and faceless for centuries in selfish battles in the name of righteousness, freedom, and religion. Rarely has a man carried a gun for his country and not been horrified at the hell he witnessed falling and rotting all around him in battle. The knowledge of having taken a life himself - though honorable and in defense of his country and other innocents - could derail the insides of the toughest most stalwart of soldiers. But they didn't talk about it; they swallowed their feelings, and it changed them. Booth had seen this among his comrades—and in himself.

Tonight, like all the other sweat-drenched nights, Booth wasn't concerned with the hundreds and thousands of other men. When he went to the place inside himself where lies have no meaning, he was concerned only for the man living inside his own skin. Over and over he asked the same questions: Why had he done it? Why had he joined the Rangers and become a sniper, and why so eagerly? If he wanted to defend his country and all it stood for, why hadn't he opted to be an infantryman? Why not be part of a battalion of men attacking and defending in the midst of opposition in the arena of kill or be killed? He could argue that it would have been a more level playing field. There would still be nightmares and daymares, failed relationships, neurosis, post-traumatic stress, addictions to drown out the terror, and hell on every side for the rest of his veteran's life. But would it have been easier to forgive himself for taking the lives in defense of his own? Though he knew he probably wasn't right about this, Booth chose to think it might have been.

When he tried to answer those questions, he always came up with the same arguments.

**Number one.** Was it because he was just a kid at the time—a kid looking for his place in the world, looking for a way to make a difference, a way to make his mark as the man he wanted to be, not the one he suspected his dad thought he would never be?

**Number two.** Was it because he believed the propaganda and fell victim to his own pride? '_Only the bravest and the best, the strongest and the most disciplined, the talented and the highly respected—only the elite have what it takes to survive the crawl, walk, and run phases of the training at Fort Benning and join the 75th Ranger Regiment. It is not a sacrifice; it is an honor, a privilege, a destiny'._ A destiny those well above the rank and file assured him he was worthy of.

**Number three.** Was it because the army needed him? Steady, patient, meticulous, and tireless—at 1.5 miles Booth could hit a dime on a moving target. One shot, and the target plummeted unceremoniously toward the dirt. He, they told him, was his nation's secret weapon against the untouchables: men who unscrupulously thought nothing of using friends, family members, even children – as firewalls. Without the perfect shot, any of these lives could become collateral damage.

**Number four** was an attempt to shift the blame. Could he convince himself that he was merely an instrument of the United States' government? Someone else was responsible for making the decision to eliminate the target, right? Booth was the arm, the barrel, the bullet. Are the bullet and the gun responsible for the kill? They are not! Predictably, right on this argument's thin tail end came the stark memory of Pops' gravely admonition: _"You're gonna stand all by your lonesome in front of God on Judgment Day, Seeley. No one there to point a finger at besides your own stupid self."_Besides, Booth knew this rationalization was just as much bovine manure as the egos of those who played with men's lives like they were toys on a plastic battlefield.

Some of these things were true. He was undeniably good at it what he did. Military threats were real and needed to be eliminated when all other options had been exhausted and someone—someone had to do it. _But why,_ he asked himself, _what makes a person sign up for the job of executioner?_

In law enforcement stateside, the goal was not to kill – it was to capture. Taking the life of a criminal in the line of duty as an FBI agent was only as a last resort, and then only in pursuit of a fleeing criminal or in protection of himself and others in imminent danger. Being a personally unprovoked, concealed gunman shooting at an unsuspecting target who is stupid enough to put his guard down—a target who foolishly stood too close to a window, or sat in the latrine reading the paper, or hugged his son out in the open after celebrating that son's birthday—this was a whole different ball of wax.

_The devil you imagine is more frightening than the one you know, right? _Thought Booth. In that same vein, what scared Booth more than the familiar apparition of these men or the silent screams of the widows and children he'd left fatherless, was the unidentified root of this recurring nightmare. Ed Williams suggested what Booth had suspected: that it was not as simple as guilt over having taken these lives. This was his sin: the taking of human life. Easily identifiable. That there was something even deeper than that frustrated and scared the hell out of Seeley Booth. And it had to do with that filthy black pit growing in his heart.

For the 775th time Booth's brain whizzed through these thoughts in images rather than words. The specters of his victims' children stood before him. The adults had disappeared. The pit in Booth's heart began to burn like acid through plastic. As the children raised their bare black arms, the pit in Booth's heart burned with greater and greater intensity, devouring the chambers of Booth's heart. While in past nightmares, the children had reached out, empty-handed, toward Booth, this time he looked down the barrels of AK47s and several RPG-7s. Simultaneous with this awareness came another more terrifying one: the fire in Booth's heart bubbled through the surface of his skin to reveal a cavernous bleeding hole where his heart had once been. In a slow motion second that felt like it stretched over an hour, Booth sensed movement and dragged his attention away from his broken body in time to watch as the children began pulling their triggers.

"Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" He cried out. The she-devil laughed. The children howled and moaned. Everything in slow motion. The bullets and grenades shimmied toward Booth in rotating arcs. Before the first one hit he screamed again till he felt for certain that his throat was bloody. "I want out! I want out! I want out!"

It wasn't a heroic cry, but it was genuine and blood-curdling.

In response, the succubus shimmered as if her channel were being changed. One moment she was the evil seductress, Brennan's hideous doppelgänger. Then she morphed into the vile shape of the FSB, the Filthy Stinking Bastard. The FSB shimmered back into the cackling succubus briefly then returned, spitting and hissing, "You can run! You can hide! You cannot escape!" He cackled maniacally.

Transforming one last time, the icy dark succubus splintered into a thousand shards of black glass and flew away like a pack of silvery butterflies.

Booth's wrists were finally freed from their shackles as he was pulled backward by the scruff of his neck toward consciousness.

He rose up panting and gulping for air frantically, covered in sweat and spittle. He clutched wildly at his chest. In place of the charred hole there now was a heart thundering against his palm. He yanked off his drenched undershirt and threw it. He kicked at the comforter twisted around his legs and clinging to his damp skin. Exhausted and panting, gagging, he rolled off the bed and sat leaning against the bed frame coughing and heaving until he thought his gut might split open. He grabbed his abdomen. He wasn't bleeding—thank God—he was shivering violently, his shoulder muscles bunched and cramping with the strain.

But at least he was awake. And he had escaped—for now.

"Bones," he croaked into the dark. "BONES!" He screamed on the ebb of a sob.

Nausea hit him so hard he thought his stomach would crawl up his throat and turn itself inside out onto his lap. He rocked back and forth. This was the worst it had ever been.

"Bones!" He scrambled around in the dark, looking for the bedside table and the phone. His fingers got caught in the dangling coil of the phone cord and he yanked hard. The phone flew at him in two pieces: console and receiver. He heard the faint dial tone and hung up the phone, then grabbed the mouthpiece from the cradle and punched the tiny concave "0" button for the front desk.

"Bones!" he shouted desperately into the phone when he heard the line pick up.

"This is the front desk, sir," answered the calm male voice on the end of the line.

"I need Bones—Dr. Temperance Brennan's room!" He dragged the back of a wrist across his nose and sniffed hard. "Room 308, please!"

"Certainly, sir. I will connect you," came a circumspect voice at the other end.

Silence, except Booth's own heartbeat pounding, like bongos, at his temples and in his earlobes. Then the pickup.

"Booth!"

"Bones!" He gasped, then coughed to try to cover it up.

"I'm coming up!" This was it. She knew it. She might even admit that she could feel it. Whatever had been gnawing at him after his discussion with Ed Williams—whatever had chased him from her room in a fit of anxiety after cracking his head on the glass coffee table—it must have finally come to the surface. Finally.

He'd never told Brennan the extent of these nightmares. He hadn't told anyone. He mentioned it to Ed Williams in passing as they discussed the sin that was strangling his heart. That portion of their conversation pinged against his brain like falling crabapples in the Spring ...

_"I've killed people," Booth had admitted, cowed after a rather lengthy stretch of evasive responses to Ed's direct questions. _Unforgivably,_ he'd thought. _And with great remorse.  
><em>"Why?" Ed asked after an expressionless silence that stretched between the two men, making Booth regret he'd said anything at all.<em>  
><em>Words failed Booth. He stared back at Ed and his mouth dropped open. No sound came out, <em>Thou shalt not kill,_ he said to himself._  
><em>"For entertainment?" Ed suggested. He had a point to make.<em>  
><em>"No." <em>Rangers, lead the way,_ Booth heard the voice of his battalion declare in unison._  
><em>"For Spite?"<em>  
><em>"No." <em>Sua Sponte, _Booth heard the voice of his RTB Commander. It means, '_Of their own accord'. Rangers were expected to make their own combat decisions based upon their training.  
><em>"For revenge?"<em>  
><em>"No, that wasn't it. It was to keep aggressors off balance. It was to execute special operations deep inside politically sensitive enemy territory using lethal force when necessary to ensure the precise application of combat power," Booth droned his memorized job description. "To achieve surprise over hostile forces," he added after a moment.<em>  
><em>Ed nodded knowingly, never taking his eyes off the veteran.<em>  
><em>"And to do it proudly and loyally," Booth continued though he had not been asked to. He'd dropped his face into his hands and rubbed the lines in his forehead briefly, then looked back up at Ed. "Prestigiously, unfailingly, gallantly, energetically, and with ready fortitude I will complete my mission even if I am the last man standing."<em>  
><em>"Got it," Ed had said after a moment, then nodded. "Got it," he had repeated more quietly.<em>  
><em>Booth had stared at Ed like a deer in headlights. <em>I actually said it, declared my unforgivable sin, out loud, to another human being. And lived.  
><em>"It has changed you."<em>  
><em>"It keeps me up at night. It wakes me up at night in a cold sweat." That is all Booth had said about the nightmares.<em>  
><em>"Because...you do not think God will forgive you for this sin." Rather than posing questions, Ed had simply been demonstrating that he understood.<em>  
><em>Booth swallowed audibly, plastered a remorseful smirk on his face and shrugged as if the game was over and he had lost.<em>  
><em>"There is only one unforgivable sin, Seeley."<em>  
><em>Booth had met Ed's gaze, unable to imagine what Ed could say that wouldn't suffocate him. He had waited, barely breathing.<em>  
><em>"The only unforgivable sin is the unconfessed, the unrepented one." Ed let that sink in ... that comment, Ed's comment, is what allowed for the work to begin, the work that he needed Brennan to help him with ... THis Booth would later realize.<em>

"No," Booth pleaded with Brennan across the phone line as he sat on the floor, after that Apocalyptic nightmare. "You aren't coming up here, Bones! Just—listen," "Please?" His back against the mattress, he dropped his head backwards and dragged a hand up his forehead and into his hair, realizing how soaked he was.

Silence on the other end.

"Please, Bones?"

"Okay," she said reluctantly. She swung her feet to the floor, flipped on the lamp next to her hotel phone, and glanced at the red numbers on the clock display. It had only been an hour since they hung up the phone after he ran from her room. "Tell me—everything," she said, "everything, Booth."

She stood, glancing around the room for her pants. Finding them, she jammed the phone between her shoulder and her ear and slid them on then began searching for her shoes. On the floor at the foot of the bed. She crawled over the bed and slipped into her shoes.

On his end, Booth sighed heavily and held his breath for a moment before he began in a hushed voice. "Remember when I've told you that I sometimes have these—nightmares?"

"Not the one with no pants? Or the one where you're stuck in a bottle with your father?" She laid the phone on the bed while she pulled a sweatshirt over her tee shirt and grabbed her key card from the bedside table.

"Huh, no," Booth chuffed, sighing wearily again, then sniffing. "I forgot I'd told you about the one in the bottle—"

"Of course you did."

Booth's eyes dropped closed, his head falling forward to rest in his hands. He ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. The weight of his head in his hands pressing his elbow into his belly. Could he really tell her about these frightening nightmares? Especially this last one—Christ, she was a central figure in this one! Well, it was really the Filthy Stinking Bastard—but still, it had her face and her—curves. He had to tell Brennan about it. There was a piece missing, and just like they discovered for her, there were things he wasn't meant to figure out all on his own. She could help him with this. She was meant to help him with this.

"Booth?"

"Bones—I, I don't know if I can—" His voice was shaky and anxious. He sighed loudly into the phone.

"That's it," Brennan said in a determined tone. "I'm coming up."

"No—Bones! Wait—!" He pleaded. "Just—"

"Booth, you can barely string together a proper sentence!"

"I don't want you up here—! I have this room all—" _ready to surprise you, _he was going to say before she interrupted him.

"That's too damn bad, as they say in the vernacular, because it is not your decision anymore. We are—whatever this is that we are—and we're in it together. Not you up there in hell and me down here sleeping contentedly and fully unaware that you are struggling for your life. That is not acceptable!"

"Okay, Bones," he finally said, then realized she was already gone. He hung up, stood up on wobbly legs and sat on the bed for a split second before lumbering to the bathroom to splash water on his head.

Brennan hung up before he could tell her what room he was in, but she already knew that from her earlier sleuthing. Sixty-six seconds later she was knocking on his door, panting from having run up five flights of stairs.

Booth answered the door in boxers and a fresh tee shirt. He had a hand towel scrunched in one hand and a key card in the other. Since they'd hung up he'd had a mild panic attack. _Here it is,_ he thought. _This is it. _He took several deep breaths, then heard the urgent rapping on the door. He hurriedly swiped at the light switches, plunging himself into darkness, and opened the door. He took a step halfway into the hall, forcing Brennan to take a step backward. When the door closed automatically, it bumped him forward a half step. He squinted at her as if he'd just awoken from a deep sleep. He was still trying to process that she was here—to take him to her room—where he would spill his guts. No going back.

His hands were still sweaty again. As he was thrust forward by the closing door, he dropped the key card to the floor between them and found himself unable to figure out what to do about it. Disorienting. _Get a grip, Buddy,_ he told himself. _You can do this. Focus on the prize—All things are possible with God who—who what—who tortures me—who allows the Filthy Stinking Bastard to kick the—Un dia, vamos a duchar juntos, y en ese dia quando esetmo por fin—quando estemos por fin—what comes next? Rangers, lead the way! The leg bone's connected to the hip bone—what the hell?—I'm loosing it—_

"Boones, I think I'm loosing it—" he mumbled, dizzily swaying toward her.

"You haven't lost it. It's right here," she said sweetly as if comforting a frightened child. She grabbed his arm to right him. "See? It's right here, Sweetheart. I've got it. No problem."

He focused on the key card in her hand. Everything was happening so fast.

"Booth!" She called to him as if he were at the far end of a tunnel. "Booth!" She shook him gently, just now processing his appearance. He was damp with sweat, his hair was—well, all over the place, and he was as white as a sheet.

"What?"

"You need clothes!" She almost said, _And you are as white as a sheet_, but she saw how disoriented he was and decided not to.

"What?" He squinted even further as if she had said it in Portuguese.

"You need some clothes. And you look like hell!"

"How apropos," he mumbled, unmoving.

She grabbed the key card from his hand, swiped the locking mechanism, and marched into the suite headed straight for the bedroom. Booth was left gawking in the hallway.

She yanked open several drawers and pulled out some fresh clothes, grabbed a pair of shoes, and then swiped his dopp kit from the bathroom counter. Rushing back out the door she grabbed Booth by the hand and headed toward the stairwell.

"I am so, so sorry," she said, shaking her head in disgusted disappointment.

"What? Why?" He tripped along behind her down the steps and around the corners till she pushed through the heavy metal door and propelled him onto the third floor.

"I never should have let you talk me into leaving you alone. I saw the state you were in before! That was negligent of me. That will not happen again!" She was upset with herself.

"I'm sorry," he said, sheepishly.

"You're sorry? You're sorry?! Booth! You have nothing to be sorry for. I'm the insensitive dolt in this scenario. I should have used better judgment."

Booth was relieved she wasn't angry at him. He didn't think he could handle that right now. He knew he couldn't.

Brennan unlocked her door and pulled him inside. She laid his clothing carefully over the back of the couch and put his shoes on the floor by the door, then stood facing him with her hands on her hips for a silent moment. "You're shaking," she observed, looking him up and down. She reached out and put the back of her hand on his cheek with such compassion in her eyes he thought he might die.

"You have the most beautiful eyes, have I ever told you that?" Booth asked almost tearing up. Then he fell forward into her arms, almost knocking her over, and let her hold him up as he took several angst-filled sob-like deep breaths.

Brennan widened her stance and braced her head against his shoulder to hold him up and knew she would stand there all night if he needed her to. She thanked the universe that she had had the presence of mind to uncover his room location earlier so doing so a moment ago hadn't delayed her getting to him.

When Booth finally stopped shaking he realized she'd been rocking him side to side as she gently rubbed his back and made indecipherable soothing noises against his shoulder. He had no idea how she was holding him up, being four inches and at least fifty pounds lighter than he was, but he wasn't asking any questions. He didn't need a lecture on physics or mechanics right now.. He was simply too overwhelmed with relief to finally be home in her arms.

Just as the small of her back had begun to ache, Booth stood up straight and emitted a shaky sigh. When he looked directly at Brennan, he found her studying him.

"You need a shower and a fresh set of clothes," she said in a commanding yet nonabrasive tone. "Then we'll talk. Or not talk. No, we'll talk. Now go." She turned him toward the bathroom and pushed him gently from behind, pausing only to grab fresh boxers and tee shirt from the pile of clothes she'd collected from his room.

In the glass-walled bathroom, Brennan reached into the double shower and turned the nozzle and tested the water, then turned to look at him. He sat slumped on the toilet seat. He looked smaller somehow. His color was coming back, but his eyes were glassy like pools of ink. This reminded her of a night not too long ago when he had come into her hotel room in the middle of the night to be by her side. They'd sat on the floor and talked for over an hour. She'd felt safe and grateful, as always. Tonight, she would return that favor-though who was keeping track at this point? _There should be no score-keeping in the game of love,_ she remembered having read once. _Every player should be a winner-or else it just isn't really love at all._

Booth sat up when she knelt in front of him. She took the hem of his tee shirt and solemnly lifted it up. When he raised his arms, she pulled it over his head and off his arms. Then she took his hands in hers and touched her forehead to his.

"This is not at all how I imagined you undressing me," he chuckled weakly, winning a hint of a smile from his partner.

"Now," she said quietly. "You take a shower-take as long as you want-"

_I suppose you're not going to join me, _he might have teased if he'd had the energy, but he didn't.

"-and I'll be waiting for you out there," she glanced behind her toward the door separating the anteroom from the bed and bath. "You know I don't believe in making promises for the purpose of placating a recipient, but," she said and paused, then nodded and continued, "I believe that everything will be-that you will feel better-when you tell me what is causing you this anxiety." She looked for confirmation from him and received it in the form of a blink and a slight nod.

Sliding the tips of her fingers into the hair at the nape of Booth's neck, she pulled him forward gently and kissed his forehead. She then stood and nodded toward the bath towels hanging next to the shower. He nodded back. "I'll be right out here," she said. He loosely held onto her hands until they could no longer reach each other as she walked backward to the solid door that separated the bed and bath from the small ante room near the front door of her room ... and disappeared behind it.

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><p><em>㈇5 Special GREETINGS to these who have recently added The When and the How to one of their lists: tld31, kezza2007, Romantic Journalist, Chh727, Mabu1224, thecookiemomma, susana69, kamisch42, i-scream-lexi, silentchic, SBB35, flumpkin, , boneo309, PatiH, Silver maker, kezza2007, Mabu1224, jliu5657, erinemily, islanzadi heap, susana69. I hope you remain entertained. Know that I appreciate you readership and hope to hear from you some day! ~ M-OX<em>

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><p>My immeasurable thanks to all those who sustain me with their notes, tweets, reviews (which I live for), letters and cards!<br>Most importantly, Nota, Catarina, Diane, Amanda, Sharon, Linda, Jessica, Evette, Maria, Encarna, Kim, Lyz, Becky, Yosh, and Tabatha ... not to mention my ardent reviewers! You guys keep the fire in my brain going full bore!

㈏2 ㈏6 ㈏3 ㈎2 You are all my Diamonds in the Rough ㈎2 ㈏3 ㈏6 ㈏2

_bostonlegalgirl, latetobones, eire76, Diko, chosenname, , stapes206, Tori9226, bubbles526, sandyholl, yenyen76, Melissa, soxgirl69, DWBBFan, carolkujawski, Fluffybird, FaithinBones, Gemini18, eyeofisis57, angelonde, Aveburygirl, fantasyfanatic13, ecenbt,Jo7, Monilovesbones, babyface99f, Maunzeli, Guest, kdgteacher7, dlh, Guest, Alicia9876, Tristan Thompson, Empyrean Skies, JBCFlyers19, EveyEve1215, appiedala, pasha54, yoshimi0701, ILuvBonesNDool, Mlbrunell, bostonlegalgirl, alwaysthere39, mef1013, gotyournose, Jenny1701, elmasuz, brensfan, SammieAtHome, TraciM, daniellejoy07, sarahspencer125, roomwithamoose311, Martreiya, thatdamnedrizzlesfan, manicpixiedreamgurl, Dobbi, mollygrl16, gemlily51, Aniaf, ghlover8907, jitzter14, redgirlang, akhesamaat, Dyna63, AussieBonesFan, ciaomichaella, erza scarlet the titania, lb, Nobiggggy, FayHannahRose, SuzanneHerdman, Hopelesshopefulromantic, OnceAWaywardDaughter, Phoenix Rysng, lisaclare, Becksbones, Angie, LaciLucyLou, jsboneslover, Rangers042376, plestex716, pippinim1, Lbrs, leea, LABonesLover, Jaddet99, strawberry79, EowynGoldberry, alexindigo, Martreiya, Karen, Viper003, Someoneslove, Heidi, Jencun, and hillhappy. _

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><p><strong>I started a Season 8 Finale<strong>_ What Happens Next? _**Fiction called **

**㈐3 'BED OF LIES' ㈝9**

**Find it through my profile!**

Here's what #Bones fans are saying about it:

_"This is just what I needed to soothe my post finale feels!  
>The ending especially had me craving for more!<br>Keep doing what you're doing! Love it!" ~ Taylor Alicea_

_Excellent! Your stories are always so true to the  
>characters that it is just as if I were watching a really<br>good episode. You have once again lived up to your title of  
>Queen Of FanFiction ~elmasuz<em>


	215. The Meaning in the Name

Dear Readers, since we last engaged here, I've started a Season 8 Finale story called "Bed of Lies." Feel free to check it out over the next five weeks of hiatus! I will be adding to it soon. I've also begun writing television reviews for a professional blog called ScreenSpy! You can find it on the internet, of course! So far, I have nine reviews under my belt - _Covert Affairs, Motive,_ and one for _Graceland._ **In the fall I will be reviewing BONES and HOSTAGES.** With vacations and kids all over the place, it has been a challenge to get the fiction to progress, but I shall prevail!

I will not waste your time with further preamble other than to say, thank you for coming to this page and reading what I've been thinking about writing for the last six months or so. You have blessed me, and I thank you!

~ MoxieGirl  
>~ MoxieGirl44 on Twitter<br>~ Catherine to my friends

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><p>This chapter dedicated to Angelbella27 who is in the hospital and having a really tough time right now.<p>

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><p><strong>The Meaning in the Name<strong>

_What's in a name?  
>That which we call a rose<em>  
><em>By any other name<br>Would smell as sweet**  
><strong>_

_~ Shakespeare_

Brennan pulled the door closed behind her as she passed into the anteroom—leaving Booth alone and stunned, in her bathroom. It wasn't until she'd slumped onto the couch facing the glass doors leading onto the balcony that she realized she had been shaking. Then she spied her roses, six white and one red, sprawled on the floor between the glass doors and the coffee table which had been knocked askew. What happened in here and why didn't I notice this before—she wondered. And what happened to the vase the roses were in?

She knelt over the coffee table to gather the roses Booth had arranged for her to receive at the front desk when they first arrived at the hotel. She drew them across her cheek and under her nose inhaling their spicy sweetness, remembering Booth's words:

_"They represent our journey together, Bones. Six years of friendship followed by a year of passion to come", he'd said sheepishly. "Six white, one red."_

_"When I think of us, where we are now, I think of orange. Do you know why, Booth?" She'd countered playfully, pulling the red flower from the vase and dragging it's petals across his upper lip._

_"Orange? What, it's your favorite popsicle flavor?" He'd chortled, taking it from her hand and dragging it along her jaw until she released a low chuckle and grabbed it back from him._

_"Because though red is traditionally recognized as the color of love and romance, orange is the color of desire and exuberant enthusiasm."_

_A grin had crept across his face, his lips forming a silent, "Ohhhh," before she covered them with an exuberantly enthusiastic and seductively adventurous kiss._

_"Orange," he said in a hoarse whisper several moments later. "Good to know."_

Brennan smiled at the memory of that snippet of conversation and drank in the scent once again as if it could magically purify her. Like shucking off a sweater on a cool day turned unexpectedly warm, she released herself from concerns of vases and catawampus coffee tables—leaving only room for thoughts of Booth.

She rubbed her tired eyes, and dropped onto the couch with a limp bounce. Knowing that he was only feet away was reassuring. She allowed her shoulders to drop and her chest to rise, then fall, with the first truly deep breaths since she'd answered his call a mere ten minutes earlier. Barely hanging up the phone, she'd fled to his room to find him shaken and disoriented. She had assumed he'd had another nightmare. Soon he would walk out of the bathroom and tell her all about it. _I hope I say the right thing—I hope I can, on some level, she thought, understand what he's going through and be able to provide him some comfort. And, together, I hope we can confront his demons so he can have peace!_

As was her nature, Brennan shuffled through the events of the day looking for clues as to what might have brought on the nightmare. _It wasn't the fear of being unequally yoked,_ she reminded herself. Ed Williams had calmed Booth's fears in regard to spiritual equality._ Then what, in the name of all invertebrates, did they discuss afterwards?_ She demanded from the universe, knowing she'd get no response._ The second half of their discussion is clearly the source of his angst. The timing supports this theory,_ she told herself. _He was fine, almost sanguine, before we got onto the flight to Washington and before his conversation with Ed—but he was clearly agitated after their talk._

Something more had happened later to further agitate him, though he'd tried to deny it. Booth had brooded in the car from the airport into downtown Seattle, then something at the medical examiner's office had panicked him._ Was it something I did; something I said? What was it?_ Brennan bit the inside of her lip and sucked air through her teeth making a chirping sound, then squeezed her eyes closed to sharpen her focus. She quizzed herself, reviewing the details of the evening.

Sheriff Restovich and Deputy LeSerf had been standing inside the glass doors anxiously awaiting the arrival of Brennan and Booth at 908 Jefferson Street when the town car pulled up to the curb.

"What do you mean we're leaving our suitcases in the town car?" Asked Brennan insistently as she stood on the damp sidewalk in front of Harborview Medical Center where the King County Medical Examiner was housed. Booth, standing behind the car and talking with Sebastian, was unresponsive. "Doesn't Sebastian have other fares to take care of?"

Booth finally shot Brennan a big-eyed _don't-get-your-panties-in-a-twist_ look.

"Booth!" She took a step toward him and reached out to tug on his sleeve.

Booth signed. He grabbed her hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, patting it with finality as he tore his eyes from Sebastian and glanced in her direction. "They are taking our stuff straight up to our rooms at the hotel, Bones." He said, reaching down to scoop up an instrument bag with his other arm.

"Are you sure? That can't be right, Booth. What kind of taxi service provides that kind of—uh, service?"

"Trust me, this kind does. The car belongs to the hotel. It's a service that the hotel provides to some of its guests. Hey," he said excitedly, cocking a brow at her, "maybe they heard that the famous Dr. Temperance Brennan, the most prestigious forensic anthropologist in the world, was coming to stay at their hotel, huh?" Booth grinned smugly, impressed with his own ingenuity.

"Hm," she grunted, considering the possibility. "That does make sense. Perhaps that's why we have been prohibited from offering gratuities to the driver. You are sure tips are included in our room rate?"

"Positive," Booth said, leading her in the direction of the entrance to the building. "Let's get this over with."

"Wait, Booth! The communication equipment!" Brennan glanced over her shoulder toward the town car.

"Oh, yes! Right, right," he said, realizing the laptop bag containing the communication equipment was still sitting on the sidewalk beside the car. "Tell ya what, you head in there and I'll be right behind you, alright?"

"But—I'll carry it if you'll just hand it to me, Booth."

"You just—get in there," he directed sharply as he put his lips to her cheek for a quick but warm kiss before propelling her toward the glass door. "Look! That must be Sherriff Restovich right there. She looks quite excited to see you."

"Well—" Brennan mumbled, surveying the two women standing just inside the glass doors. In appearance, they couldn't have been more opposite. "I suppose—"

The first uniformed woman, though five-foot-nothing and barely 110 lbs, was shapely and meticulously dressed. Her mess of curly white-blond hair was kept at bay by a thin black headband. Two errant pin curls sprang, one from each temple, giving the impression she'd just sprouted nascent horns. She had crystal blue eyes; her solid round cheeks tacked in place by extraordinarily deep dimples. Her incongruously generous chest defined the term 'bust line' straining against her uniform giving the impression that at any moment she may topple over. Her trousers clung to the contours of her thighs belying a hard won sturdiness born of hundreds of hours on the uneven bars followed by both high school and college varsity volleyball. Simply put, Restovich was a pack of dynamite in a tan wrapper. Brennan later mentioned to Booth that Restovich looked like a Kewpie Doll in a Marilyn Monroe wig.

When Restovich spotted Brennan, beads of sweat popped out of her forehead, her face was flush with excitement. Like a child at the arrival gate awaiting her mother, Restovich fluttered a hummingbird wave and broke into an overly eager smile.

Beside Restovich stood a handsomely large-boned, golden-skinned woman who towered over her partner by a solid ten inches. She wore a waist-length mane barely restrained in an ebony French braid, which lay upon her spine like a dozing reptile. Deputy Annette LeSerf exuded an air of restrained curiosity. Her stance was strong and solid, but her uniform hung loose enough to mask her figure. Her clean face was accented with a broad mouth filled with strong, square teeth.

LeSerf possessed a quiet confidence that men often misconstrued as timidity until they experienced her wry sense of humor. Her fellow male officers considered her one of the guys—with breasts, of course. LeSerf was stoic by nature and at complete ease with other people's husbands and boyfriends. No female with two good eyes in her head considered LeSerf a threat once they got to know her. LeSerf wore her tender though protected heart on her sleeve and only had eyes for Sheriff Sharon Restovich. Everyone understood this—except the Sheriff herself.

Brennan stopped in her tracks at the spectacle of the two women standing just inside the glass doors, and turned back toward Booth.

"Booth—!"

"Listen, will you just—get in there? Just—go!" Booth urged, slightly annoyed. He wanted a private word with Sebastian before the chauffeur drove off.

Brennan smirked, then relented and faced her audience. As soon as she was inside the glass door, Restovich grabbed her hand in two of her own and began pumping energetically as if trying to fill a pail with water from a spigot.

"I'm so excited that you are here, Ma'am!" She gasped in a breathy voice, nearly pulling Brennan's arm out of its socket. Restovich gulped several times to catch her breath. Brennan startled and tried ineffectually to reclaim her hand.

"You are so very_—extraordinarily—_beautiful," Restovich panted and squealed in a worshipful voice.

"While it is accurate that under usual conditions I am considered—beautiful—though not _extraordinarily_ so, mathematically speaking—that's hardly an appropriate greeting between professionals. Can you direct me to the Medical Examiner's office, please?" Brennan stared pointedly at her phalanges and metacarpals, her appendicular epidermis white from dwindling circulation. "And would you kindly release me?!"

"Uh—well," Restovich began while struggling to determine whether or not this was a good time to ask her idol for an autograph. "Well—um, cert-certainly—" Restovich said haltingly; giving no indication she intended to stop pumping. Her pallor deepened from red to eggplant as she tried to make a quick decision. She was as flummoxed as a contestant on Let's Make A Deal faced with choosing between the Brand New Car and Door Number 2! The purple flush continued its climb up her scalp under her mane of goldilocks.

Deputy Annette LeSerf took a step forward, gently but firmly took hold of Restovich and Brennan's wrists, and pulled their hands apart with a forced grunt. Clearing her throat, she extended her own hand in greeting.

"I apologize. May I assume you are Dr. Temperance Brennan from the Jeffersonian Institution in D.C.?"

"I am," responded Brennan, wiping her hand on her pants and hesitating before accepting LeSerf's extended hand.

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Deputy Annette LeSerf, and—allow me introduce you to Sheriff Sharon Restovich."

"Oh!" Brennan blurted, straightening her clothing and bending to retrieve her bag which had ended up underfoot during the frantic greeting. She glanced between LeSerf and Restovich several times, scrutinizing the later, unconvinced of her authority. "This can't be the Sheriff! She's barely coherent!"

LeSerf pursed her lips, cocked an eyebrow and grimaced reproachfully. "Yes, she most certainly is the sheriff! Sharon, er, Sheriff Restovich is also your biggest fan, Dr. Brennan. She has all of your books —she's read all of your articles—"

"But—but, she's not even coherent! Are you sure she can read?" Brennan impugned, her brow wrinkling in incredulity.

"Of course she can read!" Snapped LeSerf, barely controlling her irritation. "She is the Sheriff—and one of the most brilliant people I have ever had the pleasure to work with. She runs this whole place! Well, not this place—" she huffed, twisting to gesture toward the edifice of the Harborview Medical Center. "Sheriff Restovich is the head of all law enforcement here in King County."

Restovich stood beside LeSerf nodding eagerly, unrankled by Brennan's unflattering comments.

"Listen," said LeSerf in a low forceful voice, "Sharon is simply suffering from hyper excitement over meeting her celebrity crush—uh, I mean, someone of your distinction." LeSerf's ears pinked as Restovich's head continued to bob in confirmation as she fanned herself.

"Well—you may want to sit down, Sheriff Restovich," offered Brennan, concerned. "Does she suffer from cerebral hyperperfusion syndrome?" Brennan glanced between the two uniformed women and grabbed Restovich's wrist to ascertain her heart rate. "Without proper medical attention she's at risk of intracerebral or subarachnoid hemorrhage. She's so—_flushed._ Unless she's perhaps—"

"I assure you this is merely situational, Dr. Brennan. She is usually not like this and, in general, she's as healthy as a horse. She's just a little—over stimulated—or perhaps—." A thought struck LeSerf, causing her head to snap toward Restovich. "Sharon! Did you even _eat_ today?!"

"Uh—um," Restovich chirped guiltily, her _enormous_ eyes still glued to Brennan. "Maybe an apple—for lunch?"

LeSerf shot Restovich a reproving glare and received a sheepish shrugging half-grin in return. LeSerf rolled her eyes and shook her head, and then dropped her forehead into her hand before turning back to Brennan.

"It appears she's got low blood sugar. Sometimes she just gets too busy and forgets to eat altogether."

At that moment Booth sailed through the door to stand behind his partner.

"You must be Agent Seeley Booth?" The taller woman said smartly as she stepped toward him.

"That I am. You must be Sheriff Restovich?" Booth set down the instrument case and received her greeting.

"I'm Deputy LeSerf. This is Sheriff Restovich," LeSerf stepped back and nudged Restovich forward when Booth extended his hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Agent—Agent Booth," choked Restovich tearing her wide eyes from Brennan to look dismissively at him. Her focus snapped back to Brennan like an overstretched rubber band.

"We have everything set up for you in the Medical Examiner's Office. I have read all of Dr. Brennan's books," gushed Restovich, "and cannot tell you how this is a dream come true—I mean, what an utter privilege it is—for me, I mean, uh, all of Seattle to have a renowned person such as Dr. Brennan here in our fine city!"

"Well, we wish it could be under better circumstances," Booth said wryly, then shared a glance to meet his partner's eyes before facing LeSerf again.

Restovich glanced at Booth as if she'd only just now realized he was actually there. Turning toward Brennan once again, she began listing to the left as all color drained from her cheeks. Her mouth had suddenly gone as dry as an Arizona sidewalk. "Uh—" she panted, swaying slightly against LeSerf as more beads of sweat popped out along her hairline. Still concentrating on Brennan's face, Restovich's eyes glimmered with panic. She glanced pleadingly at LeSerf, her mouth opening and closing like a trout out of water.

"Whoops! Where's your blood testing kit?!" LeSerf demanded, holding her partner up.

"What—?!" Restovich said, agitated, her speech slightly slurred. "I'm fine, Netty, I'm fine," she wheezed unconvincingly.

LeSerf began to speak quickly toward Brennan and Booth as she took Restovich by the elbow. "The Sheriff is an enthusiastic servant of the people of this city and an even more dedicated fan of yours, Dr. Brennan. Please forgive her this awkward first impression. I promise by tomorrow she will have regained her wits and will be able to help you in any way you see fit."

"But, what about—?" Brennan objected.

"Yesh!" Sharon blurted, her slur become more pronounced. She rallied as she vainly attempted to combat the effects of her failing nervous system and remain vertical. "Yesh—musht-stt unner-undersand-stand," she said slowly, clearing her throat in disappointment of her inability to articulate what she wanted to say. She wrung her sweaty, shaky hands and felt her nose itch, but didn't dare rub it for fear she wouldn't be able to stop.

She looked hopefully at Brennan; hope that this would be forgotten by tomorrow.

Booth slid a sideways glance at Brennan telepathically begging her to respond mercifully toward this poor star-struck woman.

Brennan met Booth's gaze and attempted to read his thoughts. He nodded ever so slightly with the side of his head in the direction of Sheriff Restovich. A smile of comprehension slowly overcame Brennan's features.

"I appreciate the enthusiastic welcome," she began, flicking a glance back to Booth for approval. Booth rewarded her with a shallow nod and a sideways grin. "… And—and," she glanced back at Booth, then back to LeSerf and Restovich, "—and I Look forward to—to—" She sighed wearily and dropped the façade. "Would you mind just bringing us to the medical examiner's office," she said, feeling this whole episode was going on way too long.

"Cert—certainly!" Exclaimed Restovich, though it was evident she was in no condition to do anything of the sort.

"Certainly, Dr. Brennan. Give me one moment—" LeSerf held them off with a flat palm as she discretely whispered something into Sharon's ear receiving a lazy nod in response. LeSerf accompanied Restovich back down the hall and returned alone a moment later.

"Sheriff Restovich has some rather urgent police business to attend to at present. Can I take that case, Agent Booth?"

"She was a lot more professional on the phone—" LeSerf overheard Booth mumbling to Brennan.

"Honestly—Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan, please don't hold this against Sharon. She is more than just a fan of your work. You inspired her to go back to school for her masters in forensics."

Brennan stared at the deputy, unsure what to say.

"She's also a diabetic who didn't eat all afternoon. I've, uh, actually never seen her this unhinged. She was just so anxious to meet you."

"I have never seen such a severe reaction from a connoisseur of my publications," answered Brennan quietly, realizing she hadn't eaten since mid afternoon. "Will she be okay?"

"I promise you, once she's had some real food and some sleep, maybe a little biofeedback … she will be right as rain and most likely thoroughly embarrassed!" LeSerf pursed her lips in regret. "Please, Dr. Brennan, she is the most wonderful person I know, and smart as a whip—"

"Whips are sentient and therefore they have no IQ—" Brennan objected.

"She's just a little over enthusiastic, overwhelmed," her voice trailed off distractedly.

A silence ensued during which Brennan shifted her weight from foot to foot then picked up the communication equipment Booth had deposited at her feet.

"The morgue?" Booth quirked an eyebrow quizzically toward LeSerf.

"Yes. Absolutely," LeSerf said. "Right this way." She turned abruptly as if awakened from a daydream and led them through the vestibule and into a wide blunt hallway flanked on either side by five conventional-sized elevator cars and, finally, a much wider elevator with fire engine red doors. The paint on the doors was glossy and thick having been repainted at least twenty times to cover the scrapes and gouges suffered from collisions with large heavy object on wheels propelled by impatient people. They stood in front of the doors waiting.

LeSerf selected a gold key from a substantial collection hanging from a chain on her belt. She inserted it into the control panel, rotated it twice, and pressed the button with the red number three. After a moment of silence, the car wailed and screeched its irritation at being called to duty.

"Uh, I requested some information from Sheriff Restovich?" Booth glanced back over his shoulder in the direction from which they'd just come.

"Yes. I have everything for you right here," she said nodding down at four thick manila file folders in the crook of her left arm. "In these files are the original police and coroner reports. You'll also find contact information for forty-two other individuals including those who discovered the remains at Island Center Forest and all persons associated with the Banty Solicious case—family, friends, co-workers, bosses, teachers—boyfriends." She handed him the short stack of battered folders.

"Can you send this to me digitally?"

"Already e-mailed to the address you gave Sharon, er, Sheriff Restovich. She thought you'd want the hard copies tonight so you could look at them while you're here. Unfortunately, the Internet is sketchy in the dungeon, er, the morgue. We weren't sure you'd be able to access all of this digitally tonight while you're down here."

"Gotcha—does this include everyone involved in putting that bike trail in the park over the spot where she was found?"

"Yes, sir. And the boyfriend."

"That's the second time you've mentioned her boyfriend, Deputy. What's that all about?"

"He was the main suspect. Last to see her alive, though he never admitted it and we couldn't prove it. Name's Tanner Speary. Handsome guy, if you like that sorta thing. Still lives in town. Says he's still looking for her killer. Some say he's a little crazy. Got discharged from the Air Force because of all this."

"Hm," Brennan and Booth grunted in unison, then shared an interested glance.

A ding announced the elevator's arrival and the doors chugged open. The three stepped into the large cubicle and were quickly enveloped in the aromas associated with government buildings: floor wax, tired metal, copier toner, and ammonia. LeSerf pressed the button for the third sub level.

As the elevator doors closed and the car began its painfully slow descent, Booth set down the instrument case and began flipping through the pages of the first file.

"I don't understand your comment about the boyfriend, Tanner—?" Brennan raised an inquisitive brow in LeSerf's direction. Booth looked up from the files.

"Speary. Tanner Speary. Yeah. Strange situation. What did you want to know?"

"What exactly do you mean by, 'he's handsome, _if you like that kind of thing'?"_

"Oh, uh, very serious young man. Very serious. Very clean cut, still totally military—even though he was discharged for being a mental case. Lotsa folks think he killed her then snapped-kind of a O.J. Simpson thing."

"But—what bearing does his physical attractiveness have on the case?"

"Well, some say he was cut some slack because he was a media darling. The reporters at the Chronicle—that's the King County Chronicle—all had crushes on him. One reporter, Banjo Jones—I know, strange name—she wrote an exposé on his efforts to find her killer. The others accused her of just trying to get into his—uh—life," she said, coughing to cover her euphemism.

"We'll have to talk with both of them tomorrow first thing," Booth said. "Bring them in—but not together—and don't let them talk beforehand. Can you do that?"

"Absolutely, sir. Anyone else you'd like me to arrange for? Perhaps the Soliciouses, Banty's parents? They are the only ones who know you're here since they had to approve the exhumation, of course."

"I'd – well, we'd like to see them first. Find out what they think of this Tristan guy."

_"Tanner._ Tanner Speary, sir. I'll set it all up. Anything else?"

"I'll let you know."

"The medical examiner, I'd like to talk with him tomorrow," added Brennan.

"Well, I'd arrange that if I could, but Dr. Shcherbakov, he's in the same cemetery Ms. Solicious was dug up from. He passed away about six months ago. His second in command, Dr. Astor, took over for him but hasn't had the heart to remove any of the old guy's personal effects from the morgue. You do have Dr. Sherb's—that's what we call, uh, called Dr. Shcherbakov —Sherb—you have his complete notes there," she said, nodding to the files in Booth's hands. "Billy Astor—the new guy—he worked with Sherb when Banty was discovered. May have even been the one who actually performed the autopsy—if you can call it that, an autopsy, I mean." LeSerf nodded hopefully toward the files in Booth's hands. "I may also be able to find one or two of his protégés that were here when the remains were found. Would that be helpful?"

"Yes, it would. Thank you, Deputy LeSerf."

Inside the first of the four files, Booth perused the specifics he was already familiar with:

_Victim: Banty Louise Solicious, born April 29, 1985_  
><em>Last seen: June 17, 2006<em>  
><em>Date found: May 30, 2007, eleven months and two weeks after reported missing.<em>  
><em>Location: Island Center Forest<em>  
><em>Found by: Jonnifer Strider, surveyor, and Bjorn Anderson, geologist, contractors hired by Elson's Excavation to provide survey information to be included in King County RFP #28957 requesting bids for installation of a bike path<em>

"Banty was twenty-one years old," remarked Booth doing a quick calculation, his brows reaching for each other across his forehead. "Aleesha Grimes—wasn't she twenty-one?"

"Yes, she was," Brennan confirmed. "Why?"

"Just noticing. That's all." Booth glanced up at the elevator control panel. "Man, how far down are we going? This is either the longest or the slowest elevator ride in history." He allowed the file cover to drift closed.

"Well," replied LeSerf, "it sure seems sometimes that this elevator goes all the way to H-E-Double-Toothpicks, based on what you might see when the doors open!"

"Does this open directly into the morgue proper?" Asked Brennan.

"No. The morgue is down the hall to the left and just around the corner, but it can still get dicey in the halls. For example, we just had a thirty-car pile up with eighteen fatalities. We had toes tagged up and down the hall on both sides. The morgue is slated for expansion in 2018, but right now all we have is a walk-in refrigeration unit with a capacity of, uh, nine—you know, nine cadavers—but we can squeeze fifteen in there in a pinch. Standing room only, of course, if you'll pardon the pun," she said, chuffing at her own joke.

Brennan and Booth's eyes slid toward each other and glanced away quickly, both trying not to groan or roll their eyes.

"I don't think you understand the meaning of the word _pun,_ Deputy LeSerf," objected Brennan. "Cadavers can't stand—"

"Bones—" Booth quickly whispered under his breath. He shook his head when her eyes met his and received a return _'What? I'm not wrong'_ expression back from his partner.

"So, eighteen cadavers all at once this week plus our usual traffic was—_whew!_—well, it wasn't pretty. Like a scene straight out of that Vincent Price movie, 'House of Wax'. Remember that? All the statues on display at the museum were actually real dead people dipped in wax?!" LeSerf shivered involuntarily. "To this day I still can't take a step inside a museum without a little pharmaceutical assistance, if ya' know what I mean, heh."

"I love museums," sad Brennan in a bland tone. "I work in one of the finest in the country—"

"No offense intended," LeSerf interjected quickly, trying not to make eye contact with Brennan or Booth. "The Jeffersonian is highly regarded. Sharon, er, Sheriff Restovich—well, its her dream to visit there one day—" LeSerf wiped away the nervous perspiration gathering on her forehead and above her lip. If she offended these two and Restovich found out, LeSerf would never hear the end of it.

As if in response to a silent plea for a diversion, the car came to a whining stop then paused before the doors arthritically chugged open. Brennan leaned forward and stopped, frozen in place by the cloying stench of decomposing flesh.

_"Mother of God!"_ Booth gagged and quickly curled the Banty Solicious files around his face. LeSerf squinted and cupped a hand over her nose and mouth.

Within moments, the noxious fumes seeped into the car and expanded to envelop the three seemingly paralyzed passengers.

Brennan shut off the air intake into her nasal cavity and took slow shallow breaths through tight lips. "Putrefaction," she mumbled and walked, undaunted, out of the elevator. LeSerf and Booth cautiously followed.

"We had commercial grade fans and three dehumidifiers down here all weekend. It was a freaking wind tunnel, believe me. And the noise—!" LeSerf shoved a finger into one ear and jiggled it around. "Little good that did!"

LeSerf shook her head in disgust as her tongue flicked in and out of her mouth in a display of disgust. "But like I said, we were slammed with bodies. But this isn't the worst of it, Dr. Brennan— this is actually an improvement over the state of things this weekend!"

"It was worse than this?" Booth squeaked from behind the folders.

"Hard to imagine, idn't it?" LeSerf pointed to the left in response to Brennan's inquisitive glance.

"We've had more bodies than that here before—but this was just bad news all around—"

LeSerf stopped talking to cover her mouth with her shirt cuff. Brennan, however, was undeterred.

"After a while your main and accessory olfactory systems—and most especially the bipolar neurons of your olfactory epithelium—will cease to transduce into perception the chemical signals from even the most repugnant odor molecules, thereby disengaging your prepiriform cortex—more precisely, your entire rhinencephalon."

"What?" LeSerf stopped and stared at her, her eyes shadowed by a shelf of quizzical brow.

"I don't know what that means either, heh," snorted Booth, chuckling good-naturedly behind his mask of manila files. Brennan shot him a playful stink eye.

"It means that this miasma or decomposition—the repugnant odor—eventually you will no longer smell or taste the putrefaction."

"Taste?!" Blurted Booth.

"No way!" Choked LeSerf, gagging dramatically.

"Way. It's called sensory adaptation," Brennan tossed off as she continued down the hall, "or neural adaptation."

"I will never get used to this—Holy God!" Exclaimed Booth in disgust wrapped around a hefty dose of incredulity.

"Did she say—_taste_ it?" LeSerf frowned, her mouth flopping open, then slamming shut abruptly.

"Just wait," Brennan answered unemotionally as she looked around. "You should be grateful that your olfactory mucosa is only about 10 square centimeters. There are 110,000 kinds of smells in nature. Humans only perceive 100-200 of them. And, yes, we do experience the chemical composition of odorants gustatorially," she confirmed, then added, "We _taste_ them, in the vernacular."

LeSerf stared quizzically at the anthropologist. "Well, I don't eat _vernacular,_ whatever that is—I don't think we have it here in Seattle—"

"Oh, I assure you, you do!" Brennan interrupted, wincing at a poke in the ribs from her partner.

"—uh, well— I think I'm gonna be sick just thinking about it," mumbled LeSerf in a garbled voice behind fingers clamped across her mouth. She dove for a nearby trashcan and began spitting into it.

"Oh, it's too late now, Deputy. Once you've perceived the odorant, it—it's already on your taste buds and in your sinus cavity. Is the morgue in this direction?" She asked, pointing to the left.

"Well, she's just a barrel of fun," LeSerf snarked, looking past Brennan to Booth.

"Yeah, a real comedian," he agreed. "So—how the Sam-hell was it worse than this yesterday and why does it still smell like Satan's toilet down here?" Booth finally lowered the Banty files to expose his bloodless puckered lips. He glanced at the trashcan just in case his digestive system decided to eject its contents.

"Weeeeel. Sometime about the middle of the night on Saturday—the refrigeration unit was full to overflowing by then, you see—the compressor went wonky and the thermometer decided to crap out on us too. We usually keep the fridge at 4° Celsius—that's thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit—and it was up to 'bout 18 Celsius—that's 65 Fahrenheit—what with the last bodies warming up the place and the gasses and all the bacteria and the decomposition—all that factored in." LeSerf whistled to indicate the enormity of the whole situation.

"What?" Booth asked.

"That is unfortunate," agreed Brennan.

"Tell me about it," agreed LeSerf, rolling her eyes. "No one knew this had happened until the 5 a.m. security guard went on rounds this morning. Poor guy puked up all but his toenails then passed out cold in the hallway. Wasn't discovered by his partner 'til thirty minutes later." LeSerf blanched recalling the sight of him sprawled on the floor in his own vomit.

Booth and Brennan exchanged a furtive glance, knowing exactly what the other was thinking. _Maybe we should call it a night and come back tomorrow—or the day after? Or, how about NEVER?_

"We might as well get this over with, Booth," Brennan said quietly, with an apologetic smirk. "You won't even be aware of the stench in a little while."

"But I'm aware of it now!" He gagged pleadingly; pulling out a handkerchief and covering his mouth and nose once again.

Brennan pressed her lips together in a doleful smirk. She shrugged apologetically, and moved on.

Booth rolled his eyes, hung his head, and begrudgingly trudged forward to the end of the hall behind his partner.

"We got a guy out here to look at it," LeSerf had been saying, unaware of the exchange taking place behind her, "you know, the refrigeration service guy? But he says we need a thing-a-ma-what's-it from Michigan that won't be here until tomorrow morning. God only knows how long it will take to install the dang thing!"

The three slowly walked a number of steps, occasionally chancing a sniff to see if the odor was as bad as it was the previous time they'd smelled it.

"Why is it that when something smells this god-awful, you know, like a stinky diaper, or a skunk—you can't help smelling it a bunch 'a times—?" Booth asked incredulously.

"—Or your own flatulence?" Brennan mumbled, somewhat amused.

"Yeah," Booth admitted, unabashedly, "and why do people sniff it again and again? What is that all about? I tell ya', people are just weird."

"The word 'weird' suggests the strangeness, the oddity, uncommonness of something. However, fascination with man's own bodily functions and the products of those functions is universal and therefore not at all odd or uncommon—"

"Whatever, Bones. I'm just saying—why do we torture ourselves—?"

"Dr. Sweets would say that it's not torture at all. Humans repeat behaviors they find pleasurable or beneficial. Perhaps we enjoy experiencing foul sensations? Throughout antiquity there have been factions, pockets of humanity, which induce foul sensations for the purpose of intensifying pleasure. I could give you several colorful examples that would surprise even you, Booth—" she paused, seeing the trepidation in Booth's eyes and chuckling.

"Maybe later—" he rasped, blanching.

"For example—"

"I said, _maybe later_—which is generally understood to mean an emphatic, but polite no."

"—Adolf Hitler was both a coprophiliac and an urolagniac, or a _'pisswhore'_ in the vernacular—" Brennan continued undeterred.

"Now I _know_ we don't have 'vernacular' here," LeSerf mumbled under her breath.

"—He enjoyed being urinated and defecated upon during the sex act –if you believe psychoanalyst Walter Langer's analysis. However, Hitler is an extreme case. I think what you are referring to is a mere fascination with repugnant odorants: the scent of gasoline –or, burning rubber, cow dung, –or, human bromidrosis–"

Booth and LeSerf shot a quizzical glance in Brennan's direction.

"Body odor, of course," she clarified. "Bromidrosis is foul-smelling perspiration. Some people have an affinity for it."

"Dang!" LeSerf spit into the garbage can a couple of more times.

"Bones, I'm not talking about things people like to smell! I'm talking about things people don't like to smell but they smell them repeatedly anyway, like they gotta see if it's still as bad as they thought it was."

"It's actually a perverse thrill," Brennan nodded matter-of-factly.

"A thrill? Are you kidding me?" Coughed LeSerf who'd been only slightly paying attention by this time. She rolled her eyes and walked to the end of the hall without waiting for an answer.

"Please tell me you're joking," Booth said.

"I never joke about these things, Booth, you know that. Dr. Sweets says some humans experience a perverse thrill from doing or seeing something they know they shouldn't. Pornography, for example—"

Booth's responding snort and guffaw were cut short by Deputy LeSerf's matter-of-fact voice.

"You don't have to open the doors to the refrigerator unit where the cadavers are, right?" Reaching her destination, LeSerf turned to address her followers. "She—Banty Solicious, I mean— hasn't been refrigerated for 'bout four years so she won't need it now, am I right?"

"We do not have to open the refrigeration unit. No," replied Brennan.

"Then you should be just fine. Or, at least, it shouldn't get any worse, I should think."

"Were you on the force when Miss Solicious was discovered?" Booth asked between pinched lips. He caught Brennan's eye, then refocused on the deputy.

"Uh, where was I? She went missing five years ago, right? I was on homicide at the time, but it wasn't my case. Sharon had just been promoted to major crimes and it wasn't her case either," LeSerf confirmed.

"Did you know the girl?" Booth lifted the cover of the first file again to peek at the contents.

"No, not personally, Agent Booth, but everyone knew about her after the fact – well, I mean, after she went missing. She was the sweetest girl, from what they say, poor kid. Her parents spent a ton of money making sure the word got out and a reward was posted for finding her. The dad had some connections at city hall. There was hell to pay because resources were shifted from the Green River Killer case toward Ms. Solicious—and some felt it was coercion from the Mayors office. It was an election year and Mr. Solicious is a part time lobbyist for a bunch of liberal causes." LeSerf looked from Brennan to Booth and back as if this information should hold some special meaning.

"Anyway. There were cadaver dogs all over the place. Because of them, we uncovered three of the Green River Killer victims, but no Miss Banty Solicious," she said, turning toward the door.

"You wouldn't have found Banty with cadaver dogs anyway," Brennan said, matter-of-factly.

"Why's 'at?"

"Banty's remains were cleared of all viscera and any decomposable materials prior to interment at Island Forest," Brennan explained.

"Note to self," mumbled Booth in disgust, "cancel cadaver dogs. Excrement!"

"Oh, I see," LeSerf said, though clearly she didn't. Turning back to her task, LeSerf flipped through her heavy mess of keys. "Here we are," she said, a lilt of delight in her tone. She was anxious to check on Sharon Restovich, but even more anxious to escape the confining and stinky basement hall of Harborview Medical Center.

"Now, here's the thing," LeSerf said, holding up a single key. "This is one of _only_ three keys to this place. _This_ is the only door into the morgue, okay?" She nodded at the door, inserted the key, and turned it. "And I can't give it to you. So, you make sure you have all your stuff with you when you leave, because you won't be getting back in until tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred. Got it?" She stared hard at each partner in turn, awaiting any sign of comprehension.

"Got it," they replied in unison, exchanging circumspect looks that said, _One key, one door. What the hell?_

Once across the threshold into the morgue, Booth bent to set the instrument case on the floor.

"Don't put that on the floor!" Brennan shrieked.

"Why?!" Booth yanked the case back up and wrapped both arms around it.

"You think a hospital floor is filthy? A morgue like this would make an ER look like—well—just—take my word for it; this floor is teeming with all manner of bio hazardous waste!"

"This thing is heavy, Bones! How long do I have to hold it?"

"Just give me a minute. Here, hold this!" Brennan shoved the communication equipment case at Booth and looked around for something, anything, to use as a barrier between their belongings and the bacteria-infested surfaces of the empty medical examiner's office. Spying an antiquated rotary towel dispenser to the right of the scrub sink and immediately below the wall-mounted x-ray light box, Brennan clutched her bag between her knees and cranked the lever half expecting a jack-in-the-box to pop out of the top of the thing.

"Put the cases up here," she said, covering one end of an autopsy table with the towels as she blew wisps of errant hair out of her eyes.

Booth's tongue made a lap around his lips as he hefted each case up onto the paper towels with a grunt.

"It wasn't really that heavy, heh," he explained, grabbing his shoulder and rotating his arm. "It's just—I'd been carrying it for so long—."

"Naturally, Agent Booth," LeSerf stifled a grin. "How long do you think you'll be here tonight, if you don't mind my askin'?"

"About two hours," said Booth, looking to Brennan for confirmation. "Yep. About two hours."

"Okay. There are vending machines down the hall. We can't get anyone to deliver real food down here, bein' it's the morgue and all—but there's a coffee machine round the corner," LeSerf spoke directly to Booth as Brennan had already lost interest. "Remember—if you need to go out and come back in, one of you should stay in here. Now, there'll be a security guard coming by in about an hour, but after lock down, the only guards are the exterior patrol. There's no phone in the hall out there—the on-call ME has the cell with him. So, you might want to make sure you take your own cell with you wherever you go. I know it sounds like a lot of rules, but we're used to it here and our system works just fine. We only have problems when new people come."

"Got it. Not a problem," assured Booth, tapping the original Banty files across his nose and mouth and stifling a yawn.

After a cursory facilities tour which Booth was thankful didn't include the inside of the overflowing refrigeration unit, Booth slipped a piece of cardboard between the lock assembly and the door jamb and escorted LeSerf back to the first floor elevator bank, then reluctantly rode the car back down into the hellish putrescence that was the King County Medical Examiner's Office.

Slipping quietly back through the door as if late for Sunday services, Booth spied Brennan clad in a mustard yellow bib apron across which was splashed the warning: 'Danger, Men Cooking'. He knew better than to disturb her while she prepared to review remains.

Brennan had ignored the tour of the dismal 23 x 22 foot space, familiar as she already was with the trappings of a medical examiner's office and anxious as she was to wrap her brain around the puzzle awaiting her inside the exhumed casket. She now stood between the two autopsy tables, which she'd draped with clear vinyl tarps that hung, limp and desolate as funeral palls, over the stainless steel tables. As Booth watched from just inside the door, Brennan retreated to a narrow closet in the far corner of the room and retrieved a box of clear medical grade gloves and two face shields.

On her way back to the center of the room, Brennan surveyed the macabre collection of tools hanging from dusty hooks protruding from a dingy and pealing pegboard to the left of the scrub sink. She clenched her teeth, sighed and glanced at the contents of the countertop below the pegboard: stacks of files, a cacophony of antiquated or broken tools, a pile of disposable kidney-shaped emesis dishes, and two dusty spray bottles which had been relabeled in permanent marker: '**WARNING! NOT WATER: CHEMILUMINESCENT'**, and **'WARNING! NOT WATER: POTASSIUM FERRICYANIDE'.**

The room's interior walls were cinder block, the floor gray concrete, sloping almost imperceptibly toward the center of the room where the two steel autopsy tables stood. Under each table was a grated drain in the floor running the length of each table. Below each table was a six gallon bucket of kitty litter for catching liquid refuse. The opposite wall contained two metal file cabinets painted blood red.

"Somebody had a sense of humor," mumbled Booth, staring at the file cabinets.

"This place is certainly not the Jeffersonian," Brennan mumbled distractedly. "Still, I've seen worse." She continued to the autopsy tables and deposited her cache next to the bags and cases she'd already rearranged there.

Booth nodded distractedly and stepped toward the pegboard to marvel at the mishmash of culinary instruments and carpenter's tools. Chisels, saws, ladles, knives and blunt-nosed scissors in a myriad of shapes and sizes, hammers, calipers, square and slide rules, hooks, bolt cutters from Home Depot, forceps with pointy teeth, scalpels, clamps, measuring cups, needles, spatulas and slotted spoons. On a shelf to the left sat boxes of quart- and gallon-size ziploc baggies, strainers, kitchen scales, mixing bowls in graduating sizes, and petri and custard dishes. Across the room on the other side of the autopsy tables and cheek to jowl with the blood red file cabinets was a makeshift desk. Flanking the desk on the right was a two-door cooler filled with small plastic jars, tissue samples, and several unidentifiable liquids.

Any unoccupied space around the periphery was lined with steel countertops upon which lay files, a blotter calendar, empty Campbell soup cans stuffed with pencils and pens, and several collections of manuals, texts, and spiral bound notebooks occasionally held upright by plain black metal book ends.

The only things missing from this scene, Booth decided, was a grisly circuitry set hooked to a glass jar containing a formaldehyde-immersed disembodied head. That and a pale-skinned hunchback named Igor dragging a clubbed foot through a web-strewn trap door.

_'"I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel—' quoth he,"_ Booth enunciated in a dramatically ominous Boris Karloffian tone. He felt a cold shock wash over him when he turned to find Brennan staring at him, amused and smiling.

"Ah," she whispered in quiet delight. "Mary Shelley's Frankenstein!"

"Of course. _'Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery,'"_ he added, _"'and be overwhelmed by disappointments'._ Heh, sometimes I feel like that," he said quietly, stuffing his hands in his pockets, then pulling them back out awkwardly and staring, unseeing, around the room. "A fallen angel leading a double existence—" he said before he could stop himself. _—A cold-blooded killer for hire, hiding under the auspices of government directives,_ he thought. He hadn't meant anything serious by the quote—until it was out there in the air, stinging him with its poignancy. His eyes dropped self-consciously to his hands then his feet. He shifted his weight from foot to foot before seeking refuge in the coolness of Brennan's eyes. "Meh, ignore me, Bones," he shrugged, "I'm just talking gibberish—here in a morgue in the middle of the night, heh—" His voice was hollow, his chuckle empty. He shrugged one shoulder and grimaced weakly.

"Booth," Brennan said, searching his eyes. She reached out to lace her fingers through his. "You are not a fallen angel," she whispered forcefully, pulsing his fingers with several deliberate squeezes then stroking his knuckles with the pad of her thumb. She cocked her head to the side and stared quizzically into his eyes, then nodded and smiled sweetly. "You are the opposite." She released his hand and draped her arm over his shoulder and around his neck. She stood up on her tippy toes, and leaned into his chest to kiss him tenderly on the cheek. "The. Absolute. Most. Opposite. Possible," she said, looking soulfully from eye to eye. "I speak the truth. Understand?" She said, frowning encouragingly up into her lover's face.

_Can God's grace truly be big enough to erase my crimes as if they never happened? Do I deserve to forgive myself? How could I after everything I've done to ruin all those innocent families!_ He pleaded with himself. Booth's eyes watered and a sharp tartness invaded his sinuses. He closed his eyes and dropped his forehead on hers, exhaling slowly several times. He opened his mouth to say something, but opted for silence and forced an empty smile to stretch across his broad lips. He swallowed dryly, his Adam's apple struggling to dip and rise against the ball of dough caught in his throat.

Brennan, still pressed up against him, rocked him soothingly side to side. She dropped her forehead to his chin and closed her eyes in deference to his acute discomfort. Booth pressed his lips gratefully against the smooth skin between her perfectly shaped eyebrows and emitted a quiet ragged hum.

"I know something is troubling you, Booth. It's okay," she said, pressing firm hypnotic circles over his shoulder muscles then letting her fingers crawl into the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Booth shivered involuntarily and hummed in response. "When you are ready, we can talk, okay?" She felt him nod and begin to relax, his breath tickling her eyelashes and the baby fine hairs across her cheek. "For now, lets get our work done and get out of Frankenstein's laboratory, alright?" She felt him nod again and heard an agreeable rumble vibrate from deep in his chest. She smiled, but still worried. "If you need a powerful distraction, you can think about what was in the gift bag from Angela and—"

"—And imagine you in them. Ahhhh," he sighed, a grateful calm beginning to slowly envelop him. "The illustrious _hot-babe-in-a-thong_ panties!" Booth was slowly reviving and refocusing. His palms found their way to the small of her back; his fingertips wandered further south to her waist then dropped down to take full measure of her backside. "That's good thinking, Bones," he sighed, nearly lifting her off her feet as he enjoyed the bountiful springiness that filled his hands. "Oh, heaven help us all," he groaned, "you know exactly what to say to get me distracted. Have I told you lately how amazing you are?"

"Hmmmm? Yes, you have."

"Um, well," he grunted, "At least I'm consistent," he chuckled in a relaxed tone as he kneaded her buttocks until she chuckled and gently pulled herself out of the circle of his embrace.

"Wait a minute," he objected, pulling her back and sinking his nose into her hair. "Mmmmmm. Your hair smells so much better than the rest of this place! Maybe I'll just stand right here and breathe you in for the next two hours."

"Booth, while that may be most enjoyable, it is thoroughly impractical. You do have things to do as well. Why don't you find the thermostat and decrease the temperature in the room," she said, tapping on his shoulder before stepping out of his embrace. "That should help until our olfactory receptors equalize."

"Oh, great idea! Slow down the molecules in the air, right? See, I know stuff."

"Very good, yes! Decrease the stench—or at least our perception of it. Maybe we'll be able to breathe more comfortably."

"—until our neural napkins take over, right?"

"Our _natural adaptation_," she corrected, belatedly realizing it was a joke. "Though, calling them neural napkins makes sense metaphorically in reference to what they accomplish. Ugh. I can still taste the putrefaction," Brennan gagged, pressing the back of her wrist up to her mouth.

Booth crossed his arms, and leaned back against an autopsy table. Spying a box of Kleenex on the medical examiner's desktop, he yanked out a tissue and blew into it energetically two or three times, then wiped his upper lip before tossing the wad into the garbage can.

"Clearing your sinuses won't get rid of it all, Booth. How long do you think that tissue has been sitting in air containing a high concentration of fecal matter, putrefaction vapors, perhaps even bodily fluids?" She said all this without glancing in his direction. As a result, she didn't notice his rush toward the utility sink until the sound of him spitting and almost dry heaving assaulted her ears.

"I'm gonna need a decontamination shower after this," he whispered, hoarse with revulsion.

"Why don't you go find that thermostat and set it to—maybe—"

"Below zero? That ought to do it, don't ya' think? Freeze the suckers dead in their tracks."

"I should think 40 would be sufficient," she chuckled, "perhaps even overkill. We can start there."

Booth spied the thermostat and disappeared behind the closet door for a moment, then returned rubbing his hands together vigorously. "I feel better already—just knowing I've done something. Take that—disgusting molecules!"

Brennan shook her head and chuckled again, then retrieved a pen and a packet of blank forms from her bag. She snapped two pairs of clear medical grade vinyl gloves over her hands and turned in the direction of the metal accordion casket cart. Atop the cart rested the casket containing the remains of victim two, Miss Banty Solicious.

"Why don't you see if we've anything from Dr. Hodgins yet. Or, Mr. Bray," she tossed over her shoulder as she approached the casket.

"Gimme a minute," said Booth, rubbing his hands together again. "Hear that?" He pointed at the air conditioner vent in the ceiling out of which poured a chilling rush of clean air. "Resistance is futile, Suckahs!" He whipped around in a crouch pointing an invisible handgun and making shooting noises. "You're welcome, by the way, Bones," he said blowing on the end of the invisible barrel, then flipping and holstering his imaginary gun.

Twenty minutes later, Booth was still wandering aimlessly around the tiny morgue.

"You're already bored." It was a statement not requiring a response. "This is Doctor Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institution," she began, recording her examination for later transcription. "Attending is my partner—"

"—and mate," interjected Booth, sidling up beside her and leaning toward the microphone. "A dashing and irresistible cowboy of a guy, I might add."

"It is not necessary to state that you are my mate, nor is it technically accurate—," she said.

"—Of which I am _painfully_ aware—" he said smirking at her as he shoved his hands into his pockets and jingled about $3 in coins against his Zippo.

"—Should I also mention that you are a father? And a Flyers fan?"

Booth shrugged and grinned playfully.

"—attending is Special Agent Seeley Booth of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Before me is the exhumed casket of Miss Banty Louise Solicious—The casket shows no signs of being opened or tampered with since—" She glanced at the paperwork she'd found laid atop the casket. "—since it's extraction from Calvary Cemetery, 5041-35th Avenue NE, Seattle, WA from where it was extracted earlier today." She gave the date.

"How do you know I'm bored?" Booth picked-up a clear blue plastic Terminator Tiger Shark yo-yo with holographic geometric designs on the hubs and slipped the string loop over his middle finger. As he waited for Brennan's response he began to effortlessly throw, spool and catch the toy several times in fluid movements.

"You're playing with imaginary toys, Booth," she said distractedly, "which I have to admit is better than when you play with real toys which can be noisy and distracting." She looked up curiously at the sound of the heavy plastic slapping against his palm. Shaking her head several times and chuckling, she returned to the casket she'd just opened. "You are so predictable, Booth." She chuckled again and continued in her sterile professional tone, "On cursory examination, there appear to be fewer than the requisite 206 bones. There are instead 202. All appendicular bones, cranium, mandible, innominate, and clavicles lay loose in the casket. Labeled plastic bags in varying sizes contain complete collections of ribs and vertebrae. The left foot is missing one, no, two bones. The right foot appears to be missing three bones— making the total number of bones present to be 201 instead of 202."

"A gun is not a toy," Booth said with a straight face, drawing quickly and aiming the invisible barrel at the refrigeration unit.

"Yours was," she scoffed without looking up.

"Just because you can't see something doesn't mean it isn't real," he countered belatedly, hands on hips. He braced for the challenge.

Brennan glanced up at him and caught his eye, a message passing between them—_We're not having a religious debate right here, right now._ Brennan nodded slightly, smirked and bowed her head to continue with her notes.

Booth's arms dropped to his sides as he shrugged and looked away. Bored.

"Booth, focus. Check the email."

"Right," he replied in a resigned tone. Booth retrieved the laptop and flipped open the cover. "I'm just the glorified messenger boy. You know what I really need is some_ action—"_

"Well, I can assure you, there will be no _action_ around here," she snickered, "except examination of these remains."

"There's a joke in there somewhere, a good one—"

"It's called a double entendre—"

"Yeah, I got it," Booth replied sardonically.

"Good. Email?" Beginning with the cranium, Brennan began arranging the bones on the autopsy table.

"Okay. Here we go!" Booth unloaded the laptop and flipped it open. He tapped on the keyboard until the email program spun to life. He covered his lower lip with the tip of his tongue thoughtfully and scrolled through the spam to find the first message of interest.

"Okay. Sweets sent us a psychological profile—skip that—we'll read that later."

"Anything from Hodgins?"

"Angela's murder weapon search of industrial equipment is a bust. Nothing fits. However … however … she says Wendell found something - but she doesn't say what. Thanks, Ange!"

"Is there an email from Mr. Bray? It's beginning to get quite cold in here, Booth."

"Yip, here it is," he said, "Okay—dah—dah—dah—electron microscope—here we go: _bilateral hemorrhagic staining on the mental foramen along the oblique line of the mandible where the triangularis intertwines with the risorius and the orbicularis oris—_blah—blah—" He said frowning, then making a disgruntled raspberry. _"PLBTH!"_

"Keep reading, Booth, I need to hear exactly what he says. May not mean anything to you, but it means something to me!"

"Okay, okay! A little translation would be nice, though." When she didn't respond, he continued. "He says, _Same happened to the buccinator muscle causing staining on the alveolar process—"_

"Hm," she grunted frowning pensively and nodding.

"Ah—_murder weapon pressed against these muscles_—blah—blah—_blood was forced out of the blood vessels—traces of bodily fluid on the mental foramen—_"

"Excellent! Look at me, Booth," she commanded. "There are traces of fluid on the cheek bones and chin in a pattern like this." She made two sideways 'V's with her index and middle fingers. She placed each index finger on a cheek bone and each middle finger just below her bottom lip.

"OhooOOOOohhh. A little _Pulp Fiction_ action. Got it."

"I don't know what you are referring to, but—"

"Better keep reading your pop culture manual, Bones. It's a Quentin Tarantino classic. John Travolta and Uma Thurman—"

"Continue," she said, grimacing. "Those are strange patterns. Anything else from Dr. Bray?"

"Nothing else written, but he attached an image." Booth clicked on the image and turned the screen toward Brennan. "Looks like it could have been a hockey helmet—like a goalie—or maybe a catchers helmet. Maybe a really old football helmet."

"More like one of those—what do you call it—fighting helmets? The kind that covers the cheeks?"

"Boxing headgear?"

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes."

"Wow. We were right."

"Nothing I said suggested this is more than conjecture, Booth."

"Fine. We have another from Angela. Says she's looking at sports, combat, safety, and law enforcement helmets … says whatever it is it has to be lined with expanded poly styrene or thermocol—" He said, his brow furrowing as he glanced through some images she attached. "Thermocol must be foam cushioning—"

"Exactly. Yes. That fits for the fighting—"

"_—boxing_, Bones. There's all kinds of competitive fighting. You've got your wrestling, your boxing, your tae kwan do, your _kay-rah-tay._" He had to accompany each genre with some arm and hand motions to demonstrate.

"As long as we're talking about the one with the face guard extensions that extend here," she said, showing him her Uma Thurman once again. "This is progress. Anything from Hodgins?"

"Next up … Dr. Jack Hodgins! He says that according to his massive spectaculars—"

"Mass spectrometer—"

"Yeah, that thing. According to that, all bones buried with Aleesha's cranium, except for the femora and tibias, belong to Aleesha. Then he says a bunch of mumbo jumbo about drilling and bone powder and dormant cells or something - and he throws Cam in there too - uh, blah—blah—blah—okay—Man, this is making my head hurt!" He wiped a hand across his brow. "Here we've got some English. _The femora and tibias are from the same person_ - duh, we knew that already, dude - and he says as soon as he gets the Washington bones from here, he can confirm that they belong to either Aleesha or someone else."

"Hm. Okay. Just as I thought. Anything else?"

"Nope." Booth scrolled through another dozen or two emails. "Nope." He snapped the cover shut and stared at Brennan for a moment as she carefully arranged Banty's bones, one by one, into the shape of a human skeleton. He sighed. Bored again.

After a cursory glance around the room, he strolled to the makeshift desk and began snooping around the belongings of the late Dr. Shcherbakov, King County's recently deceased medical examiner.

Shcherbakov's desk was cluttered with a myriad of family photos including several of himself and his wife, over the years, sitting on a couch sandwiched between several grown children and surrounded by a gaggle of grandchildren on the floor and filling laps. Stuffed in every nook and cranny between magazines, photos, and mugs were the requisite collection of gifts and cards lovingly crafted by juvenile hands, and a career's worth of promotional tchotchkes collected from conventions and medical equipment sales people.

What most interested Booth was an ancient Sanyo radio-cassette player with recessed silver dollar pancake speakers, and a swivel periscope antenna whose tip had long since been snapped off and replaced with a piece of mangled coat hanger. The single cassette player was speckled with five different shades of paint and the rewind button had been replaced with a larger pencil eraser. Arranged in a columnar fashion inside a custom made cassette storage unit above the desk was an impressive collection of professionally recorded audio tapes followed by a dozen or so mixed tapes labeled in the same hand.

While Brennan completed the cataloging and arranging of Banty's remains, Booth counted 240 tapes in all, or 238 if you took into consideration that two of the cassettes were head cleaners. Booth's eyes danced from cassette to cassette up and down the first several columns. Arranged alphabetically by artist or band; every tape was wrapped in its original J-card. Shcherbakov's eclectic taste spanned many generations and all genres. He had selections from Buddy Holly to Streisand, Elvis to Simon and Garfunkel, the soundtrack from Jesus Christ Superstar to AC/DC and Led Zeppelin.

"Man-oh-man! This guy was serious about his music! You know, Bones, you can tell a lot about a person by their music collection." His comment received a noncommittal grunt in response, as Brennan was absorbed in her work assembling a life size Banty puzzle. Her process was punctuated by the occasional grunt, sigh, or curious hum.

"What do they tell you about the late Dr. Ian Dr. Shcherbakov?"

"That he was old, heh, heh," Booth tossed over his shoulder off-handedly, "And secure in his masculinity."

"How can you determine his level of security in his manhood?" She challenged in a tone suggesting this was an absurd assumption.

"Because, he's got Whitney Houston, Celine Dion, and, heh, Michael Bublé, for crying out loud. It takes stones to openly display stuff like that!" Booth ran a finger down the titles, tapping once or twice on the cases he recognized. Releasing a long, slow two-note whistle, he plucked a tape from the second column.

"He's got everything—_everything_—Jim Croce ever recorded! Man, I loved that guy's music. Well, Dr. Shcherby," he mused wistfully, "you've just redeemed yourself in my eyes. Did you know he was killed in a plane crash?"

"Dr. Shcherbakov?"

"No, Croce! Thirty years young. Croce, yep, he was the real deal. He wrote about real life. Hard life—bar fights, shootin' pool, breakin' up, prison, unemployment and loneliness—and about finding out who you are and where you came from—Like this song—" He quietly intoned the first verse of 'I Got A Name':

_"Like the pine trees lining the winding road_  
><em>I got a name, I got a name<em>  
><em>Like the singing bird and the croaking toad<em>  
><em>I got a name, I got a name<em>  
><em>And I carry it with me like my daddy did<em>  
><em>But I'm living the dream that he kept hid.<em>

"Love that song," Booth's voice trailed off as he read the titles of Croce's songs and got lost in a whirlwind of sepia-toned memories of road trips to the coast taken with Pops and Jared. He and Jared always groaned when Pops punched his own home-brewed collection of 'real' music into the player. Though neither ever admitted it to anyone, not even to each other, both boys secretly wanted to live a real life like Jim Croce.

Shucking off the pastel thoughts of his childhood, Booth shrugged his shoulders unevenly as if to settle an ill-fitting shirt. Then he grinned to himself, recalling some of Croce's more colorful lyrics about pulling on Superman's cape and a man badder than Old King Kong.

"Yeah, he was certainly a man's man: tough and dusty on the outside, soft and gooey on the inside."

"We're all soft and viscous on the inside, Booth. If a person is concerned about being tough on the outside, there are creams and vitamin supplements for that—"

"Man, if he'd lived longer there's no telling what he could have done. He was on fire when he died." Booth perused the track listing of 'Photographs and memories: His Greatest Hits by Jim Croce.'

"In the plane crash?"

"No. His work! His songs were on all the charts. You know, like, _'Time in a Bottle'?_. Everyone knows that song.'"

"Even me," Brennan said, smiling up at her soon-to-be-mate. In fact, she knew it _very_ well. Max and Christine Brennan had loved Jim Croce. In the early '60's they'd seen Croce and his wife Ingrid perform live at a little bar in Lima, PA, called The Riddle Paddock. From then on they followed Croce's career, buying all his records and singles. Max frequently said Croce's music, _'reminds me of the gold old days of free love and other unmentionable things!'_ Then he'd wiggle his eyebrows at his wife. So, yes, Brennan was very familiar with 'Time In A Bottle' as well as all his other titles, but she smiled without admitting anything to Booth.

"Size and robusticity of the scull, brow ridges," Brennan spoke for the recorder and copied into her notes, "and the arch of the maxilla indicate female approximately 18-21 years old. Wear on the mandibular teeth and lower incisors support that age range. Shape of pallet indicates Caucasian. Judging by the pelvic inlet and pubic symphysis, victim is pre gravid, never having given birth. So far all signs consistent with the identity of Ms. Banty Solicious as recorded in her medical records."

Then Booth spied his all time favorite Jim Croce title. "_Ha Aaaaaaaaaaaah_—know this one, Bones?" He asked with an amorous gleam in his eye. He began to quietly sing in a nostalgic tone:

_"Well, I know it's kinda late,_  
><em>I hope I didn't wake ya',<em>  
><em>But what I gotta say can't wait.<em>  
><em>I know you'd understand—"<em>

Brennan picked up the tune and together she and Booth carried it through the end of the verse.

_"Cuz everytime time I tried to tell you—_  
><em>the words just came out wrong.<em>  
><em>So, I have to say I love you in a song—"<em>

Brennan sighed and smiled, her cheeks and chest infused with the same glow as the clear, clean dual acoustics of Croce's steel-string accompaniment of her memory of the song.

"I think we're having a moment," he whispered, grinning from dimple to dimple. Brennan smiled and continued.

_"I know it's kinda strange,_  
><em>but every time I'm near you—"<em>

Booth joined her, each of them returning to what they had been doing before their saunter down memory lane: he to perusing album titles, she to making notes.

_"I just run out of things to say I hope you understand—_  
><em>Every time the time was right the words just came out wrong.<em>  
><em>So I have to saaaay I love you—in a song!"<em>

Booth snapped open the _'Croce's Greatest Hits'_ tape and clicked it into the cassette player; pushed play. Thirty interval notes jumped off the keys of a popcorn and peanuts barroom piano to be followed by a joyous, _'Whoop!'_ announcing the opening of _'Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown'._

"That is a lovely sentiment_—_," Brennan mumbled, squinting quizzically at the distal end of a right hamate bone, "—I've always thought—writing a song to tell someone you love them. Though some might consider that cowardly."

"It's not cowardly, Bones. It's sweet—and romantic!" Booth stared pensively at the top of her head for a moment.

"I suppose it's better than writing a note and leaving it in underneath their windshield wiper!"

"Anything can be romantic if the intent and the context are right, Bones. I tried to tell you once, you know," he mumbled thoughtfully after a moment. He leaned back against the desk and glanced sideways at her as she bent over the table.

"Hmm?" She didn't look up from her notes. "Tell me what? There are minute particles on the distal aspect of right posterior ribs 5th and 6th," she said distractedly.

"Nothing," he said, waving a dismissive hand as a silvery web of self-consciousness wrapped itself around his neck and tightened his vocal chords. "Oh! Look at this," he cried after a moment. "Neil Diamond—and Engelbert Humperdinck. Now, that name always cracked me up. I never understood what would possess a parent to name a kid _Engelbert?_ I mean, he's already gotta deal with Humperdinck, for Christ's sake!" Booth shook his head in empathetic dismay. "Bet that kid got the snot beat out of him on the playground on a regular basis," he chuffed.

"The Germans, Booth. That's who would give their child a name that sounds ludicrous to the American ear. However, Humperdinck was a very distinguished early nineteenth century German composer who composed the opera _Hänsel und Gretel and Szenen Aus Dem Deutschen Studentenleben_. Very innovative and under appreciated, as many great minds are in their own time. What's more, he was the inventor of _Sprechgesang!"_

"Really? How fascinating!" Booth feigned wonderment. "I always wondered who invented the Screech Gang!" He rolled his eyes and snorted, then gave a howling yawn followed by snoring noises.

"Very mature, Booth. Dr. Sweets says that sarcasm many times stems from a deep sense of insecurity—"

"Sometimes a joke is just a joke, Bones," he smirked. "Besides, I was just being funny."

_"Sprechgesang_ is a king of vocal technique that's halfway between singing and speaking. It's operatic, Booth. I wouldn't expect you to be familiar with it."

"Whatever. I was talking about the more recent Humperdinck—"

"Perhaps you mean the one who sprung from the colorful imagination of William Goldman," she said haltingly as if reciting a blurb from a dust cover. "_—in a tale of true love and high adventure, pirates, princesses, giants, miracles, fencing, and a frightening assortment of wild beasts—"_

"What the—?"

"The Princess Bride," she replied triumphantly. "One of my favorite childhood novels. It was adapted and made into a movie—Russ says Emma and Hayley have watched it one hundred times. I think he was exaggerating though."

"Uh, wow," he nodded impressed. "But, sorry, no. Hey, I thought all you read was textbooks? Anyway, I was talking about the one that sprung from the colorful throat of, I mean, who was famous for his romantic ballads, like 'I Sing You Asleep After The Lovin', and, 'Please Release Me, Let Me Go 'Cuz I Don't Love You Anymore."

_"That's_ not very romantic!" She scoffed as Jim Croce began the first verse of 'Operator'.

"Oh, it gets worse. He calls the woman cold—in a song! Can you believe that?"

"Does she sue for alienation of affection and diminish his net worth by half?"

"It's just a song, Bones. Nothing_ really_ happened. It's a song."

"Where do you think songs come from, Booth? From Personal experience! Songs and poetry based upon personal experience or history, conspicuous or not, have long been an accepted way of inculcating the young with the values and traditions of their elders. They are equally effective devices for expressing sentiments surreptitiously—sentiments the writer doesn't have the ability or courage to say openly. He, or she, if confronted about the song, can hide behind a façade of artistic creativity thereby avoiding the pain of retribution."

"Yes," he said with a delightful grin. "Just like in, '_I Have To Say I Love You In A Song!'_ It comes from a guy's real life! Anyway, my guess is that Engelbert Humperdinck, the singer, not the German one or the writer, was a stage name."

"Is_ Seeley_ your stage name? Who names their kid _Seeley?_ Or _Temperance_, for that matter?"

"Touché," Booth smirked and continued his perusal of the tapes. He turned back around abruptly and said, "For your information, Seeley is French, but it comes from the German word, 'Selig', which means 'blessed'. Obviously mom chose it, Dad didn't have a religious or romantic bone in his body. So, apparently that's who names their kid Seeley."

Brennan looked up and nodded silently, then her eyes dropped to the table. Booth considered letting the topic drop. 'Temperance' wasn't Brennan's given name, not from birth at least. She was originally named 'Joy'._ Temperance, meaning 'moderation', _Booth suddenly realized,_ is kind of a downgrade from 'Joy'. Who names a kid 'moderation'? He thought to himself. That's as unexciting as 'adequate'. You wouldn't name a kid 'Adequate'._ Then he had an idea.

"Do you know the full meaning of the name 'Temperance'?"

"Of course I do, Booth. It means self-restraint, moderation," she said despondently. "Can you please hand me the original medical examiner's file?"

"See, you don't know the rest of it!" He grinned, leaning toward her over her autopsy table, his arms spread wide, his hands resting on the table top.

"Wha—uh? There is nothing more, Booth." She quirked a mildly irritated eyebrow. "The ME's report?"

"Well—" he began in a soft affectionate tone as he strolled over to her side of the table, completely ignoring her request.

Brennan followed his leisurely self-assured approach with quizzical eyes. _He's mocking me,_ she thought. _Is he mocking me?_

"—I bet you didn't know that 'Temperance' also means 'wildly beautiful woman whose smile puts the stars to shame—" he said, leading her by the elbow away from the table as she searched his face for traces of sarcasm.

To her surprise and relief, she did see amusement in his darkening chocolate eyes, but there was also love and warmth and joy. Authentic joy.

"—A woman whose eyes sparkle like sun reflecting off the Emerald Sea—" he whispered earnestly, gently pulling her into his arms despite her gloved hands and slight mewl of protest. He pressed a warm soft lingering kiss into her forehead causing her pulse to butterfly across her chest. If there remained any question in her mind as to his intent, the way he playfully nipped at the tip of her nose and peppered each cheek and earlobe with wet kisses would have removed all doubt. She shuddered involuntarily, and knew it had nothing to do with the decreasing temperature of the morgue.

"—A woman whose heart is big enough that she could save the whole world if she had time—" he breathed against her neck sending a shock of adrenaline straight into her chest, down her already liquified spine, and then below the Mason Dixon.

"Haahhhhh," she sighed in a feathery falsetto as the velvet tones of Jim Croce's tenor swirled the lyrics of Photographs and Memories around them.

"—and," he continued, "and—a woman who makes me feel like the happiest and luckiest man alive."

With that, he trailed several oxytocin-releasing, goose bump-inducing kisses from behind her ear down her neck and almost as far as the lowest love bite he'd imprinted on her breast that morning. By the time he made it back up to devour her lips, she was more than ready to surrender everything to him. At that point, drunk as she was on his seductive affection, she would have believed anything he said to her. That is, if she could hear anything over the violent pounding of her heart against her ribs. Behind his back, she yanked and tore at her gloves until they fell to the floor and wrapped her arms around his waist, running her fingers up and down the ridges of muscles on either side of his spine and across his shoulders.

On the verge of losing the battle to keep herself from wrapping a leg around his thigh and climbing him like a tree, she felt him pull out of the kiss to gaze intently into her eyes.

"Now that," he purred, squeezing her tightly enough to crack her ribs, "is the true meaning of the name Temperance."

"I'm going to need new gloves," she muttered fatuously, once she found her voice.

"That's what you have to say after—?"

She cut him off with two fingers across his lips and an unbridled, intoxicated sigh. "There is an error in your logic, Booth!"

"You think you're so smart," he said, mildly disappointed.

"I am smart! But let me finish, Booth! I think," she insisted, her lips parting in a thoroughly satisfied smile as she allowed her eyes to take a leisurely tour around his features. "I have no argument with the real meaning of my name, however—," she offered, tracing the graceful contours of his broad mouth, then kissing him tenderly and nibbling on his bottom lip before stopping to look up through a fringe of chestnut lashes. "I think, Booth," she beamed at him, "you have confused the meaning of the name _Temperance_ with the meaning of the name _Bones."_

"Ahhhh," he agreed with great satisfaction as he tilted his head back and squinted at her. "Okay. Yes. In this case, I'm going to have to agree with you, Bones."

Her cheeks ached from smiling. "I have been truly blessed, Booth," she nodded sheepishly.

"Blessed? As in—_by God?!Heh!"_

"That's not what I meant." She demurred in a low voice. "I meant—" a crease appeared between her brows. "What I meant is that I—that you are a gift—in my life, Booth. That's all," she said with an inconsequential shrug. "That's all," she said, a gently challenging tone in her voice. She looked hard over his shoulder then around the room, feeling the flush in her cheeks pounding and spreading.

His mouth fell open, then he snapped it shut. "Hm," he grunted, a contemplative rumble vibrating in his chest, his brows drawn together in thoughtful consideration. "Hm." He pursed his lips, dropped his head to the side she was staring past and waited for her to look back at him. When their eyes finally met, she frowned and gave him widened eyes that said,_ It's no big deal—_

What she found in the eyes looking back at her was, _Yes it is a big deal, and you know it, and I love it that you said it._

"Ohhh-kay," he said quietly and crushed her to his chest again, lifting her an inch off the floor. When he set her down he smacked her playfully on the buttocks before they disentangled their limbs.

For a moment Brennan feared she might fall apart or ooze to the floor like an overcooked piece of spaghetti. _Though I know it is not possible,_ she assured herself,_ it feels as if the heads of my proximal femora, the lateral and medial condyles of my distal femora and proximal tibias, and both my patellae have dissolved into the synovial fluid of my knee joints!_

In short, she feared her bones had turned to jelly. For a rational anthropologist, that's pretty serious stuff.

* * *

><p>Thank you to all my ardent and steadfast followers! I know you are all extremely busy during the warmer months. I appreciate you taking the time to allow me to share my love for Bones with you!<p>

_bostonlegalgirl, latetobones, eire76, Diko, chosenname, , stapes206, Tori9226, bubbles526, sandyholl, yenyen76, Melissa, soxgirl69, DWBBFan, carolkujawski, Fluffybird, FaithinBones, Gemini18, eyeofisis57, angelonde, Aveburygirl, fantasyfanatic13, ecenbt,Jo7, Monilovesbones, babyface99f, Maunzeli, Guest, kdgteacher7, dlh, Guest, Alicia9876, Tristan Thompson, Empyrean Skies, JBCFlyers19, EveyEve1215, appiedala, pasha54, yoshimi0701, ILuvBonesNDool, Mlbrunell, bostonlegalgirl, alwaysthere39, mef1013, gotyournose, Jenny1701, elmasuz, brensfan, SammieAtHome, TraciM, daniellejoy07, sarahspencer125, roomwithamoose311, Martreiya, thatdamnedrizzlesfan, manicpixiedreamgurl, Dobbi, mollygrl16, gemlily51, Aniaf, ghlover8907, jitzter14, redgirlang, akhesamaat, Dyna63, AussieBonesFan, ciaomichaella, erza scarlet the titania, lb, Nobiggggy, FayHannahRose, SuzanneHerdman, Hopelesshopefulromantic, OnceAWaywardDaughter, Phoenix Rysng, lisaclare, Becksbones, Angie, LaciLucyLou, jsboneslover, Rangers042376, plestex716, pippinim1, Lbrs, leea, LABonesLover, Jaddet99, strawberry79, EowynGoldberry, alexindigo, Martreiya, Karen, Viper003, Someoneslove, Heidi, Jencun, hillhappy, AM Kemp, CatherineS, JaiDiePie, Aparnell, SuzanneHerdman, _tld31, kezza2007, Romantic Journalist, Chh727, Mabu1224, thecookiemomma, susana69, kamisch42, i-scream-lexi, silentchic, SBB35, flumpkin, boneo309, PatiH, Silver maker, kezza2007, Mabu1224, jliu5657, erinemily, islanzadi heap, susana69__

_*Deep bow of gratitude*_

* * *

><p><strong>Now go check out the Season 8 Finale<strong>_ What Happens Next? _**Fiction called**

**㈐3 'BED OF LIES' ㈝9**

**Find it through my profile!**

Here's what #Bones fans are saying about it:

_"This is just what I needed to soothe my post finale feels!  
>The ending especially had me craving for more!<br>Keep doing what you're doing! Love it!" ~ Taylor Alicea_

_Excellent! Your stories are always so true to the  
>characters that it is just as if I were watching a really<br>good episode. You have once again lived up to your title of  
>Queen Of FanFiction ~elmasuz<em>


	216. Give Me The Beat, Boy

Authors' Notes: Greetings, Fellow **Bones** Fans! This new season has gotten off to an amazing start ... and on Monday, Pelant gets taken out! A couple weeks later ... A BONES WEDDING. Are you as excited as I am? I can barely contain myself. #NoLie As I wrote in one of my Bones reviews on ScreenSpy ... it looks like Hart Hansen and Stephen Nathan have saved the best for last. (Though we still want a S10!)

Some new things happening in my life: I've been writing tv reviews for a site called 'ScreenSpy'. Hart and Stephen tweeted my first article about Season 9, "Bones Bosses Tease Season 9 Deaths, New Adversary & Wedding Bells", the morning it hit the open air. Since then I've been reviewing the S9 **Bones** (and Revenge and Covert Affairs) episodes for ScreenSpy. Check it out!

I hope you enjoy the _looooooooong_ chapter! ㈏0

~MoxieGirl  
>~MoxieGirl44 on Twitter<br>~CatCabanela on my ScreenSpy Twitter account

* * *

><p><strong>Give Me The Beat, Boy<strong>

_'Give me the beat, Boys, and free my soul_  
><em>I wanna get lost in your Rock and Roll<em>  
><em>and drift away ...'<em>

~Mentor Williams, 1972

Brennan sighed, a shallow smile resting on her lips after that titillating barrage of affection from her mate. She admired the breadth of Booth's shoulders as he sauntered away from her. After Jim Croce's smoky baritone wove a final tale of unconventional love between a barfly and a roller derby queen, the dusty plastic button on the cassette player disengaged with a _sproing!_

As Brennan snapped on a new set of gloves and got back to work, Booth perused the enormous music selection once again and chose a compilation of mixed-genre duets featuring Frank Sinatra and a myriad of other big names.

As Sinatra and Luther Vandross struck up a rendition of 'The Lady Is A Tramp', Brennan began a visual examination of the victim's cranium and mandible. Moving distally, she inspected each of the seven cervical vertebra, and made a note to herself to return for a more thorough inspection later. Moving distally again, she reviewed the remaining seventeen vertebrae, took only a passing glance over the ribs, and continued down to the clavicles, scapulae, humeri, radii, ulnae, carpals, metacarpals, and phalanges. Venturing proximally, and then distally once again, she examined the innominates and sacrum, skipped the femora, tibias, and patellae, and finish with as many bones of the feet as were present. She then returned to the ribs.

"Bones, you said cadaver dogs won't be able to sniff out bare bones like Banty's and Aleesha's?"

"Correct," she said, distractedly. "Minute particles on the distal aspect of right posterior ribs five and six," she enumerated in a dry professional tone for her examination recording device. Reaching for the large magnifying glass, she scrutinized the ribs in question, then cervical vertebrae two through five. A disjointed story was only beginning to knit itself together in her brain. _What could have possibly happened,_ she wondered. _How are the anomalies connected to each other?_ At the very beginning, it is difficult to predict what observations would later prove meaningless, and which would prove significant. Speculating was pointless; she focused on simply gathering information. "Booth, hand me the medical examiner's original notes. If I recall correctly, the documentation of Banty's autopsy lacks specificity in regard to trauma on the occipital condyles of the cranial base and the transverse processes of the C2 through C5 vertebrae."

Booth flipped through the short stack of files from Deputy LeSerf, and located the report by Dr. Ian Shcherbakov. "Let's have a look here."

"Look for mention of the distal aspect of the right posterior fifth and sixth ribs as well."

Booth lay the file open and scanned the first page looking for the words _ribs_, and then _condyles._

"Here we are," he said, folding the first page of the report over. "Uh, okay— we got old injuries—remodeled, looks like a wrist—uh, radius. Left."

"Hm. Okay, yeah, I see that," she said, leaning over the radii with her magnifying glass. "How about the cervical vertebrae? Anything about those?"

"Uh—yes. _'Cause of death,"_ Booth read. _"Fractured facets of the transverse processes of C2 through C4 vertebra. Broken neck. Severed spinal column."_ He paused thoughtfully. "Huh—and that's it. Case closed." He looked up at Brennan for a beat. "I'll bet since the teeth in this cranium were an identical match with the dental records—and the broken neck was the obvious cause of death, the ME found no need to look further, you know, at the leg bones."

"Hm," Brennan grunted. "Are you sure that's all the report says?"

He flipped to the back of the file expecting to find X-ray images, but there were none.

"I suppose, if you can already see the bones, there's no reason to take an x-ray, right?"

"Unless there appears to be a puncture of some sort or something imbedded in the tissue requiring examination without damaging the bone. What about the ribs?"

"Nothing about the ribs," he confirmed, slapping the file closed and holding it out to her.

"And no mention of the Atlas, the C1 vertebra?" She didn't look up, didn't take the file, but gently returned the fifth right posterior rib to the table and glanced at the cervical vertebra for what would be the first of several times.

"I know what an _Atlas_ is, Bones," he chuffed, flipping the manilla cover open again. "Surprisingly, no. Nothing about the Atlas. Is that out of the ordinary?"

Brennan nodded, then picked up the fifth _right_ posterior vertebra for comparison. This rib appeared pristine, as did the sixth right posterior rib. "Hm," she grunted, making a mental note to have Wendell examine them under the electron microscope.

"What are you thinking?" It had been a while since he'd endured an entire examination

and his curiosity was piqued.

"I don't know yet," she answered very slowly and in a hollow tone as she brought the rib bone to her nose and took a whiff. This was her domain, and she was in the zone. She began circling the remains, picking up several bones, smelling them, then returning them to their spots, her face pinched in rapt concentration.

Accepting her semi-response, Booth embarked upon a mental search for alternative methods for locating that third victim, now that the cadaver dogs were a bust.

"So, maybe we can use ground penetrating radar," Booth murmured aloud. "That's a lot of land, though." He drummed his fingers on the table, then flipped open the laptop and began a Google query.

"It is a lot of land," Brennan commented, momentarily poking her head out of her intellectual fog as she walked between the autopsy tables. She held out a bone in front of Booth's face. "Smell this," she commanded.

"What?" Booth took a step back. "God, do I have to?"

"Booth, just—" she waved it under his nose. Booth reared back, then slowly returned and sniffed quickly.

"Hmm. What _is_ that?" Booth's eyes flew open wide, then retracted into a curious squint.

"The bone is a femur, the scent is unclear. What does it remind you of?"

"Makeup or something. Face cream? One of those magical youth-enizing things you women put on at night—maybe?"

"Interesting. I thought it smelled dendrological—_nutty_—from something with bark, but edible. And _euthanizing_ means killing something."

"I meant, something that makes the skin look and feel more youthful._ Youth_-enizing."

"Oh," she grimaced and nodded.

Booth smelled it again. "It's not _cedar_ but it's sweetish, spicy."

"Yes. It's very faint. Here," she said, holding the bone out to him again. "Feel it—the surface."

"What? I thought we weren't supposed to touch remains without gloves on!"

"I'm making an exception," she said, "there's a lot of surface area on a femur, and I don't think the bone is caustic. Just be judicious in your examination."

"You don't think the bone is caustic? Okay," he sighed, swallowed deeply, then tapped the bone quickly as if it were a hot burner. Brennan glared at him reproachfully. "Okay, fine!" He relented, placing the tip of his index finger on the shaft. "What am I looking for?"

"Rub the surface. What do you feel?"

Booth's face pinched quizzically, then went blank. "What am I supposed to feel?"

"Here, compare the texture to this," she said, choosing a clavicle from the table behind her and holding it out to him as well. Booth ran his index and middle fingers over the surface of each bone. After a moment, she switched out the clavicle for the left innominate. "Feel the difference?"

"Yeah. The femur is softer. I mean," his mouth pinched in thought, "like—flower petal soft. Almost velvety. The clavicle—it's _dry?"_

"Exactly. Very good description, Booth" She smiled and returned the femur to the autopsy table, and then chose a tibia to present to him.

"Tibia is soft as well—like the femur." Booth frowned in wonderment, curiosity creasing his brow. He smelled the tibia. "And has the same scent—like the femur! Could the killer have used some kind of ceremonial precious oils? What does frankincense smell like?" He sniffed the cold dry morgue air. "And why can we smell the spiciness on the bones, but we can't smell the putrefaction anymore?" He turned around slowly and sniffed the morgue air again.

"The scent on the bones is different. New. That's why. Thank God," she said, under her breath. "The femora and the tibias—I wish there was better lighting in here—they appear to possess a slightly different tint as well."

"Yeah, like chicken bones—"

"Exactly," she said, returning both bones to their rightful places, then standing at the foot of her table to take in the skeleton as a whole. "As if he'd greased them up and cooked them, allowing the medulla ossium to seep into the bone."

Booth rubbed his thumbs in circular patterns over his other finger tips then took another whiff of his fingertips. The scent was as faint as a whisper, but it was definitely there. "Did you notice the smelly ones seem heavier than the other bones."

"Of course, they do, Booth. The femur is the largest and heaviest bone in the body. Fifty-seven percent of the femoral neck is cortical bone tissue, compact tissue; the shaft is ninety-five percent cortical bone tissue. The tibia is the second largest, and the strongest bone, each tibia carrying forty percent of the body's weight." Brennan chewed on the side of her lower lip for a moment. "The contributor of_ these_ femora and tibias was athletic, like Aleesha. And, just like Aleesha's, these bones hypertrophied as a result of the piezoelectric properties of bone under repetitive weight-bearing exercise. Comparative to the rest of the remains, these bones are outside the expected weight range—_comparatively speaking_. I can tell that just by feel." She picked up a femur in one hand, a tibia in the other and tested their weights by gently raising and lifting each.

"Hm," Booth grunted pensively. "So they are heavier than they should be. Do you think that's why he chose them, the femurs and tibias, because of their size and strength?"

"Motivation is your domain, Booth. What do _you_ think?"

Booth stared blankly at the remains. "Maybe there's some psychological reason behind them—or, maybe he just picked two random bones."

"Perhaps. However, it doesn't seem random—"

"Maybe he figured the femurs and tibias would be the least likely to break or lose during transport?" He shrugged, meeting her eyes.

"Possibly," she conceded. "As long as there are no conspicuous kerf marks, fractures, or hemorrhagic staining on the femora, they would be of little interest to an ME. An investigative examination of the skeleton would focus on the the ribs—which protect the heart," she said, gesturing toward the drooping ladder of ribs lying on Banty's table, "and the cranium—which protects the brain—"

"Ahh," he said in a sing-song tone. "And the spine, which protects the spinal cord—the killer smacked her head around and broke the thingies off her vertebra. Those are important as well."

"Exactly. The spinal column—" she smiled. "These three areas are most closely examined for cause of death—in the absence of revealing visceral evidence. So, searching these three, Dr. Shcherbakov was satisfied with cause of death," she chagrined. "And he was right about that." She glared at Booth intensely, her lips in a stern line.

"What?"

"It's just that there's so much more to this story, Booth, and these young women deserve to have their stories told."

Booth grimaced and nodded. "That's your job; you're the brilliant one," he said, winking a twinkle across to her. "And their killer needs to be stopped. What else are you thinking?"

"The femur-tibia combination was a brilliant choice."

"What do you mean?"

"If I had to pick a bone, I would chose the femur. _Ipso facto colombo oreo,_ it was a brilliant choice! Then I would include the tibia because the greater variance in comparative size between a tibia from one skeleton and the corresponding femur of another one would be more conspicuous than a comparative variance between femur and patella or calcaneus. No, it was prudent to include the tibias or risk suspicion."

"So—basically, it would be more noticeable if he _didn't_ take the tibias?"

"Correct."

"I think this guy is all about subterfuge, Bones," he said, nodding toward the lower half of the skeleton, "By choosing to exchange the femur-tibia combination, the switched bones were hidden in plain sight!"

"Precisely. And—the subterfuge was furthered by the very obvious cause of death!"

"Hm," Booth grunted, pulling on his lower lip. "That's why I think this has to do with some kind of ritual," he said, closing the files and stacking them on the pile with the others. "Hey, I really can't smell death anymore. That air conditioner thing really works."

"Thanks to you, and the miracle of neural adaptation!"

They exchanged a furtive glance, then Booth returned to his computer screen.

"So," chuckled Booth playfully a moment later, "if you had a bone to pick—"

"Yes," she nodded, meeting his amused gaze. "I would choose the femur and the tibia combination— as I said, it's brilliant."

"Do you have any _other_ bones to pick?"

"What? I'm not a homicidal maniac, if that's what you're insinuating—"

"I'm not insinuating anything," he defended, holding his hands up in surrender. "It's just an idiomatic phrase—it means that you have a complaint to lodge. Like, _I have a bone to pick with you about the crappy service at this restaurant._ Like that. And you said, that if you were to pick a bone—"

"—I think I get it, Booth, and I recognize that you are simply toying with me with your suggestive punning, but I do not have any complaint to lodge other than that it is getting rather hypothermic in here." She sent him a playfully reproachful smirk. "And that if we had unloaded our luggage from that town car we could be donning sweaters and jackets by now."

Booth stared back expressionlessly, then dropped his head and began to whistle as he tapped aimlessly on the keyboard. "If I had a bone to pick—or _bones_," he mumbled, though loud enough for her to clearly understand what he said.

Brennan snorted snarkily.

"What?"

"I know what bone you'd pick!"

"No, you don't," he mumbled back playfully, not looking up.

"I bet I do—"

"—I bet you don't."

"Fine. Go ahead. What bone—_or bones_—would you pick?" She asked in a sarcastic tone.

"I'd pick you," he mumbled, still not looking up. "Every time."

Brennan smiled silently, pulled her measuring tape out of her pocket, and returned to continue her documentation. Booth stole a look up at her and noted the crooked grin across her lips as she began measuring each bone. Several beats later, she looked up and cocked her head to the side.

"Whenever I'm asked where I would prefer to sit—in a restaurant—" she said, self-consciously, focusing back on her work with feigning casualness.

"—Yeah?" Booth chuffed, only slightly surprised at this non sequitur.

"Table or a booth?" she grinned at a patella. "I always choose Booth," she said, looking up. "Every time."

Booth groaned and slapped his forehead. "Corny," he chuckled. "Corny as a corn crib, but I'll give you two points for effort."

"Just two?" She mewled disappointingly before they both giggled and snorted.

Tearing his eyes away from his partner, Booth focused on the laptop screen.

Ten minutes later, the tapping of Booth's fingertips on the keyboard broke through Brennan's determined fugue, alerting her to a memory of something she'd heard him say earlier.

"As I previously stated, you are correct, Booth," Brennan said calmly as if they had been in the middle of a conversation.

"I know I am," he chuckled. "Uh—what about?"

"There is far too much land to efficiently cover with ground penetrating radar," she said, continuing to document her findings, then measuring a metacarpal. "It would be pointless under the circumstances—" She made another note on her pad without looking up.

"Well, let's not jump to conclusions. You always say to get all the facts first, right?" Booth sighed heavily as he shifted from foot to foot and leaned into the table to take some weight off his feet. "That's what I was just looking up. Thought I'd do one of your Fermi calculations and get a guestimate here. Listen to this," he said, punching a key to bring an Excel spreadsheet to the foreground. "I figured I'd start by narrowing down the field, right?" He continued without looking up for confirmation. "Killers are creatures of habit just like the rest of us. They have favorite spots, routines, patterns. That's how they get caught, right? Green River Killer buried his kills up and down the Green River, Hillside Stranglers—they left them on hillsides in the Glendale and Highland Park areas of California, then here in Washington. Howard Epps—"

"—The marshlands," Brennan contributed in a somber tone.

"Right, and Jeffery Dahmer—well, he was the mother of all sick bastards like nothing I've ever seen—he strangled people in his own home and apartments, even in his _grandmother's_ house—God!. Sick duck! Did you know he kept body parts in files and the fridge, and eventually—"

"Booth—!" Brennan clenched her teeth and grimaced.

"Yeah? Come on, how can that bother you? You see gross stuff all the time!"

Brennan swiveled from side to side as if looking for something. "I look at remains after the crime has been committed. I am able to compartmentalize that and view it scientifically, but thinking about him having a grandmother—and that he brought victims to his parents' home and killed them there, right where they eat their meals and play Scrabble—somehow that makes it all the more tragic," she scowled as if her skin were crawling with mites. "Continue," she croaked.

"Okay, so far we've got two sets of remains from three individuals, right? We have two similar locations—sporadically trafficked grassy/woody stretches of undeveloped land, right? A man walking purposefully wouldn't be out of place, but he could find lots of places to hide things, do things—to be there long enough to dig a hole, systematically assemble a skeleton in that hole, then refill the hole—without getting caught."

"Continue."

"Uh, The chances that we'll find that third victim here, in a similar setting, or in Haverford are about 70%—"

"We're talking about miles and miles of vegetation and park here, plus campus grounds back in Pennsylvania," she said blandly. "I could give you an estimate of the square mileage and how long it would take to cover it if I knew how many GPRs we could requisition. Where'd you get that statistic anyway?"

"The seventy percent? Made it up. Gotta start somewhere. Maybe it's not really that many miles once you do the math, I do the math, I mean. I say we get local law enforcement looking for that third set of remains while you and I are interrogating everyone linked to the Banty case here tomorrow."

"Two victims, two locations, sixty-six percent likelihood we'll find that third victim in Haverford or here. Thirty-three percent likelihood we'll find her in a different location entirely, though it does make sense that the third location would be woody and sporadically populated—"

"Well, let's work with what we got right now. This is what I've come up with: Philly college campuses with woodland areas. Excluding universities and colleges with more than 2,000 students or fewer than 100 acres; excluding all-girl colleges, and urban locations—"

"Urban campuses are devoid of forestation, but why no all-female universities? I would think the atmosphere of an all-girl campus would be rife with potential victims."

"Yeah, but it's a lot easier to blend in when you're not the only guy hanging around, or one of very few, right? So—that leaves Haverford, Bryn Mawr, Swarthmore, Delaware Valley college, and I'm including Cabrini College despite their larger student population because they only have 112 acres of grassland."

"Sounds methodical—"

"—and I come up with 1,420 acres, which may sound like a lot, but that's not even two and a half square miles. Then—"

"Booth—" Brennan attempted to interrupt him, but he was unstoppable at this point.

"—Here in Washington State, I've calculated 1,657 acres of forest and riverside trails including Island Center Park where Banty was found. That's only—uh, that's less than a total of five miles total between here and Philly. Think that's do-able?"

"The number five may seem small, but an acre is the amount of land that takes a day to plough with a yoke of oxen. Imagine mowing an acre of land. How long would that take?"

Booth squinted in her direction.

"Okay, twenty-five hockey fields—one acre is equivalent to twenty-five hockey fields."

"Hm. They're rinks. Hockey rinks. Does that include everything— players, penalty, and scorekeepers benches?"

"I assume so. How long would it take to clean them?"

"You don't clean them, Bones, you resurface the ice—"

"How long?"

"Fifteen, twenty minutes per—let's say eight hours. Crapola—so, three thousand acres is gonna take—four months. I'm screwed," he huffed dejectedly. "That can't be right—that's just ridiculous."

"It's too much land."

"Bones, I don't know how else to narrow this down. We need more information."

"Well," Brennan answered, "we will have more information once Dr. Hodgins does an isotope analysis on the bone apatite. That will give us some geographical information—"

"Hm," Booth grunted, deep in thought, then whistled aimlessly through his front teeth as his mental wheels turned. "Cadaver dogs smell bones—but—" He paused, a figurative light bulb dancing over his head.

"—What?"

"You said cadaver dogs are trained to specifically sniff out putrefaction, right?"

"Correct. Humans have ten square inches of olfactory mucosa and roughly five million sensitive cells within the nose. Canines have 150 square inches of olfactory mucosa, and 200 million sensitive cells. As repugnant as the odor in this autopsy is for you and me, can you imagine what it would be like for a dog?"

"Suicidal."

"Hm," Brennan considered. "I believe suicide is an emotional choice, unless one is risking their life to save another. I wouldn't expect a canine to commit emotional suicide, Booth."

"Because they couldn't leave a note, right?" Booth chuckled. "Let's stay on point, here! Didn't you tell me there were dogs being trained to locate ancient artifacts and old burial grounds in the Malapupu Islands. Do you remember that? Those wouldn't have meat on them anymore, would they?"

"Wow. You are—correct, Booth! You—are absolutely correct! Where did I read that?" Brennan pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. "Oh yes! Canines were trained to locate 2.6 million year old Aboriginal tombs found buried under slag heaps at the Baratti and Populonia Archaeological Park in South Australia!"

Booth's eyes almost popped out of his head. "Yes!" He yelped, doing a jaunty fist pump. "How many dogs you think they have? Wait—Australia—that's probably out of the question—and out of our jurisdiction."

"That was several years ago, they have most likely been training canines ever since then. And—neither out of the question nor your jurisdiction—I believe there's a training facility in Arizona."

"Yes! Now you're talking! Do you have their number? I suppose it's too late to call—" Booth bit his lip, momentarily dejected.

"I have the number of a Dr. Harold Winchester, and now I recall it's Birmingham, not Arizona. He may be on a dig, however. He was headed to Cairo at the time of the article."

"Let's call him! Wait—excrement! We can't call him now. It's well after one a.m., almost two! What time is it in Alabama?"

"Almost four in the morning," Brennan said dryly, staring through a hand-held magnifying glass at the head of the left femur. "Booth, you must be tired. When have you ever let a little inconvenience get between you and capturing a killer?" She quirked an eyebrow at her mate.

"Damn straight. The _Big Dog's_ in town and he doesn't give a damn what time it is—anywhere!"

"There you go," she replied, directing Booth to where he could find the phone number for Dr. Harold Winchester in Birmingham, Alabama—where it was precisely two minutes after one o'clock in the morning.

After five rings, Booth almost hung up, but didn't. At twelve rings, Brennan glanced quizzically at Booth. He shrugged in response, but continued to listen for a pick-up, or at least an answering machine.

Dr. Harold Winchester, having put his migraine to bed with four extra strength Ibuprofen and a fifth of Bourbon, hoped the ringing would go away without him having to do anything but roll over and cover his head with a pillow. When he finally gave up and swatted blindly for the phone on his bedside table, his growl made it clear he was not pleased to be answering the phone at what he considered an uncivilized time of the morning.

"Frank, yeh stinkin' bastard, what are you callin' me fer?" He barked into the receiver without ever opening his eyes.

"Dr. Harold Winchester, this is FBI Agent Seeley Booth. My partner and I are working on a case that requires the use of your cadaver, er, bone dogs."

"Wha?" Harold rubbed his eyes several times and felt around for his glasses. "What the sam hell time is it, anyway, Frank?"

"Sir, I apologize for the hour. This is not Frank—it's the FBI, sir, and we need to commandeer your bone dogs. Me and my partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan—"

"Temperance?! _Riiiiiight!_ How stupid do you think I am? I knew I'd live to regret mentioning her name to you! And you sure as shite don't sound like no—_anthropologist!"_

"Dr. Winchester, I am not an anthropologist. I am a special agent with the FBI, and again, I apologize for the hour. Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institution in Washington, D.C. is my partner—"

"I don't care who you're sleeping with, son—"

"—The case we're working involves the bones of three young women," continued Booth, ignoring Winchester's snide protests, "maybe more. I request that you take this seriously, sir. Now, you are that Harold Winchester, the anthropologist who's been working with bone dogs to unearth completely clean bones, correct?" Booth's voice had an edge by this time.

"For Pete's sake, Frank. You got me, okay? You got me. Hah, hah, hah. See you in the morning," he grumbled, adding several colorful words. Gerry loved using colorful language. It made him feel powerful, intimidating. "Temperance Brennan, my ass—next thing you'll be tellin' me you're Marilyn Monroe!"

"What do I have to do to convince you that I mean business," Booth growled through the phone. He took a deep breath and yelled into the phone. "Does the name Dr. Temperance Brennan mean anything to you?!"

"You know exactly what it means to me, Franklin. She's that leggy filly who's sharper than a brass tack and well too aware of it, and I told you I wouldn't work with her if you promised me a Nobel Prize!" Actually, decades previously, Harold had admired Brennan from afar for the duration of a four-day conference and finally mustered the courage to invite her to collaborate with him on a project. She'd shot him down on the basis that what he proposed would not be a valuable use of her time. She'd read one of his earlier articles and found the work shoddy and the findings uninteresting. And she told him so.

Harold still smarted from the rebuff, but had followed her progress over the years and always secretly hoped he'd run into her now that he'd pioneered several ground-breaking excavation methodologies that were being used all over the world.

_Now—what did I read about her in Forensic Anthropology Quarterly?_ Winchester scratched his stubbly chin and searched his memory banks._ Wait! I think she does work with the FBI—!_ A flash of adrenaline shot through Harold's chest. He hopped out of bed and stood at attention. _Could it be—? Does she need my help? Or, is this a joke, another one of Frank's obnoxious pranks?_

"FBI, you say?" Winchester choked into the receiver, then cleared his throat. "Tell me something that will prove you're with Dr. Temperance Brennan," he challenged.

"Bones—" Booth relayed the request.

"Tell him he spelled the word_ 'Australopithecus Sebida'_ incorrectly in his article about their vegetarian lifestyle," Brennan offered absently while scrutinizing the distal end of the right tibia. "It's not 'aust-_rolah_-pithecus—it's Aust-_R-A-L-O-_pithecus!'"

Halfway through the spelling lesson, Booth held the phone in Brennan's direction to capture the words he had no interest in repeating. "Got that, Sparky?"

"Hey!" Winchester barked. "My graduate assistant made that mistake, not me! And it was corrected for the individual copies—"

"What did I tell you, Booth? It's the weak who blame others—" she smirked, shaking her head slowly side to side. Booth's eyes flew open at the chill in her tone and stifled a laugh. _She shoots; she scores,_ he thought, grinning.

"I heard that," Winchester shouted nastily into the phone. "Just who do you think you—"

"Hey, Sparky, watch your tone!" Booth snarled back.

"Are you impugning my authority, Dr. Winchester?" Brennan shouted across the morgue toward the phone.

Winchester choked on his tongue. He recognized her voice and broke out in a cold sweat. If her biting comments hadn't confirmed that this was indeed the woman in question, that voice was unmistakable.

Booth allowed Brennan's terse threat to ring in the air for a moment before continuing.

"Here's what you're gonna do, Sparky, you're going to tell me how many of these wonder pups you have, and then you are going to get them on a plane or bus or a magic carpet—I don't really care what—and you're gonna get half of them up here, the other half to Philadelphia, before I send someone over there to arrest you for impeding the progress of a federal investigation! ! Understand? Now," he said, taking a breath. "How many you got and when can we expect to receive them?"

A subdued Dr. Winchester requested fifteen minutes to make a few calls before settling the details. In the end, Booth and Brennan were victorious, being promised fifteen canines per coast.

Their triumph having given Booth renewed energy, he plucked a stilled cassette out of the tape player and inserted a mixtape called, _'The Top Twenty Best Guitar Riffs. Of. All. Time.'_ He proceeded to spend the next half hour bobbing his head to the beat and jamming on his invisible Fender Stratocaster as Lynyrd Skynyrd's iconic 'Sweet Home Alabama' filled the room, and Brennan weighed and finished measuring all 201 bones. By the time she was finished, Booth had worked up a little sweat jamming on his Gibson SG steel string electric air guitar along with Ritchie Blackmore of Deep Purple, Metallica's Kirk Hammet, and several more. When he got to Tom Scholz playing 'More Than a Feeling, Booth broke out the falsetto and sang along, smiling when Brennan laughed, and delighted when she started bopping along to the beat.

As Brennan revisited her notes on the four bones this case was centered around, Booth gasped when 'You Shook Me All Night Long' rolled off the tape. Rocking and nodding across the room in a musician's crouch, he accompanied Angus Young in an energetic live performance of the display Brennan and the entire team had watched on tape this morning. Brennan just shook her head and laughed.

"Agh!" She yelped when he hip-checked her rhythmically to the beat toward the end of the song. "I'm glad you've found a way to warm up, Booth. I, on the other hand, can not afford such a luxury, my work requiring uninterrupted focus."

"This is your domain, Bones. You can mess around all you want when we're in my domain," he said, kissing her on the back of the head before returning to choose another tape.

"I don't need to make a mess when I'm in your domain, Booth," she protested, looking up from her notes. "I'm never bored. I find your work fascinating. Disorienting and counterintuitive, at least to me sometimes, but fascinating nonetheless."

Booth shrugged dismissively, snapping a new audio tape into the cassette player. "Yeah, but I'm always talking to you while I work. You always know what's going on. See, my domain is all about action." He shook his fists in the air for emphasis. "The Big Dog's all about kicking ass and taking names, baby," he said, "That's what I'm all about!"

"I'm about action," she protested. "I'm about getting things done."

"Sure you are, but your things are quiet. I have no idea what's going on half the time! But, I know I just gotta wait," he grinned, "and you'll come up with something brilliant."

"Patience is a virtue, right—?"

"That's right, baby," he chided. "And I am nothing if not patient." He gave her a meaningful stare knowing full well she'd understand his intent.

"Hm," she grunted, grinning ear to ear without looking up.

On the tail of her noncommittal response, the four cellos and two violas of the Boston Pops' fifteen minute delivery of Tchaikovsky's '1812 Overture' spindled elegantly into the air. Delighted to find a solitary drum stick in the middle of a bouquet of pencils on Dr. Shcherbakov's desk, Booth raised his arms and began to conduct the orchestra, the drumstick as his baton.

"Know what this is, Bones?"

"It's a wooden drumstick for a percussion instrument," she said, glancing up quickly.

"No," he grimaced, "the music! You know what piece this is?"

"Of course, it's commonly played in accompaniment to fireworks on the 4th of July and you love it because of the fifteen cannons firing at the end."

"Yes! How'd you know that?" He stared at her in wonderment. "About me and the canons?"

She rewarded him with a toothy grin. "I know you, that is how." She winked, and returned her attention to her work.

Ten minutes later, unable to stand her intent silence any longer, he walked around and stood by her side with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Are you seeing anything more—there," he said, nodding at the skeleton splayed out before them, "that links Banty's and Aleesha's cases?"

"There is a preponderance of evidence that does not contradict the supposition of a connection, yes," she said with a small shrug and a sigh. "Something else has come to my attention, Booth—the femora and tibias appear to not have aged as swiftly as the rest of the skeleton. This usually indicates a difference in time exposed to the elements—"

"Are you saying that Banty's skeleton may have sat drying for a while until the killer took his next victim—which he promptly buried with the freshly cleaned bones?"

Brennan nodded disconsolately. "I'd say up to two weeks."

"Wow. Or, this third victim wasn't killed until two weeks after Banty and Aleesha."

"Or—or, as we have suspected, it was simply the application of the amalgamate he treated the bones of this third victim with—as evidenced by the the aroma and texture we discussed earlier.

"Why didn't the medical examiner notice this _before?"_

"That is what I have been wondering myself, Booth," she admitted forlornly. "If we learn that the third victim went missing within days of Aleesha and Banty, that would mean that she was held captive, possibly tortured, for several weeks before being killed."

"Is there any evidence of that?"

"Not on the four bones we have of the third victim. However, the minute particles I noted on the posterior ribs may be semi-microscopic fractures—which would indicate there was more to these deaths than simple internal decapitation."

Booth flinched. "I still can't stand that terminology—internal decapitation. Can we just call it a broken neck? Why the pinchy face?"

"I don't mean to belabor the point, Booth, but I am frustrated by the lack of commitment exhibited by the slipshod autopsy." Brennan exhaled sharply, her shoulders dropping. She clenched her jaw, and stared, unseeing, at the table. "A heinous crime had been committed, and no one had looked further than absolutely necessary. As a result, even more victims could be out there."

"Are you thinking maybe there was collusion of some kind? Maybe someone with an agenda paid someone else not to look too closely at the remains?"

A cold wave scampered up Brennan's spine. "Copulating donkey turds," she gasped quietly, covering her mouth with the back of her gloved wrist, "that hadn't even occurred to me." After a moment of silent staring into Booth's eyes across the room, Brennan continued. "The naked eye can see that these femora and tibias are of different size and texture. There is a one inch disparity between these femora and those that truly belong to Banty Solicious, if her medical records are accurate," Brennan chagrined, dropping her head to the side.

"Uh, that may be obvious to you, Bones, but—"

"Look at this patella," she mewled disgustedly. "It would barely cover the synovial joint, between femur and tibia. Even if it did, her palellofemoral arthritis would have made bending her knee nearly impossible!" Brennan placed the patella atop the conjunction of femoral head and tibia. It teetered awkwardly and fell off immediately. The color difference was obvious, though: the patella being white, the others slightly gray.

"Well, like I said, maybe the killer paid off the medical examiner—told him to close the case quickly."

"Hm," Brennan grunted, deep in thought. "Didn't Deputy LeSerf mention there were financial constraints in King County? Perhaps it wasn't a board certified medical examiner at all, but an untrained, inexperienced coroner that performed the autopsy. Anyone can be a coroner, you know. Even you, Booth."

Booth's eyebrows shot up at that suggestion. "No, thank you. You won't catch me poking around in all that slimy dead stuff. No, sir. I don't even gargle with listerine because it's supposed to kill germs fast, and I can't stand the thought of something dying in my mouth!" Booth gagged as an involuntary shiver started at his shoulders and traveled down his torso. With a final little shiver and a cough, Booth flipped open the folder once again. "Nope. This Dr. William Astor who signed the report has a whole alphabet typed under his signature."

"What do you mean?"

"Uh, there's M.D.—"

"—Medical Doctor."

"Right, O.D.—"

"That would be osteopathic medicine; bones/joints/muscles."

"Of course," Booth chuffed. "And then, he's also got PhD and MBA."

"Doctor of philosophy, but that could be in any area of study. MBA is a masters in business administration."

"Basically, he's a major league smarty pants," concluded Booth, drumming his fingers on the top of the file.

"Bingo, baby. So, why the slipshod work?"

"Maybe the budget cuts were too much for Dr. ABCDEFG. Maybe he felt he deserved a little bonus on the side, courtesy of our killer."

Booth gazed at Brennan as she wrapped her fingers around the ledge of the tabletop and stood preternaturally still for a minute, then drummed her fingers on the stainless steel surface.

"That means I can't trust a damn thing written in that report!" Brennan spat. Grabbing the magnifying glass once more, she prepared to examine every inch of bone surface again. Booth concentrated on not rolling his eyes and crying out at the prospect of spending another hour in the morgue while Brennan repeated her examination.

Sensing Booth's frustration, Brennan glanced up quickly, then back down at her work. "If you need something to do, you may borrow my measuring tape. I seem to recall you mentioning something about getting your bones measured!" She said coquettishly.

"Ha!" Booth snorted and chuckled. "No man wants their, uh, junk measured in a blizzard like the one we're standing in." He dipped his chin and gazed back up at her through his lashes. "You do know I'm not talking about real bones—"

"—I know exactly what you're talking about!" Brennan chortled as her cheeks were infused with a generous dose of hemoglobin. She pursed her lips and avoided his gaze, choosing instead to focus on her inventory notes.

"Not gonna bite, huh?" Booth stifled a huge grin, his own neck getting very warm.

"Stop. I'm trying to focus," she said in a low voice, fiercely trying not to laugh, and still refusing to meet his eye. "You could measure me," she suggested in a lilting tone.

Booth considered that for a moment, but before he could say or do anything, Brennan was talking again.

"Do the notes say anything about missing the lateral cuniform of the left foot and the second through fourth distal phalanges of the right foot?"

Booth checked the notes. "Nope. Maybe they got lost somewhere between the coroner's office and the funeral home."

"That's possible. There was most likely a span of time, perhaps as much as a month, between the finding of the remains and the interment of them at the cemetery."

"What makes you say that?"

"Look at the coffin," she said, nodding backward toward the twenty-five by twenty inch mahogany box. She braced her hands on the autopsy table to ponder the full skeleton before her. "There's no way that likeness of Banty Solicious carved into the lid could have been carved before she was found. They wouldn't have known they could use such a small container," she said, matter of factly.

"Whoa," Booth gasped, stunned and motionless. Until now he hadn't so much as glanced at the coffin. His mouth went dry.

"Booth?"

He shivered involuntarily, then his eyes snapped back to Brennan's.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, trying to shake off the cloud of malaise creeping through him. He swallowed and licked his lips, then grabbed his stomach. It felt like a hive of silent bees were bouncing around in there, trying to claw their way up through his esophagus.

"Booth, are you okay?" She said, staring into his eyes, assessing the dilation of his pupils. She lay a hand on his forearm and found it cool, clammy. He didn't move. "Booth?" She asked, jostling his arm. When he was despondent, she followed his line of sight to the casket behind her.

"That's, uh—," he mouthed soundlessly, then cleared his throat. "That – that's the casket? It looks more like—like a—a footlocker, or a cedar chest—or something." He walked over to the ornately carved box atop the accordion cart and shoved his hands into his armpits. "And what's that?" He asked, nodding at the chiseled relief rising out of the wood. It was an intricate carving of a young girl in a spring dress, wind in her hair as she walked through a field of daisies. A cross, rosary beads, and a bible lay loosely in her slender fingers.

"Whoa. That's a small casket," Booth said, in a forced blank tone, his mortification barely contained. Breathe, he thought, trying to calm himself. "That would barely fit Parker," he mumbled, trying to dismiss what was really bothering him—the fact that the image appeared to be breathing. He shivered involuntarily.

"It was an odd choice, a juvenile casket, but an economical one. Her remains fit perfectly. An adult sized mahogany casket on top of what they must have paid for the artwork, would have cost them twice as much," Brennan said distractedly, her focus on the pulse bouncing at his throat. Booth's eyebrows raised quickly then lowered and pinched together as if he were trying to justify something that defied justification. He exhaled forcefully, his shoulders falling, his arms dropping to his sides. He huffed two or three more times. "I've never seen, uh, anything like it—"

"What specifically are you referring to?"

"I'm surprised there's not more dirt on this thing. It was down there for, what? Four years?"He cleared his throat again. The comment sounded lame, even to his own ears, but he wasn't about to say what he was really thinking.

"The amount of time it was interred makes no difference, Booth. Caskets are buried inside vaults. If they weren't, the weight of 5-6 feet of soil on top of a wooden box would collapse it in time. Cemeteries would become uninhabitable—sinkholes of terror. Just imagine—"

"I don't have to imagine, I've been there," he cut her off, zombie-faced. This is what he'd been thinking about. And he had been there. In Bagrami, two and a half hours outside Kabul. And near Pul-e-Charkhi prison. Twice. And a hundred times more in his nightmares. There, and everywhere, mass graves weren't fortified by vaults, or acknowledged in any way, for that matter. The Afghan terrain was devastated by fossil fuel pollution, spent land mines; the scars of war. Though drought, desertification and deforestation were plights worthy of activists' attention, scattershot sinkholes chockablock with osseous remnants of disarticulated lives remained unmarked and unredressed, their inhabitants erased as if they'd never been born.

In his dreams, the cold, grey, statue-like bodies did breathe. They visited him when unconsciousness dissolved his defenses and ushered the nightmares in for coffee and biscotti. In one of Booth's recurring nightmares, he ran through rolling sheets of mist across a cemetery, the ground giving way beneath him as he ran. He'd find himself in hole after hole filled with the rotting corpses of his sniper targets. Sometimes they were alive; sometimes dead. But they were always angry, murderous. Sometimes they roared deafeningly until his head split open and he couldn't find all the pieces. Sometimes wives were in the graves as well, dead and rotting or raging hysterically as they clawed at his feet. Booth shook himself, as if doing so would dislodge the images in his head. He realized Brennan had been speaking to him, though he hadn't heard a single word she'd said.

"—death rituals aren't publicized in the way the more joyous milestones in life are, Booth. Birth, coming of age, marriage, anniversaries. But death and burial rituals established by societies serve a utilitarian and necessary purpose. Dr. Sweets contends that they anchor the bereaved in reality, assist in the grieving process, give legitimacy to a very real loss. Their intent is to provide the grieving person or persons with very specific directions at a time when they may be paralyzed emotionally, socially, and economically. They also specify a code of acceptable behavior during interactions with the bereaved. In cultures inculcated with strong spiritual beliefs, these practices are intended to provide hope and reinforce the myth of a deity. The rights and rituals can be quite ornate and consuming—"

Booth faded out for a moment, pondering the lack of communal support for the grieving that accompanies the spiritual death, sliver by sliver, experienced by those who have taken life in combat. _Can I share these thoughts,_ he wondered. _I am not exactly the man she thinks I am. She sees me as a hero, a strong person. She needs me to be a strong person. I have to be one to do this job. Why does this come down on me so hard sometimes, and others I'm fine. Or, at least I think I'm just fine. I've really only been able to feel fine, like I can handle this, since we started working together._ He shook his head at his thoughts. Brennan assumed he was responding to her comments, so she continued.

"—though the death industry is the most lucrative here in the United States," Brennan continued, though she'd begun to reluctantly focus once more on her work. "In other countries, family members care for the deceased's remains. What do you think happens to the bodies of those men you killed in Afghanistan and elsewhere? They aren't left to rot on the side of the road, or in tents—or wherever they fall."

Booth shivered and swallowed, his mouth gone dry. As chilly as it was in that morgue, there were welts of sweat clinging to his hairline. Brennan's voice droned on unintelligibly through a haze of cotton.

"—corpses were most likely carried inside by their devastated wives or mothers, or, in the most unfortunate cases, by their children. Though it is customary for a family member of the same sex to bathe the corpse, in a war zone such as most of your kills were likely executed, it could have been the wives or mothers tasked with the responsibility of bathing the corpse an odd number of times, usually three for males, five for—"

Closing his eyes, Booth recalled the unwelcome image of his father who sometimes appeared in those nightmares. Occasionally, the elder Booth would stand above one of the sinkholes, arms crossed, a derisive and condescending smirk plastered across his alcohol-flushed face as Booth struggled and thrashed about among the dead. Edwin Booth's entire posture exuded disgust, disappointment._ You're a mess,_ it said. _A poor excuse for a man—a coward._ A wave of anger and resentment rose on a tide of bile in the back of Booth's throat as he stood lost in thought, staring at the tiny casket. He'd heard his old man's spiteful words in his head as many times as he'd heard the screams of his own sniper targets. Once again, Booth was overcome with a desire he knew would never be fulfilled; he wished to God that he'd beat the crap out of his old man when he had the chance. The fact that he harbored that desire disgusted him. He was angry at his dad for making him have that desire. And he was angry with himself.

"—I'd rather be sent off in some kind of ritual that disposes of my remains. Though, my brain would most likely have to be removed first, I am sure scientists will want to examine it—"

Booth's fists and jaw clenched and unclenched behind her as Brennan's voice droned on.

"—despite a semester of gross anatomy class, and despite my ability to compartmentalize, I don't think I could clean or prepare my own parents' cadavers for burial, much less my child's. Though, it's purported to be a great deal of help with acceptance of the loved one's—"

Booth felt dizzy. He'd worked diligently _not_ to think about what happened with the bodies of his targets. He was trained to view the targets as grave threats against humanity, ones whose life would be taken in exchange for the hundreds of lives saved by the single elimination. That's what he tried to remember, but the harder he tried, the more he saw their faces, hear the screams of their loved ones. Booth shivered.

"—wrapped in no more than three white cotton sheets for a shroud, then laid to rest on their right side perpendicular to Qibla, meaning Mecca—"

Booth knew what all this meant. He had attended several funerals for friends he'd made while at war. One thing he never expected to learn, but did, was that the color of a person's skin and the clothing they wore weren't guarantees of political or spiritual allegiances. He'd found peace-keepers of all peoples to be of one mind: united we stand; divided we fall. As a result, he and his team found assistance—and allegiance—in some of the least likely places, and with some of the least likely figures. He came to understand that God has many faces and many names, but the one they all had in common was peace.

"—with very specific prayers for the forgiveness of the dead. And the prayers are different depending on the age and sex of the deceased—"

"Enough!" Booth blurted, turning abruptly and walking briskly toward the door. He stood with his back to Brennan and dropped his head.

Brennan jumped in surprise. "Booth, what's wrong?" She started to walk toward him, but he turned, his steady gaze stopping her in his tracks. "You're actually—you don't look so good, Booth!" She took another step forward, then stopped. Booth's body language was unequivocal. It said, _Don't touch me. Don't even come near me._

"Bones," he said, inhaling sharply, holding his breath, then exhaling deliberately. "Look. I'm sorry. I'm—really hungry—huh, _really hungry—"_

"Are you sure? Because you look nauseous. To be precise, your pallor is—pale feldgrau."

"Wha?" He burped. Then puckered uncomfortably at the taste in his mouth.

"It's a kind of light grey-green. Your body language appears to indicate you are either angry or about to be violently ill. Are you sure you aren't suffering from gastrointestinal—?"

"Bones!" He stared hard, swallowing. He softened at the site of the panicked concern in her eyes. "Listen, I'll be fine. I didn't mean to freak out. It's just, I mean, I just need some food," he said grabbing his stomach and twisting his mouth into a disgruntled frown. "I think the stink, and the fatigue, and the hunger, too. It just all hit me. Like, boom! I'm gonna go find the can. Alright? If I find a vending machine, you want anything?"

Brennan's face was pinched in concern. "Are you sure?"

"I am," he said, managing a wan smile. "I really am. I think whatever I ate on the plane is trying to make a run for it," he said, holding his breath and covering his mouth.

"Well, then go!" she blurted. "Do you want me to come with you?"

He shook his head. No.

"If you're not back here in five," she insisted, "I'll come find you."

"Deal," he gulped as he turned on his heel and pushed through the door. Fortunately, the men's restroom was two doors down on the left. He hadn't felt this much abdominal turmoil since he'd washed down an entire package of Oreo cookies with two cans of Mountain Dew. That was two years ago. Once the moaning and sweating subsided, Booth felt _almost_ as good as new. The physical effect of his memories had momentarily overridden the memories themselves. As he washed his hands and splashed water on his face, those thoughts began to reemerge. _Oh, no you don't,_ he warned the insistent demon in his head. Then he remembered the bible verse Ed Williams, his priest friend from the plane, suggested Booth remember when he felt overwhelmed by his past:

_"Get thee behind me, Satan: thou art an offence unto me: for thou  
>savourest not the things that be of God, but those that be of men.<em>  
><em>~ Matthew 16:23<em>

Booth thought the words, then waited. He always felt a little self-conscious when he thought those words—as if addressing Satan brought him closer and made him more real. No matter how old he got, it still had the power to creep booth out. But if it worked, it was worth it. And it usually worked. Surprisingly, he suddenly felt like the barrage of images that wanted to devour him were held at bay behind a plexiglass wall. Pulling out his wallet, he searched for the battered prayer card his mom had pulled out of her purse and pressed into his palm the month before she left, making him promise never to forget the words inscribed there in gold lettering. He held the card to his nose and inhaled deeply. It still smelled like lipstick, Kleenex, Chanel No. 5, and spearmint gum … just like Mom. He read it to himself for the millionth time:

_The Light of God surrounds me._  
><em>The Love of God enfolds me.<em>  
><em>The Power of God protects me.<em>  
><em>The Presence of God watches over me.<em>  
><em>The Mind of God guides me.<em>  
><em>The Life of God flows through me.<em>  
><em>The Laws of God direct me.<em>  
><em>The Power of God abides within me.<em>  
><em>The Joy of God uplifts me.<em>  
><em>The Strength of God renews me.<em>  
><em>The Beauty of God inspires me.<em>  
><em>Wherever I am, God is!<em>  
><em>~ JDF, 1941<em>

"Well, Mom," he said. "I hope this brings me protection like you said it always did for you."

At that exact moment, he felt the familiar buzz of a text notification in his pocket. "Thank you, Jesus," Booth exclaimed, shoving the prayer card back into his wallet, his wallet back into his pocket.

The text was from Angela. _Motorcycle helmet._ She'd sent it three hours earlier, but the sketchy signal in the basement morgue must have delayed it.

"I'll be damned," he said, his voice echoing in the tiny bathroom. Then he remembered Brennan's texts from that afternoon during their meeting. He scrolled through smiling at his favorites.

From Brennan: _Did U notice ther R no continuous protrusions/indentations below my gluteus maximus or small of my back? ;)_

Booth's response: _U 4got yr undrwr again! What R U Tring 2 do 2 me? Nice necklace, BTW. I know what yr hidng underneath. Thinking bout those bites now …_

Brennan's response: _I bite back.&UR very pleasing2look at this A.M. Glad U like my ncklce. B-OX_

Then he remembered Cam catching him not paying attention, and telling her the text was from his boss.

_"Cullen? Is it from Cullen?"_ She'd asked.

Booth had said the first thing that came to his mind. _"No, higher up than that ..."_

He'd been surprised at words that tumbled out of his mouth, but there was nothing he could do about it. Booth chuckled, thinking back over that whole meeting. _This relationship is going to work,_ he assured the empty bathroom. Then he made a promise to himself. No matter what it took, or what it might cost him, he was going to tell Brennan about his nightmares.

Knocking on the morgue door, he was met by a smiley-faced Brennan who was singing along to the audio tape. The last cassette he'd loaded into the player was a mixed tape Dr. Shcherbakov had titled, _Favorites: Volume Two._

"I've found it, Booth!" She proclaimed as she peeled off her gloves, replacing them with clean ones after having sullied them by touching the door knob.

"Cause of death?" He couldn't help chuckling at her exuberance. _Thank you, Holy Spirit, for this whole collection of distractions,_ he said in silent prayer. _Ed Williams' quote, Mom's prayer card, Angela's text, Bones' wonderful texts, and her faith in me, and now whatever it is she's so excited about_. For a brief moment, it felt warm in the room, and Booth knew that was God's response to his thanks.

"No. We already know cause of death, Booth!"

"Angela just texted me that she's figured out it was a motorcycle helmet that caused the blood stains on Aleesha's cheek bones."

"Wha—unequivocally?"

"Either that or she's taking up a new hobby. Didn't give any details other than _'Motorcycle helmet'_. So, what did you find?" He glanced behind Brennan toward the diminutive casket and chuckled nervously. _Get thee behind me, Satan,_ he thought, clenching his jaw, then closing his eyes for the briefest of moments. That command still felt awkward, he thought, _but who cares. If it works, it works._ Opening his eyes a half second later, he focused on Brennan, flicked an unemotional glance behind her, and then leaned back against Shcherbakov's desk and crossed his arms.

"Rewind the cassette about five minutes worth," she said delightedly, her face lit with barely contained glee.

Booth's eyebrows reached toward his hairline with curiosity. He stared at her for a moment, shrugged as if to say, _Okay, I'll play along,_ then turned and did as she asked. Croce's, 'I Have To Say I Love You In A Song' sprang at him when he pushed the play button. "What am I looking for?"

"I found the song!"

"What song? This? We heard this one before, Bones."

"I know, and I do enjoy that song, but I found_ the_ song, Booth—"

_"The_ song, huh?" His brow furrowed. "And … am I supposed to know what that means?" He shook his head and shrugged.

"Yes. You were captured on tape performing a fertility ritual to 'You Shook Me All Night Long' earlier today—"

"—yeah—" His brow creased even deeper in curiocity.

"Sooooo," she mewled conspiratorially, "I've been asking myself what song I would perform—if I were to perform—you know, a fertility ritual in your honor. _My_ Etruscan fertility entreaty," she beamed.

"You're kidding me," Booth gasped, his mouth falling open.

"No," she replied, in a very serious tone. "What? You don't think I would do the same for you? I wouldn't allow myself to get caught on tape."

"Of course—" he chuffed at the austerity in her tone.

"Booth," she cocked her head to the side and gave him a mildly reproachful look. "I am serious. Do you want to hear it or not?" She smirked, but waited patiently for his response as Croce completed the last repetition of his final verse.

"Of course, I do want to hear it. This is great, and a little funny, that's all. Let's hear it!"

"It comes up next," she said, glancing behind him at the tape player. "After 'I Love You In A Song."

As if on queue, the first twenty-four drowsy notes of a solitary electric guitar sauntered into the chill morgue air. A warm baseline ushered in the first verse of Brennan's sultry entreaty to the gods on behalf of her mate's fertility. Booth recognized the intro and allowed his eyelids to drift closed as a slow shallow smile lifted the corners of his mouth. When the vocals began, his eyebrows lifted, and his whole face opened in surprise. A satisfied grin slid slowly across his lips, then deepened. Not only was this an _excellent_ song, it was the 1973 bluesy classic rock recording of 'Drift Away' by Dobie Gray, not the 2003 remake by Uncle Kracker. Booth opened his eyes a slit and watched Brennan as she stumbled over the words of the the first verse, wondering how it related to their relationship.

"Okay, that first verse doesn't relate to our relationship at all," Brennan explained in a raised voice, "because it's a little depressing. But here comes the first part that made me think about you."

Then it came. And she sang along. And he understood.

_'Oh, give me the beat, boy, and free my soul_  
><em>I wanna get lost in your rock and roll and drift away.'<em>

The first two lines of the chorus repeated as Brennan nodded her head to the mellow medium-tempo beat.

"I thought you didn't believe in a soul," Booth said over the music, his cheeks tickling with amusement.

"It's a metaphorical soul, Booth. Just keep listening." She swayed side to side as she surveyed the remains, occasionally picking up a bone and looking at it through the magnifying glass.

_"Oh, dah dah dah dah …"_ She didn't know all the words, but she mumbled along happily. _"Dah, dah, dah, ah tiiiiiiime! Uh, I, I don't understand the things I do-whew. Mmm mum … world outside seems-looks!- so unki-ii-ind. I'm, I'm countin' on You-who-who-who, dadum, to carry me throu-ough! Whhooahhh, give me the beat BOY!"_

"See how I changed it to mean not _all_ boys, just you, Booth? Though technically you are not a boy. Anyway," she shrugged, continuing to the end of the chorus. _"…. My soul, I wanna get lost in your rock and roll."_

Booth nodded to the beat and rubbed circles into his cheek muscles where they'd become sore from excessive grinning. By the time the third verse came along he'd forgotten about the casket, his earlier disturbing thoughts, his escape to the bathroom. Brennan continued verbally stumbling along until the final verse, which she knew word for word. As Brennan closed her eyes and sang every word through happy lips, Booth thought his heart would explode.

_'Thanks for the joy that you've given me-ee-ee  
><em>_want you to kno-ow I believe in your song  
><em>_And rhythm and rhyme and harmony-y-y  
><em>_You've helped me along  
><em>_Makin' me stro-ong._

Then came the a cappella chorus. Brennan raised her arms and clapped along, twice per measure, to the beat.

_'Oh, give me the beat, boy, and free my soul_  
><em>I wanna get lost in your rock and roll and drift away.'<em>

Booth joined the slow claps when the lines repeated, but stopped himself when he could hardly contain the burning urge to walk up behind her and wrap his arms around her. His desire to watch her was a sliver stronger and won. So, he stayed right where he was, barely blinking, committing this moment to memory, tucking it away for the next time the Filthy Stinking Bastard came knocking.

Booth sighed contentedly and walked between the autopsy tables to lean against the one holding their laptop, her bags, and the communication equipment. There was still a stainless steel table between them, but it felt good to be a little closer. He crossed his arms, relaxed back against his table, and watched his mate intently as she continued to absently sing the final words of the song.

_'Na na na, won't you, won't you take me_  
><em>Oh, take me—'<em>

Of course, those final words gave Booth a couple ideas about doing just that—taking her in the carnal sense—but he thought he'd keep those to himself as he had been doing for the last six years.

The song ended while Brennan was in the middle of making some notes in her notebook. Laying her pen down, she smiled up at him sheepishly, and moved down the table toward the lower appendicular skeleton to finish up with what was left of the legs and feet.

"So?" She asked self-consciously.

"So, what?" he said in a low voice.

She shrugged with one shoulder without looking up.

"What did you think," she said, flicking a quick coy glance up to meet his eyes. "About the song I chose … for you?" She felt her cheeks getting warm, wishing the rest of her body would follow suit in the chilled morgue.

Booth nodded, his chin dropping to his chest. "You wanna get lost in my Rock 'n' Roll, huh?"

"As absolutely soon as possible, Operation Pringles Partner!" She was still enjoying a high from singing along, and being able to share that with him.

"I approve," he said, in a quiet lilting tone. He continued to watch her unabashedly, amazed at her tranquility, mesmerized by her careful exacting movements as she gently returned one tibia to the table and picked up the other without making a sound. She glanced up at him several times, then continued making notes.

Booth continued to watch her; delighted, thankful, happy. Then humbled. Then his thoughts, as thoughts often do when one fixates unchecked upon the beddable body of their heart's desire, began to run away with themselves once again. He had no idea what his face was doing, but when Brennan finally looked up to address him, she stopped mid sentence.

"Booth, the cartilaginous union between—," she began, squinting at the cranium which she held upside-down midair. "Holy invertebrates! Why are you looking at me—" She glanced down at her chest to see if something was amiss. "Uh," she lowered the cranium and cocked her head to the side accusingly; "you do know it is not literally possible to burn a hole through a cotton-polyester blend by staring intently at it for an extended period of time? You do know that, right?"

"Can't blame a guy for trying," he chuckled. "But if you could, you would have gone up in flames about ten minutes ago."

She smirked back at him, then smiled. "What are you thinking over there? You have a mischievous expression on your face."

Booth shrugged with one shoulder and his eyebrows. "Thinking about doing what I'm told." He said. Then, "did I say that outloud?" He chuckled at himself and dragged a palm over his forehead. "Ohhhh," he moaned.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I said _exactly_ what I was thinking, Bones, without meaning to."

"I understood that part, but the rest you're going to have to explain," she said calmly, a hint of flirtatiousness in her voice to match the mischievousness in his expression. "What did you mean by 'doing what you were told'?"

"Well," he began, straightening up and adjusting his shoulders as if his shirt were crooked. "The last line of the song."

Brennan looked up at the ceiling, her mouth moving as she recalled the words of the song. "Get lost in the rock and roll?" She prompted coquettishly. This felt like a game. It was a game. "Thank goodness I'm nearly finished with Banty's remains," she said, stretching her head side to side almost touching her shoulders. "Oh, I can barely think. I'm freezing and exhausted. Hungry too."

"I'll help you out. If I recall correctly, which believe me, I do, the last line was _'Take me."_

"Hm. Yes. Though it doesn't indicate where the songwriter wants to be taken to. Though," she said, then paused thoughtfully. _"'Take me',_ in the vernacular, could refer to capturing someone for the purpose of sexual intercourse. And since it is an intimate and poetic tribute to one person's appreciation for the other's—" Brennan couldn't think of the right words. She'd gotten caught up in singing the song, but now all she remembered was the feeling … which she couldn't put into words. "It's about one person who is grateful to the other person for …"

"—having brought Pringles into their life?"

Brennan smiled, astonished. "Precisely, Booth. That was exactly the intent of the song. Therefore, one could make the intuitive leap that the 'take me' command was in reference to the sex act." A congratulatory smile lifted one side of her mouth.

"That's what I took it to mean," Booth snorted, looking up at her through his lashes.

"You," she said playfully, "are flirting with me, Agent Booth."

"You," he answered, mimicking her tone, "are correct, Dr. Brennan."

They stared at each other over the table for a moment, neither saying anything.

"So, mathematically speaking, that would mean that you were considering taking me sexually …"

"Hm," he grunted, glancing at the floor, then rubbing his eyes, and standing up straight. He unrolled his shirt cuffs, which he'd rolled up to splash water on his face.

"Oh." Brennan's eyes dropped to the table as a spear of adrenaline shot through her chest. "I see." She chuckled to herself.

Booth chuckled quietly. "So, how much time we got left here?"

"Give me another ten or fifteen, then another fifteen to pack the remains, seal them for Hodgins.

Ten minutes later she was staring at the cranium through the magnifying glass. She carefully dropped her wrists onto the table and growled in frustration. "I am so cold, Booth. Geez!" She stomped her feet to increase her circulation. "My nose is cold. I've lost feeling in my toes and the the tips of my fingers are numb."

"Okay. Tell me about the panties."

"Wha—I'm working!"

"Yeah, but, if you wanna warm up, think warm thoughts. I have an idea." Booth retrieved a clear tarp from the supplies closet and tried to wrap it around her, but it kept falling off. He gave up, and wrapped it around himself, then hopped up and sat on the table next to the laptop, communication equipment, and Brennan's bags. He watched her as she stood at her table, huddled over Banty's remains.

"Maybe those are warm thoughts for you," Brennan said, frustrated that his attempts to warm her had been fruitless. "They are just undergarments to me." Brennan objected, then sighed loudly and rolled her eyes when Booth continued to stare at her, saying nothing, waiting. "They're black," she admitted, pretending to be bored by the topic.

"I already knew that. What else?"

"What, like you mean … like that they are really small?"

"Yeah," he said, intrigued. "How small?" He sniffed, then rubbed his own numb nose. He peered at her with great interest.

"Microscopic."

"You lie like a rug."

She shrugged and puckered coquettishly, saying nothing. "I do not lie. I may ... embellish ... if I think it will bring you pleasure ..." She winked at him.

"Well, I appreciate that," he chuffed, his stomach doing summersaults in response to the twinkle in her eye.

"Good. Your turn."

"For what?"

"Tell me something that will raise my temperature."

"Okay. I just took you. Right here," he said, nodding at the tabletop where Banty lay.

"What?" She said, her eyes distractedly glancing over the cranium still in her hand, but now resting on the table.

"I just took you—"

"Took me where?"

"Right here—," he announced, tapping firmly on the tabletop with his index finger. "—on this table."

She stared hard at him as if he had a third eye.

"You're not making sense, Booth." Then she saw the corners of his mouth salaciously curling, the delight in his eyes. "Wha—you mean—sexually, like in the song?"

"Wa-hoh yeah," he chuckled devilishly, "Right here." He pressed his lips together and grinned, his eyebrows jumping, then quickly dropping. He glanced at Banty's remains and paused. Then his eyes fell to the floor. "How clean do you think this floor is?"

Brennan snorted. "Booth, surely you don't mean that_ literally._ How could you find this place inspiring sexually?!" She stared at him, stunned and perplexed. "Please tell me you don't actually mean here," She asked hopefully.

"Of course not." He answered, backpedaling as he shrugged uncomfortably. The conversation had taken a weird turn that he hadn't intended. In actuality, he would be happy to take her anywhere regardless of the conditions._ I'm a man,_ he thought to himself. _It's just my nature._ However, it was obvious Brennan was not at entertained by the idea. Tapping on his temple, he added, "I can take you anywhere I want because it's _my_ imagination, my fantasy. And this is the number one sex organ, right? The good old noggin," he said tapping his temple.

Brennan picked up the femur and grunted. "As long as it's somewhere clean and in no way related to the work we do, Booth. I'm willing to be adventurous, but even I have limits."

Booth pursed his lips for a moment, drawing a blank over where to go from there.

Brennan's relieved sigh was a reset button. "Okay, _Big Dog, _say more," she encouraged cautiously.

"Uh, okay. Let's say I took you on the carpeted floor of a very clean living room in front of a crackling fire. Oh, and I fed you strawberries and champagne first." He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "Huh? How's that for an, uh, inspiring location?"

"Mmm. It's a little cliché, but I'll take it," she said, with a smile. "I'd prefer raspberries," she added with an open smile.

"Then you shall have raspberries. And it's cliché because it's a great idea, Bones. Have you ever done that? You know, on the floor with a fire and maybe a little wine?"

"No, but this attempt to inspire warm thoughts is beginning to work. However, you've a long way to go to thaw my toes."

_That's not the body part I was aiming for,_ he almost said.

"Come on," she urged him playfully. "Everything's foreplay," she added, as if she'd read his mind. "What was I wearing?"

"Very tiny underwear. Black," he grinned.

"Is that all?" She laughed.

"And one of my shirts, maybe." He closed his eyes and smiled at the image he saw in his mind's eye. "Yeah," he said in a low voice. "One of the shirts I wear for work. Long, down past the butt, you know, with buttons up the front, a collar, rolled up cuffs. Your hair down around your shoulders. The shirt unbuttoned to about right here," he said tapping on the bottom tip of his own sternum. He smile deepened, his eyes still closed.

Brennan watched as he did this little exercise. She saw his eyes moving underneath the lids, his mouth moving a bit as he smiled; chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, sighed. She wanted to see what he was seeing. She wanted to be in there with him; inside his fantasy, seeing the fire in his eyes and the desire in the increasing tempo of his heartbeat. She suddenly noticed she'd become flushed with warmth. Hands, feet, nose, elbows were still freezing, but her shoulders, chest, and things were warm and tingly.

Booth opened his eyes to find hers trained intently upon his. Her work was all but forgotten for the moment. She wasn't smiling, but she wasn't upset. She was drawn in. Her mouth fell open. Booth shifted his weight, and stared back at her, caught in the intensity of her gaze.

Brennan closed her mouth and leaned forward against her table. For a long moment they stool like that, everything else falling away. Brennan exhaled and relaxed, an tender aura overtaking her.

"And you are wearing everything you have on now," she said quietly. "Except the belt, your socks and shoes, and perhaps your watch. And you've just come home. No, wait. First you come home, _then_ you take off your belt, your shoes and socks, and your watch." Her smile warmed Booth throughout, sending a shiver through him. "And you join me in front of the fire."

Booth smiled back, the outside corners of his eyes crinkling. They both sighed, then chuckled.

"So," said Brennan, breaking the shared trance. "Did I enjoy myself ... on this carpeted floor in front of a crackling fire, plied as I was with alcohol and raspberries ... maybe a little chocolate as well?"

"Well, of course," he announced, confidently, following her lead. "Of course!" The 'duh!' was implied.

"Wha—how can you be so sure?" She queried, raising a graceful eyebrow, sending the challenge; an arrow to the ego.

"It was my fantasy, that's how I know," he said teasingly. "Uh," he looked around, scratching his head as he did so. "There aren't any security cameras in here are there?" He glanced around the ceiling, the walls.

"There aren't. I already checked. So tell me, in your fantasy, how did you know I enjoyed myself?"

"Okay," he said, shrugging, "what the hell, why not? Okay. You purred like a kitten. Then you howled like a wolf at a full moon. Then—then you panted like a puppy," he said quickly, almost chewing his words. "Then you purred like a kitten again, snuggled up against my chest—"

"Yeah—?"

"And took a nap."

Brennan gasp-laughed. "Ha!"

"What?"

She stared blankly for a moment. The silence stretched to a yawn. "I'm usually much more participatory, energetic," she said pensively, then turned back to her work.

Booth snorted. "You were tired. You let me do all the work."

"Yes. That makes sense." She quirked a perfect eyebrow and smiled, then gave an approving frown and nodded.

"You are quite poetic, Booth," Brennan said a moment later.

"What?"

"Your description of your fantasy. You do use a great deal of animal imagery, however."

"Hm. It goes along with my animal magnetism."

"Throughout antiquity, people with sentimental temperaments such as yours have made their living by recording history through poetry, telling stories about a victorious hunt, politics, love. All you need is a commission and a sponsor."

"What, like a king paying me to write something like 'The Iliad' or 'The Odyssey'? Shakespeare?"

"The Iliad' and 'The Odyssey' are Homer. Shakespeare wrote 'Hamlet'—."

"—I knew that," Booth said, defensively. "I took some poetry, remember? Shakespeare also wrote 'Romeo and Juliet'—"

"—And 'Othello'."

"—And 'The Taming of the Shrew'. Kiss me, Kate!"

"Precisely. There are fights in some of those, great battles between the forces of good and evil. Maybe you'd enjoy writing about that?"

"Hm. I don't know. Like I said, you're the real writer, Bones." But he thought about it for several moments. "Okay, check this out." He cleared his throat and held a hand up in the air as if about to make a proclamation. "Here goes."

_'Gave my heart to a woman named Bones._  
><em>Who paid me in kisses and moans ...'<em>

"What rhymes with moans?" He said, scratching his chin, his brow pinched in thought. "Stones, phones, condones, microphones, jones—"

Brennan shook her head and giggled. "It doesn't have to rhyme exactly, Booth."

"—Loans moans, pones, clones, roans, sloans, tones, thrones, bemoans, known—what a minute. Thrones. That could work." He cleared his throat and began at the beginning.

_'Gave my heart to a woman named Bones._  
><em>Who paid me in kisses and moans,<em>  
><em>With a smile on her face,<em>  
><em>She offered me grace ...<em>  
><em>... And I felt like a king on a throne.'<em>

Brennan grimaced and nodded several times. "It's a very fine start."

"Your turn," he said.

Brennan looked up in surprise and shook her head. "I don't know. You're the romantic."

"But you write all that great stuff between Agent Andy and Kathy Reichs. That's gotta come from somewhere ... other than Angela, I mean. She may give you the ideas, but you put them into words."

Brennan smirked, but could see he meant it. "I'll think about it. Later. Right now I want to get this done and get out of here." Ten minutes into her concentrated efforts, Booth's fantasy all but forgotten, Brennan was freezing again. "Aghhhhh! I can barely function!" She groaned, spreading her fingers wide then slowly curling her fingers, knuckle by knuckle, into fists. She clenched them several more times, trying to force circulation, before acceding that her nervous system's numbness was delaying the commands from her brain to her extremities.

"You are such a wimp, Bones." Booth propelled himself off the examination table he was sitting on, his tarp crackling like heavy boots through a layer of day old ice.

"Oh, said he wrapped up in a sheet of plastic like a package of Ritz crackers!" She snorted derisively.

"Hey, at least I'm warm!" He walked to the corner of the room and turned the faucet of the utility sink. He shoved his paws into the stream of warm water and cranked the knob further to the left. Plunging liquid soap into his palm, he vigorously scrubbed both hands up to his elbows, allowing the tarp to fall away behind him.

"Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I have some official FBI business to tend to that I might as well take care of right now."

"Official FBI business. That's ominous sounding," Brennan replied unemotionally.

"Yeah," he said, drying his hands on a paper from the rotary towel dispenser. Tossing the towel in the trash can, he walked up behind Brennan and slid his hands over her hips. "Seems there was a report submitted straight to the top."

Brennan gasped, and stopped what she was doing. "Wha—Cullen? Does it have to do with this case?"

"It has to do with someone working on the case."

"Hm," she grunted. "Someone at the Jeffersonian?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"Who?"

"It appears there was a report submitted, to someone higher than God, that a certain item of clothing had gone missing."

After a moment of silence, Brennan laughed out loud and leaned her head backward to rest on Booth's chin. "Panty raid," she nodded and sighed in amused resignation. "Well, I know how seriously you take your job, Agent Booth." She snorted.

"I figured you might," he whispered into her ear and kissed her cheek, causing a shiver to scamper down her spine.

* * *

><p>Brennan sat on the couch in the darkened ante room of her hotel room. As she waited for Booth to emerge from the bathroom to tell her what had been upsetting him all evening, she smiled wanly, recalling what happened after Booth reminded her about the texts they'd exchanged during the morning's meeting with the Jeffersonian team. Then she thought about the poem she had finally constructed and recited for him in this very room before he left. It was when she'd gone into the bedroom to write down the poem that he'd escaped despite his promises that he wouldn't leave. She'd entitled her poem 'Sir Seeley', and he'd seemed pleased with it.<p>

Her mind wandered to the surprising discovery Booth had made as they had prepared to leave the King County medical examiner's office, and was once again impressed by his acute attention to detail. _This might actually crack the case wide open_, she thought to herself, then turned toward the bedroom when she heard movement behind the door ...

* * *

><p><strong>Are you ready for the next chapter, <em>'Sir Seeley'?<em> I have it loaded onto FanFiction and ready to go after a final run-through to check the spelling and all that jazz. So ... have you had enough The When and the How: A Bone to Pick for one sitting, or should I go ahead and post the next, much shorter, chapter?**

* * *

><p>Big huge *Smash Tackle Hugs* to these readers who regularly let me know someone's still<br>out there enjoying the MoxieGirl Bones universe!

I appreciate you like crazy! Thanks for continuing to come back. : )

_bostonlegalgirl, latetobones, eire76, Diko, chosenname, , stapes206, Tori9226, bubbles526, sandyholl, yenyen76, Melissa, soxgirl69, DWBBFan, carolkujawski, Fluffybird, FaithinBones, Gemini18, eyeofisis57, angelonde, Aveburygirl, fantasyfanatic13, ecenbt,Jo7, Monilovesbones, babyface99f, Maunzeli, Guest, kdgteacher7, dlh, Guest, Alicia9876, Tristan Thompson, Empyrean Skies, JBCFlyers19, EveyEve1215, appiedala, pasha54, yoshimi0701, ILuvBonesNDool, Mlbrunell, bostonlegalgirl, alwaysthere39, mef1013, gotyournose, Jenny1701, elmasuz, brensfan, SammieAtHome, TraciM, daniellejoy07, sarahspencer125, roomwithamoose311, Martreiya, thatdamnedrizzlesfan, manicpixiedreamgurl, Dobbi, mollygrl16, gemlily51, Aniaf, ghlover8907, jitzter14, redgirlang, akhesamaat, Dyna63, AussieBonesFan, ciaomichaella, erza scarlet the titania, lb, Nobiggggy, FayHannahRose, SuzanneHerdman, Hopelesshopefulromantic, OnceAWaywardDaughter, Phoenix Rysng, lisaclare, Becksbones, Angie, LaciLucyLou, jsboneslover, Rangers042376, plestex716, pippinim1, Lbrs, leea, LABonesLover, Jaddet99, strawberry79, EowynGoldberry, alexindigo, Martreiya, Karen, Viper003, Someoneslove, Heidi, Jencun, hillhappy, AM Kemp, CatherineS, JaiDiePie, Aparnell, SuzanneHerdman, _tld31, kezza2007, Romantic Journalist, Chh727, Mabu1224, thecookiemomma, susana69, kamisch42, i-scream-lexi, silentchic, SBB35, flumpkin, boneo309, PatiH, Silver maker, kezza2007, Mabu1224, jliu5657, erinemily, islanzadi heap, susana69__

And THANK YOU for reading and writing!

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	217. Sir Seeley

** Sir Seeley**

_'It is you, Sir Seeley, whose limbs twixt mine long for—_  
><em>It is your laugh, your smile, your love I belong for'<em>

"How many times did you tie this damn thing?" Booth cried in exasperation as he fumbled with the back of Brennan's apron in the freezing cold of the King County medical examiner's office. There'd been an official report of stolen undergarments submitted by Dr. Temperance Brennan during the early morning meeting at the Jeffersonian. Booth was determined to investigate the claim, as any FBI agent worth his salt would, no matter what the cost. His strategy was to rove as many layers of clothing as necessary in order to confirm or refute the claim of the missing it. If, in the process, he managed to warm the shivering body of his partner using his own body heat, well then, that would just be a bonus.

While Booth worked diligently at achieving his goal, Brennan examined Banty Solicious' bones with the single-minded focus of a mother painting her nails while a toddler banged on pots and pans at her feet. "Screw this," Booth blurted in exasperation. "There's gotta be a pair of scissors here somewhere!" He tossed his hands in the air and scanned the morgue counter tops with steely eyes.

"I thought the Boy Scouts were renowned for their mastery with knots," she queried calmly despite having been pinned against the autopsy table while Booth yanked and fiddled with the double knot at the small of her back.

"Tying. Boy scouts are proficient at tying knots! This is harder than unhooking a bra with one hand."

"How long have you been wearing a bra, Booth?" Brennan asked dryly, holding her gloved hands up and shifting her weight patiently from foot to foot. As his attempts to untie the narrow apron strings became more aggressive, she'd found it impossible to carefully examine anything on her table.

"I don't wear a bra, Bones—" he snorted.

Brennan giggled under her breath, covering her mouth with the back of her wrist.

"Oh, was that a joke? Ha, ha, good one. I still can't—" he grunted, getting down on one knee behind her.

"Are you … using your teeth." Brennan asked. She was preternaturally calm despite having to pressed her lips firmly together to hold back an explosion of laughter.

"Oh, that would be lovely on surveillance tape, wouldn't it?" Booth said gritting his teeth. He blew on his sore fingers, licked th again, and tried again. "Well, if you'd just stop wiggling around—"

Brennan snapped off her gloves and shooed his hands away. "It takes manual dexterity, Booth. The expertise of one whose profession requires the use of small instruments and detailed physical subject matter," she explained haughtily, just to tease him. "I do hope you're considerably better at unhooking a bra," she teased through barely-moving lips.

"Oh, I got skills you ain't never seen, baby—" blurted Booth smugly.

"That's what I'm counting on," she quipped, with a deep chuckle. Despite her frozen fingers, the strings now hung limp by her sides.

"Thank God," Booth murmured quietly as he stood, dusted off the knees of his pants, and laid wide solid palms flat on either side of Brennan's neck. He kissed her tple, and whispered into her ear. "Now, let's see what we can do about warming you up a bit." With the tips of his fingers resting on her clavicles, he applied pressure to her trapezi in a circular motion, then squeezed several times.

"Wha—I thought this was about a panty raid ... ahhhhh," Brennan said, and stopped dead. Allowing her eyes to drift closed, she swayed back and forth as his long fingers kneaded and warmed her from the neck "Ohhhhhhwwwwahhhh. Yes."

"How's 'at?" He asked, sticking his tongue out as he focused on his work. "Warming up?"

"Nice," she sighed after a long moment. Reluctantly opening her eyes, she held her hands out and watched as her fingers curled closed in slow motion, then straightened. Her blue nail beds were visible through the new pair of clear medical gloves.

Booth gently but firmly kneaded the muscles bunched and aching between Brennan's shoulder blades, then continued traveling down her arms and toward her hands with a series of firm squeezes.

"These aren't fingers," he chuckled in falsetto, milking warmth back into each finger. "They're fish sticks, ha!"

"The gloves restrict the blood flow," she whispered drowsily, leaning her head back against his shoulder for a moment.

"Maybe you should take them off."

"I don't want to compromise the remains, Booth, or I would," she groused.

"Well then, don't let me distract you. Chop, chop! Get back to work and lets get this show on the road," he said, though by this time, he'd completely enveloped her in his arms, warming her as thoroughly as a down-filled winter coat.

"I'm not distracted," she mewled defensively. "I'm an expert, um, compartmentalize, that's me," she insisted, straightening. Swallowing hard, she fought the urge to turn and melt into his delicious warmth, or at least sink her nose into his neck. The warm rugged outdoorsy scent of him had already enveloped her and begun to soften her joints into pools of jelly. Focus, Brennan. Fo-cus! She commanded herself sternly. "Don't be offended if it appears I've forgotten, uhhhhh ahhhh, forgotten that you are there. I have an extraordinary ability to,ohhhhhhhhhmmmm, block out the environment when I have rains in front of me. " She grimaced, unaware that her voice sounded like it was crawling up from the depths of very deep sleep.

Booth made an indulgent noise, then snorted in mild amusement. "Forget I'm here, huh?" He chuckled low and shook his head. "Don't mind the guy behind the curtain," he sighed, but her brain was chewing on her next thought.

"Brennan reached for the cranium for the fifth or sixth time tonight. Or was it the seventh? Carefully clearing a space on the table before her, she gingerly deposited the cranium, eye sockets to the ceiling.

Booth's arms settled snugly around her midsection, the length of his body warming her from her neck down to her calves. Her increased circulation successfully warmed everything else. He dropped his ear against her head and closed his eyes, humming softly as Van Morrison's grizzly vocals doled out several verses of 'Into The Mystic'.

"How can you it so much heat?" Brennan murmured absently as she squinted at each zygomatic bone, then the maxilla.

"It's not just me, Bones. You are quite warm yourself," he whispered into her hair as he squeezed her around the midsection. "Even though you've forgotten that I'm here," he teased quietly.

Brennan leaned forward to rummage through the bag she'd positioned on the other side of the table. She searched for a moment, then gave up in frustration and grabbed the seven inch magnifying glass she'd already been using. She was tired and her fingers and nose were cold. She was anxious to finish what they'd come to do and get over to the hotel where they could burn their putrid clothing and sink innocently into bed together.

Booth tightened his arms around her waist, his thumbs caressing her rib cage just below the springy curves of her breasts. She fit nicely into the space inside his arms, but he'd been aware of that for quite some time. It was nice to be welcome to stay wrapped around her for more than just a moment. "Hmmm," he hummed, swaying her sideways, then back slightly.

"That's about the twenty-fifth time you've picked up that head since we got here, Bones. I'm getting to you, aren't I?"

"Not at all," she replied, her voice deep and slow. She cleared her throat and continued. "I have a process which requires several inspections of each bone. I begin along the perimeter of the table with cursory observations. I then circle inward increasing focus as I examine the individual bones that interest me. Accurate identification of evidence demands adherence to protocol and meticulous examination if we are to establish or dismiss the supposition that the bones from Haverford belong to this set of rains. That is, until Dr. Hodgins is able to perform an osteological profile on the bone apatite. While it would be—"

"And all I hear is bla, bla, Hodgins, bla, bla, on the bones, bla," Booth sighed churlishly, sinking his frozen nose into a hank of hair behind Brennan's right ear. He inhaled. "Mmmm."

"The most relevant piece of evidence, if I can identify it," she continued, undeterred, "will be the hemorrhagic staining on the mental foramen. While I cannot confirm that which Dr. Hodgins or Mr. Bray will be able to," she explained as Booth released her midsection in favor of sliding his hands into her front pants pockets, "I can search for variants of color on the fibrous layer of periosteum covering the alveolar process and the mental foramen—what are you doing?"

Booth had temporarily finished with his examination of her periphery and was heading toward the individual bones that interested him. His hands filled her pockets down to the seam at the bottom. He curled his fingers several times, then dragged th left and right across her thighs, grazing the skin beneath. This shot sparks of heat through the entire lower half of her body. She felt like a flower unable to resist unfurling its petals at the first light of day. Before long, this flower would be in full bloom, straining toward Mecca with her organic solar panels, poised for pollination.

"Booth?" Brennan moved slightly to the side and attpted to look over her shoulder as her pounding tples screamed at her.

"Mmmm?" He said after a full minute had passed, but she'd already begun to force herself to CONCENTRATE … and move on. He had been pleasantly floating on a cloud of serenity, wrapped as he was around the warm pillowy form of his mate. His explorations had released a flood of pheromones into his own syst, rendering him intoxicated and submissive. In this state he stood, as if by magnetic force, for several long moments while Brennan staved off the domination of her own endocrine syst.

After a while, Booth stepped back to cough, causing a plume of frigid air to swirled down Brennan's neck and back, then down her arms and legs. This broke Brennan's concentration. She gasped and shivered violently, as much from the loss of their connection as from the chill in the air.

"Booth," she croaked, glancing backward accusatorially. "Uh, I can't function if I'm freezing. Could you—?" She motioned, Get back here! with a sideways tip of her head.

"So, you do know I'm here," Booth chuckled, snuggling up to press the length of his body along the length of hers, then squeezing her hips. The warmth from his hands seeped into her muscles as they made their way down the outside of her thighs.

"Squeezing the tissue promotes circulation, every good boy scout who's been to winter camp knows that," he said, focusing on the flesh beneath his hands.  
>"Right," she nodded, enjoying the return of stimulation to the outermost portions of her body.<p>

"The outermost portions of tissue get cold first," he said, firmly sliding his palms over her thighs, up over her hips and across her abdomen. He wondered if he dare make a pass over her chest, then chuckled to himself over his own mental pun.

"Know what I like about you, Bones?"

"Many things, but to what are you referring specifically?" She stopped.

"He kneaded the tissues across her belly, then slid back over her hips where he made several pisiform rotations with the heals of his hands over her hip bones, rolling her muscles and adipose tissue forward over the bones several times, and then finishing with a therapeutic squeeze and release, squeeze and release.

"You," he began, moving south to squeeze sections of her thighs, "are soft, but solid, not just skin and bones. You've got cuuuuurves. Fantastic curves," he continued, digging the tips of his fingers into her skin and raking th up from her thighs to the sides of her rib cage, and then up over she shoulders and down her arms. "Curves that just beg—umgh!—oh, these curves just beg to be squeezed," he said, emitting a guttural sound through clenched teeth. And bitten and nuzzled, he thought to himself.

"I need my other magnifying glass, Booth," Brennan said in a highly-controlled voice, willing herself not to sound affected. Oxytocins and adrenaline were coursing through her syst, titillating all of her erogenous zones, whipping th into a frenzy, and fueling her syst's race toward the human imperative. She was losing ground fast, and she knew it. But she wasn't going to admit it. "My 20x Hastings Triplet," she said, concentrating hard, licking her lips and swallowing.

"Is that the teeny tiny baby one—?"

"—Yes. That's the one. Though I cannot recall if I returned it to my bag after this morning's review in the lab with Mr. Bray," she said, puckering her lips in thought. "Hm."

"—The one that makes the hair on my arm look like the Everglades?"

"Yes, Booth, the one you like—"

"—with the tiny glass that's just a half inch wide and you have to put it right up to the thing you're looking at?"

"Brennan didn't reply. She stood stock still.

Booth jutted his chin forward in query, then grazed her cheek with the stubble covering his jaw.

"Yes!" She gasped, then cleared her throat. "Sorry, yes. 20x Hastings Triplet"

"Why's it called a triplet? Explain that to me again," he sighed, then blew in her ear.

"Stop trying to distract me, Booth!"

"Is it working?"

"I refuse to testify for the reason that it may incriminate me," she rasped impatiently.

Booth was well aware of the effect he was having on his mate. He could feel her heart pounding against her rib cage in competition with the thrum and rush of his own. He also noted the change in pace and tone of her voice, which had returned to the deep smoothness of just a moment before. He was also aware that she was trying to hide it.

"Where is it?" He finally asked.

"If I brought it, it's over there in my bag," Brennan said, pointing across the room to the other autopsy table.

"Want me to get it?"

"I think I better get it," she whispered, not making any effort to move. It had been a long time since she'd been pinned against anything by the wonderful solidness of a strong, virile male body. Not in this way, at least. She did not want to go anywhere. "Booth," she whimpered, "We will never get out of this god forsaken hell hole if I don't complete my work!"

"Right," Booth chuckled, grazing the top of one hot ear with his teeth.

"Excrement, Booth." Brennan blurted. "How am I supposed to—" She gulped and pushed back against him. "—we, I gotta get this science stuff completed!"

"Did you just say—'science stuff'? Whoa, I really am getting to you."

"No. And you're not."

"Yes, you did," he nodded, then blew across that same ear, "and yes, I am," he chided her.

"If you're going to warm me up like this, the least you could do is leave your gun behind." She said, pausing to lean back against his chest.  
>"What?" Booth squinted askance. "Nice change of subject, lady. I don't have my gun."<p>

"Yeah? Then what's this," she asked, reaching backward through his arms to grab hold of his glutes, and firmly pull him right up against her backside again.

"Agh!" Booth gasped in surprise. "Whoa-hoh-hoh!" She wasn't the only one aroused by the electrical current crackling between th. "Jesus, Bones," he yelped, pulling back abruptly.

Brennan chuckled at his reaction. Adopting a Mae West tone, she delivered her next line. "Is that your strongSmith Wesson 1911strong in your pocket," she purred, "or are you just happy to see me?"

"Eh, 1911 … 1912. Depends on who's measuring," Booth exhaled uncomfortably as he attempted to disentangle himself from her.  
>"What are you doing?" She asked in a high-pitched squeal.<p>

"You said you were gonna get it!" he gasped defensively, sounding somewhat frustrated. "And could you please let go of my ass?"

"You're going with me. Get back here," she insisted authoritatively, scooting backward to recouple th, then pulling his arms back around her midsection. "And your ass is quite pleasing to grasp, Booth. You have very nicely formed gluteal muscles. Not that I'm surprised," she added under her breath.

"Agghhh!" Booth gasped, a flash of heat spiraling through him unexpectedly. He wasn't in charge anymore; she was bewitching him, he was certain, catapulting things up a notch. A sharp intake of air silenced him as he prayed to control his own body's intense reaction to the warm, soft, squishy, solidness of hers.

"We'll just shuffle over there together," she assured, ensuring his arms were secured around her midsection. "It is perfectly natural for an adult male to become physically aroused in close proximity to his mate. You and I, we have extraordinarily powerful sexual chistry—the most intense I have ever experienced, Booth. So, despite your puritanical modesty, nature will have its way with you—"

"—I'm nature's bitch, is that what you're saying?" Booth chuffed.

"All of humanity is nature's bitch. Our combined chemical attraction is heightened by our flirtatious repartee this evening. The physical contact we are currently sharing is an accelerant on an already long-burning flame. All of this, as much as some would prefer to call it love, is part of nature's plan to ensure the perpet—"

"Aw, geez, again with the perpetration of the human race? Can we just get over to the other table and get your stuff? How we gonna do this, anyway?"

"As a matter of fact," she continued undeterred, "if you weren't aroused when our bodies connect as they currently are, I would be concerned that there may be some medical—"

"There is nothing wrong with my equipment, or my hormones, Bones. Believe me!"

"There's no reason to be self-conscious, Booth. You're going to have to get over your reluctance to discuss things of a sexual nature if we are to have a healthy sex life."

"Seriously? Are we seriously going to do this now?" Booth groaned.

Brennan sighed, then looked over her shoulder and into his eyes. "It may comfort you to know that I am experiencing a rather powerful reaction to your proximity," she whispered, smiling sweetly.

"Well, it certainly doesn't show!" He responded coyly.

"Of course not. Sexual arousal in the adult female isn't as conspicuous as it is in the adult male. The female body is ingeniously designed to ensure a safe and sterile environment for a fetus to develop," she explained confidently, as she pulled his arms across her body like a safety harness on a roller coaster ride. "In order to achieve that, the female reproductive syst is predominantly internal." She pulled forward and he followed. They shuffled around the table toward the other table where one of Brennan's bag and the larger tool kit sat.

Brennan rummaged through the first bag and pulled out the small black drawstring bag containing her miniscule yet very highly powered magnifying glass. "Yes! I do have it!" She cried jubilantly. "What else will I need," she mumbled, surveying the contents of her bag. "Because, as entertaining as this crab-walk exercise is, we're not doing it again. Ah! Tweezers!" She slipped the tweezers into her pocket unseen and stretched out diagonally across the table, reaching for the very furthest corner even though she already had the tweezers in her hand. Booth couldn't see what she was reaching for, and suspected she was doing it just to torment him. If he had looked closer, he'd have found that he was correct.

"Whoaaaaaaaaa!" Booth groan-yelped, as he instinctively pinned her to the table and grasped the pleasing softness of her midsection as if she were dangling over a bridge in danger of plunging to her death. His mind went blank, probably due to lack of blood in the frontal lobe, he would think to himself later. When she bounced up on her tip toes to reach further, he grabbed her hips and pulled her back. He didn't know why. "Oh, God," he hummed to himself when she bounced back into him. He jammed his eyes closed, mentally making the sign of the cross. Saint Francis of Assisi, St. Joan of Arc, Saint Catherine of Aragon, Saint Penis, I mean, Peter! Jesus! He gulped desperately. and as quietly as he could.

"What?" Brennan asked, straightening up and twisting slightly toward him. "What did you say?"

Booth gulped again, then licked his parched lips. "Nothing," he said in falsetto before clearing his throat. "I didn't say anything. We just about done here?"

"Yes. I have everything I need. Do you?" She said slowly, taunting him, or did he imagine that? Turning, she lead him into a u-turn and then back to the table of bones, picking up where she left off in her lecture about the biology of sex. "The female reproductive system is also designed to temper the libido when rampant sexual behavior would not be in the female's best interest."

"Booth didn't respond, hoping the conversation would end naturally.

"It may interest you to know that mice, laboratory rodents, some domestic horses, and the Theropithecus gelada of the Ethiopian Highlands—which are relatives of the baboon, but much more ferocious—they all spontaneously abort a pregnancy when a foreign male is introduced."

"What, like a French guy?" Booth snarked.

"What?" Brennan paused, turning her head to stare at him askance.

"Joke."

"Oh. You thought I meant 'foreign', as in, a male from a foreign country, right."

"Oui, oui." Booth smiled, chuckling. "You gotta watch out for those smarmy French guys."

"Hm," she frowned in amused agreement. For the next two minutes Brennan alternately picked up the mandible and then the cranium, scrutinizing portions of each through her tiny eight millimeter magnifying glass with such abject concentration that Booth didn't doubt she very well could have forgotten his existence. Then she chose two cervical vertebra and performed the same exercise. "Look at this," she said, holding up what looked to Booth like a three dimensional puzzle piece.

"Do I have to smell it or touch it?" He made a disagreeable face.

"No, just look!" She leaned back and held the bone and glass up to his eye.

"I don't see anything," he said, steadying her hand, "except, maybe, the night sky on a starless night."

"Right there," she said, nodding toward the bone under the magnifying glass. "You don't have to put the glass in your eye, Booth. Try it again."

"I still don't see anything," he answered.

"Well, it's there, Booth. And this is a good sign."

"What's there? Same cracks as Aleesha's."

"While I have confirmed the erosion of the occipital condyles of the cranial base and the articular facets of the C1 vertebra, as well as the fractured facets of the transverse processes of the C2 through C5 vertebra—"

"In English, please!"

"The pointy parts broken off of Aleesha's and Banty's vertebra appear to have been eroded and broken in the identical fashion."

"That's good, right?" Booth peered through the tiny glass as he listened to her answer.

"While I cannot confirm irrefutably without the electron microscope, I can postulate that what appears to the naked eye as shading, is, in fact, a constellation of microfractures."

"Oh, yeah," Booth gasped, quietly amazed as he could finally see what she was referring to. "Yeah. Right there," he said.

"Mr. Bray will have to confirm the directionality and compare the fracture pattern."

"That's good enough for me. Now, for the peace and resistance, let's examine the face bones for traces of blood and guts."

"La pièce de résistance, Booth. It's French," she corrected, emphasizing each word.

"Again with the French!"

"Yes. It means, the main event. They also gave us, tour de force, which means in this case, a feat of ingenuity, which is what it has taken to reconstruct the cause of death for these two young women." She took a deep breath and turned to the mandible and cranium, silently inspecting each multiple times.

"Can I look?"

"This won't look like anything to the untrained eye. However, an organic substance has altered the color of the periosteum in a pattern congruent with the image presented in Mr. Bray's ail. With the electron microscope and the mass spectrometer, he and Dr. Hodgins will be able to identify the nature of the organic substance. Now," she said, "As for what I had postulated were minute particles on the distal aspect of right posterior ribs five and six are actually micro fractures, though not nearly as miniscule as the ones on the occipital condyles of the vertebra."

"Hm," Booth grunted.

"Something was slowly and deliberately applied, with enough pressure, to the ribs in the center of her back, to cause this particular constellation."

"I'll be damned. And if he killed from behind, like Wendell said, and the victim was seated, maybe the killer was seated as well, right behind her with his knee in her back." Booth nodded, in thought.

"Mmm. Her proportions would suggest as much."

"Sweets should have a field day with that. Do you think Angela could figure out the size of the guys paella, and then extrapolate how tall the guy is?"

"That is an intelligent question, assuming you mean 'patella' rather than 'paella', which is a Valencian rice dish, Booth, and rind me to ail Angela about it later."

Booth grinned gleefully. "Tell her I was the genius who had the idea. A little role-reversal never hurt anyone."

"If you were Hodgins, you'd be asserting your superiority as King of the Lab," she chuckled.

"So, we done here?" Booth asked, nodding in agreement.

"We are finished, yes.. I just need to repackage the rains, make copies of my notes on the photocopier in the hall, and package it to ship to the Jeffersonian."

"We shipping the casket and everything?"

"Well, let's take a look," she said, finally releasing him from captivity.

To his surprise, Booth had no stepping up to the diminutive container this time. It helped that the open lid faced the opposite direction. The partners stood elbow to elbow for several moments, scanning every inch of the shiny

"What's that? Hand me that micro magnifying glass, Bones."

"What?" She asked curiously, handing him the tiny tool.

"That little dark thing. It may be nothing." He reached toward it.

"Use the tweezers!" She yelped, holding th out to him and grabbing a petri dish. .

"Well, what have we here?" Booth spoke in a voice usually reserved for puppies and toddlers. "Would you look at that?" He picked up the speck in question and stared at it through the magnifying glass. "It's too small to be a tick and it's not even a whole animal! If I breathe on it, it might disintegrate or float away."

"Hm—" Brennan leaned in to take a look.

"Maybe it's a leg, or an antenna?" Booth suggested. "Or … my own eyelash?" He postulated, feeling foolish.

"That's not an eyelash, Booth. Eyelashes are curved with a root on the thicker end. It could be a leg, or setae, from beetle larva."

"Uh, I think this thing is actually orange. Is that possible?"

"Anything's possible. Dr. Hodgins could provide you with an accurate answer to that question."

"The bug man is going to be happy. Hey, there's more in there," Booth leaned back over the coffin while Brennan held the petri dish. "It was all stuck in this little fold of the fabric. Some must have settled on the bottom. Should I get it?" He glanced at her quizzically.

"Yes. Get it all. Always gather all the evidence, Booth," Brennan smiled.

"Maybe there's enough here to tell us where that third body is," he said in hushed tones.

"Maybe. We don't need much to determine that, but we do need everything."

"And I know what you're going to say next."

"What?" She fastened the top onto the petri dish and taped it shut.

"The whole kit and caboodle is going to the Jeffersonian!" Booth clapped his hands together once, exuberantly.

"Well, I understand your intent, but that is not at all how I would have said it," Brennan objected.

"That's why you need me, Bones. I add color to your life." He kissed her loudly on the cheek as she began collecting the bones to be packaged for delivery.

"That is undeniable. Let's get out of here," she mumbled, then smiled at him. She kissed him back sweetly on the lips; a brief kiss charged with the live current of promise.

On the way toward the door once everything was packaged to go, Booth spied a box sticking out from under Sr. Shcherbakov's desk.

"Oh, man. Son of a beach bunny. Look at this, Bones," he said, then read the words on the box. "Ozone Generating Air Purifier. Dr. Dento must have bought this thing before he died and no one had the sense to look in the box! Listen to this:

_'Your new air purifier electronically oxidizes molecules in the air destroying noxious odors and fumes at their source. Used by hundreds of crime labs, police, and sheriff departments, correction facilities, and medical examiners, your Arrow™ Ozone Generating Air Purifier covers up to 40,000 square feet, leaving behind the fresh scent of a spring day.'_

The two stared at each other, dumbfounded.

"I believe that's called irony, Bones." Booth smirked.

"And you would be correct. On another topic … if we are going for a little role reversal," she said as they turned off the lights and closed the morgue door behind them. "I'm going to have to create a po for you. A really romantic one."

"What do you mean?" He asked, his brow furrowed inquisitively as he held the elevator door open for her.

"You discovered the organic material in the coffin, and suggested extrapolating height of the killer by measuring the patella—both which could be key pieces of our puzzle. I better do something you would usually do, and start thinking about something really romantic."

"Really romantic, huh?" He said, flashing his eyes and wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

"Yes," she asserted, jutting out her chin. "Something to rival, 'Gave my heart to a woman named Bones, who paid me with kisses and groans …'

"It was moans, Bones. Groans are for pain. Or exasperation. Or lifting heavy things. Moans are for pleasure. Satisfaction. You have so much to learn, Grasshopper," he teased, putting his arm around her and hugging her sideways. "With a smile on her face, she offered me grace and I felt like a king on a throne'."

"You never cease to surprise me, Booth," she grinned, making Booth's heart melted.

"You think that was romantic? Wait till you see what I have prepared for you in your hotel room," he beamed as they exited the building to find Sebastian waiting for th.

"Wha, my room?" She stopped and stared at him. "I assumed we were staying together."

"Yeah. About that," he stammered. Play this right and you're home free, Booth Buddy, he thought to himself. According to 'The Psychology of Sales, 101', the correct answer is always 'yes.' "Of course, we will be staying together, Bones, tomorrow. Tonight, we have separate rooms. Believe me, you'll thank me later."

"Hmmmm. What difference could it possibly make?" She argued, crestfallen. Booth rained resolutely mute. Finally, Brennan, relented, for now. "I better start thinking about 'Sir Seeley', then," she said dejectedly.

"Who's Sir Seeley'?"

"He's the protagonist in the poem I am writing for you."

"I like that," smiled Booth, nodding slowly. "It has a certain … Je ne sais quoi … to it."

"Brennan snorted. "Gotta keep up with the French."

"Oui, oui, Madoiselle!" He said, grabbing her hand, and pressing his lips to it for a lingering kiss.

Brennan spent the entire town car ride to the hotel shushing Booth so she could concentrate on her poem. He was just tired enough not to argue after the first three times and almost fell asleep leaning his head on her shoulder. Brennan constructed, deconstructed, and reconstructed her poem several times; she switched the lines around, and rearranged the verses until she was completely satisfied. Then she repeated it to herself many times to commit it to memory in its final iteration . . .

Much later, as Brennan sat on the couch in her anteroom waiting for Booth to erge from the bathroom after what she hoped would be a therapeutic shower, she repeated 'Sir Seeley' from memory, and smiled, rembering his reaction to it hours earlier when she finally recited it for him.

In the combined bed and bathroom on the other side of Brennan's hotel suite, however, Booth sat in a pensive stupor on the lid of the porcelain throne where Brennan had left him only moments earlier.

The disturbing images from all of his nightmares—the one that visited him at the morgue and the one that awoke him after he fell asleep on Brennan's couch—they continued to gnaw at him like a starving fox bent over a discarded carcass in bitterest winter. The screaming widows, the tormented fatherless children, the collapsing mass graves, his taunting father, the beguiling and duplicitous Brennan-like succubus who nearly asphyxiated him with his own pit of anguish. Then, the shimmering Filthy Stinking Bastard and the burning hole in Booth's chest where his heart should have been. These specters descended upon his broad shoulders and weighed him down. An ache weaved itself into the sinews that kept his body from flying apart.

_This should not be that big of a deal,_ he feebly tried to convince himself. His attempt at denial only aggravated his dons, sending several stabs of adrenaline down through his chest with every shallow breath. He ran his tongue over his lips and recalled the bitter taste of despair and stomach acid.

'Stop," he rasped hoarsely into the empty bathroom. "Just—stop!" He jammed his palm into his eyes and stood abruptly. He glanced sideways at the running water in the shower Brennan had started for him, and then released the waistband of his boxers from its perch upon his hips, scanning the room for the toiletries Brennan grabbed from his bathroom five flights up. Spying his toiletry kit on the countertop, he reached for it and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His flesh was a waxy shade of pale blue, his face covered in a patina of sweat. Locating his toothbrush and paste, he attacked his teeth, gums and tongue as if they were coated with something caustic.

"You look like crap, Booth buddy," he said roughly to his reflection as he hunched over the sink to scoop water from the faucet up to his mouth. Rinse and spit. Rinse and spit. He looked up and peered into his own tired eyes, realizing suddenly that he was hunched and trbling either from a chill or from the onslaught of his dons. It was amazing he could stand at all. He hoped the hot shower would force a profusion of color back into his skin, banishing both chill and fear.

Stepping into the tepid stream of water, he cranked the nozzle to the left as far as it would go. The tperature rose immediately, scorching his forearms.

"Excrement—!" He yelped, jumping back against the slippery glass wall of the shower stall. Reaching cautiously around the searing spray, he dialed the knob a centimeter to the right, darting brave fingers in and out of the spray until the water was just this side of scorching hot. Slowly and cautiously, he eased back into the stream, gritting his teeth and willing his skin to cease screaming its objections to the abuse raining down upon it. If boiling water made a good sanitizer, he reasoned, certainly a shower this hot would burn off the torment of his subconsciousness, right?

"His head fully immersed in the stream, Booth dropped his marble-muscled shoulders and exhaled in a rush as if inflating a balloon, then slowly drew the soothing heavy steam deep into his lungs through both nose and mouth. He continued at a slow steady pace and added to it a mantra to occupy his brain: Don't—think. Just be. Don't prepare, plan, or practice a speech. Let God handle that.

"Still somewhat unsteady, Booth flattened his palms against the wall on either side of the shower head. He leaned forward, his head hanging in the stream. The coolness of the marble, a refreshing contrast to the sear of the stream enveloping him. He continued taking deep breaths, allowing the steam to cleanse him from the inside out.

While tranquility massaged its way into his body, his muscles and tendons trembled slightly as they relented in their fight to rain taut and tense. "Hoooooh, this was a very good idea, Bones," he sighed as he swayed side-to-side still holding onto the wall.

Finally, Booth invoked the aid of his good old friend, the Holy Spirit. He knew there was no way, without help from above, that he'd have the courage and grace to do what needed to be done; say what needed to be said to Brennan. In the past he'd been surprised at the eloquence of his words in times like this—an eloquence that Booth knew he himself didn't possess, but flowed easily from him when he allowed the Holy Spirit to take over.

Suddenly he was visited by a childhood memory. Tucked inside the front cover of a small black leather-bound bible Pops had given him on the day of his first communion was a laminated piece of paper the size of a playing card. On it was a photograph of dark angry clouds; heavy, swollen, and foreboding. Arising out of the clouds was an image of a simple man in a white floor length shift with his arms held out invitingly.

"It's the Holy Spirit, Hank had said. You can't outrun Him, Seeley Joseph. I promise you this. He's stuck on you like white on rice. His grandfather tousled his hair and gave him that big strong hug that smelled like Gran's cooking and motor oil, autumn leaves and old Sears catalogs.

Inscribed in gold on the back of the card were these words:

_'Be not afraid; I go before you always.'_

It was an adaptation from Isaiah. Like Pops, it was brief and straight to the point, but powerful. Booth repeated this mantra five or six times now until his subconscious took over the repetitions and elevated him to a meditative state transcending the ugliness of his unwelcome dreams. Finally, he was able to peacefully and objectively review the evening's events—both welcome and unwelcome. He recalled the conversation with Ed Williams and his confession of having killed many people. He thought about the tiny casket and the lifelike carving on it's lid. He closed his eyes and cautiously reflected on the images of mass graves and ditches, children crying. After a moment he realized that these thoughts felt like a slide show he was watching. They didn't feel as if they resided within him, but outside him. But they still clung to him; hovered over him.

Stepping out of the stream, Booth toweled himself dry and brushed his teeth one more time. His skin was flush from the heat, his eyes were clear and sharp. He felt peaceful.

Glancing at the counter top, he spied something in the corner that lifted his heart and sent a warm feeling of appreciation all through him. It was a simple piece of paper folded into sixths. He recognized Brennan's handwriting through the paper. It was the poem, 'Sir Seeley', that she'd thought up, memorized, and then written down for him. It was when she'd gone to find paper and pen to write it down that he had sat upon her hotel room couch and slumped over. He'd been asleep before his body was fully horizontal. He recalled their heated exchange once arriving at Hotel 1000 ...

Arriving at the hotel from the medical examiner's office, they had checked in quickly and headed for the elevator to the third floor.

"I feel like something's missing," Brennan murmured, closing her eyes and sinking her nose into the mass of velvety roses petals. She tightened her arms around the crystal vase cradled in her arms. Sighing contentedly, she beamed up at her partner.

"Our luggage," Booth said, smiling at the pleasure in Brennan's eyes despite the fatigue he knew she had to be feeling after such a long day. "We're used to carrying our suitcases along with this tool kit here and the communication equipment. This is a classy joint." He stepped closer and draped his arm across her shoulders, kissing her temple.

"I didn't mean to be ungrateful, Booth," Brennan apologized, searching his eyes. "When I saw these flowers were for me, I mean. I was so focused on morizing the lines to my poem, that I failed to appreciate the significance of your gesture."

Upon seeing the lovely flowers, Brennan had launched into a reproachful soliloquy on the gratuitous loss of fragrance resulting from the overbreeding flowers for the commercial purpose of more brilliantly colored blooms. It's an abuse of nature, she'd said. All because it's easier to mass market the visually pleasing rather than the olfactorily pleasing.

Booth had managed the paperwork for their rooms, listening indulgently with a shallow half smile plastered on his lips, until they stood in front of the elevator doors.

"Apology accepted," he whispered against her hair, squeezing her sideways up against the length of his body. When the doors smoothly slid open with a ding, they got in and turned around. Booth pushed the number three button and backed toward the back of the elevator where he leaned against the wall, exhausted.

Brennan joined him, snuggling under his arm and resting her head on his shoulder.

"They are quite lovely." She inhaled deeply, breathing in the tangy-sweet scent. After leaving the frigid morgue, Brennan and Booth eventually lost their sensory resistance to the remnants of stink lingering on their clothes. The bouquet of fresh blooms was a pleasing alternative to the reminder of where they'd spent their evening. "Why won't you tell me how you managed to find organically grown roses this time of year, Booth?" Brennan mewled.

Booth simply shrugged and smiled, then rested his temple against her hair. He had no intention of divulging the expense involved in getting two different strains of the most fragrant roses in existence on such short notice. He knew she was a purist and would feel compelled to comment about a rose being a rose and not smelling so sweet. Maybe she'd even say they weren't roses at all if they completely lacked scent, and that it was an affront to the natural order of things as well as to Shakespeare. Booth wasn't going to give her any room to be anything but pleased with the surprised he'd arranged for her.

Brennan preceded Booth into the anteroom of her suite. She took a deep, cleansing breath and exhaled, allowing the tension to drain from her neck and shoulders. The vertical creases above her nose fell away, and the smoothness of her forehead left no trace of the lines that had been there mere moments  
>before.<p>

"Now, before you start talking about the microscopic fecal monsters crawling all over this place, you need to know I specifically chose this hotel because they use all organic cleaning materials and use an ultraviolet light and an ozone thingy to check for bugs—"

"Booth, smell that," she chirped, interrupting him with the surprising lightness in her tone.

"What?" He furrowed his brow, hoping he hadn't missed something.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing," she said, her shoulders relaxing as she made a 365 degree turn around the room. She inhaled deeply several times. "It's wonderful. Fresh. Odorless." She centered the vase on the coffee table in front of a full length couch set facing the floor to ceiling windows. "And beautiful." She dropped the key card next to the vase with a shallow slap, and ptied the contents of her pockets into an orderly pile beside it. Gingerly pulling the single red rose out of the center of the bouquet, she inhaled its perfume.

"And the sheets, I think, are made of a thousand Egyptian threads, whatever that means, are they're boiled, even the bedspreads, after every use." Booth pulled her tool case in from the hall and stood it on end just inside the door. Sliding her other bag down his arm, he set it next to the case. "Did I do good?"

"Did you do _well_, is the grammatically correct way to say it. And, yes, you did well, Booth," she sighed appreciatively, cocked her head to the side and allowed a smile to brighten her face. "So, are you coming in, or are you just going to stand there?" She asked, tapping the rose against her lips. She walked toward him and reached for his hand.

"No, I better go," he said with a lopsided smile, bringing her hand to his lips and dropping a kiss on her knuckles. The door behind him rained ajar, one Boothy foot holding it open. "You should get some sleep," he said, running his fingers up her arm to pull her closer and press his lips against her forehead.

Brennan dropped her head on his shoulder and paused. "What is that?" She said, suddenly stepping back. "It's the faint scent of white tea and ginger!"

Abandoning Booth at the door, she advanced toward the bedroom and peeked into the bathroom where a mountain of fluffy bubbles floated atop a tub filled with steaming hot water.

"Booth! Someone's already drawn a bath. We must have the wrong room." She looked around for signs of another occupant, but saw only her own suitcase tucked away by the closet door and her extra shoes lined up at the foot of the bed. "Or, is this part of the package?"

"It's part of your package," he called from the anteroom.

"You did this?" Her disembodied voice called out from the bedroom. "You couldn't have done this, Booth. You were with me the whole time."

"Yeah," he chuckled, "there's this new invention, it's called the telephone …"

"Wha—Booth, you didn't have to do that!" She reappeared in the bedroom door to stare in wonder across the anteroom at her mate.

"Well, I knew it would be late when we finished, and," he shrugged sheepishly, "you would need to wind down … wash the stink off ya'. A nice hot bath should do the trick, though I think I may burn my clothes," he chagrined, smelling his sleeve.

"Booth," she gasped, then sighed with a humbly grateful lilt in her tone. She held his gaze for a moment, then broke into a grin, her eyes flashing with mischief.

"Step into my office, said the spider to the fly…" she teased, walking back to where he waited by the door.

Standing in front of him, she slipped her fingers between his shirt and the waistband of his trousers, and gently tugged, pulling him forward until the door clicked closed behind him.

Booth hesitated, then allowed her to drag him a little further inside, but then stopped. She could feel his abdominal muscles tighten against the back of her fingers as she continued to playfully tug at his waistband. Booth gently pulled on her wrist until she release her grasp on his buckle and held her hand.

"Enough of that," he reproached her gently. "I'd like to tell you something about your roses. Think you can concentrate?" He chided. "I know it will be, uh, difficult." He chuckled low and tucked several errant strands of hair behind her ear.

Brennan shrugged with one shoulder and relented, raising their joined hands to her mouth, kissing the back of his hand, then resting th against her sternum.

"Okay. They represent our journey together, Bones," Booth said quietly, leaning back against the closed door. "Six years of friendship and partnership, followed by a year of romance and passion to come," he said smartly. "Six white, one red."

Brennan dropped her chin to her chest and smiled humbly at the sweetness of his sentiment. Her eyes drifted closed as she lifted the bud to her nose and inhaled it's scent. "Booth," she whispered, stepping close enough to feel his breath on her cheek. "When I think of us—where we are now—in this," she shrugged one shoulder innocently, "Operation—"

"—Operation Pringles." It was an affirmation. He smiled and blinked with lazy eyelids as he watched her chest and their joined hands rise and fall in a barely audible sigh. He felt dizzy, like he was going to cry, he was so content and grateful. He didn't rber ever being this … exhilarated … in a relationship. "I love you," he blurted, flashing his eyes at her.

"I know." Brennan smiled to herself, her eyes dropping to the rose, her eyelashes a fringe of chestnut against her creamy skin. "Yes, Operation—," she sighed in a high tone, "—Pringles. I, Booth, I think of orange," she finally said in a breathy voice, her eyes traveling from the rose to his chest, then resting on his lips, and then following the line of his jaw up to meet his eyes. "Shall I tell you why?" She teased sweetly, resting the fullest part of the bud in the center of his forehead, then dragging it little by little down the line of his nose and across his upper lip.

"Orange?" He repeated in surprise, wiggling his ticklish nose. "What, it's your favorite popsicle flavor?" He hummed in a sing-song tone. Spellbound by her playfulness, he gently took the st from her fingers and trailed the fragrant feather-soft petals across her temple. Continuing along her jawline, he traced a path down her throat where a strong pulse jumped in rhythm with his own heartbeat. She bit her lips to stop from making noise when he continued across her chest and down along the plunging neckline of her blouse. He painted delicate, ticklish lines over the inside curve of her breasts, connecting all three love bites from this morning. Goosebumps exploded all over her skin; chest, neck and arms. She tried, unsuccessfully, to control a shudder.

Brennan released a low mewling sigh and dropped her fingers on his wrist. It was as much to steady herself as to stop him lest she fly completely apart. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to bask in the tension of the desperate impulse to rip off her clothing and slide back and forth over his chest like a cat affectionately claiming its territory .

"No," she whispered, "I don't care for popsicles. However, here is my logic: red is traditionally recognized as the color of love and romance," she said, her drowsy eyes squinting open, "but orange, orange is the color of desire, exuberance, and cheerful enthusiasm."

"A slow comprehending smile crept across his face, his lips forming a silent, "Ohhhh!"

"His exclamation was quieted when she leaned in and grazed his lips before breathing across his mouth: "And that's what I feel right now. Desire, exuberance, cheerful enthusiasm." She tossed the rose aside and grasped his biceps, stepping up on her tiptoes, and leaning her soft chest into his solid one, covering his mouth with languorous, exploratory kisses that stopped his heart and dropped his stomach into his shoes. If he hadn't already been leaning against the doorjamb, he would have fallen over. "But," she gasped between kisses and nibbles, "I won't be jumping around like a cheerleader, because I can barely hold myself up as it is."

Booth's nervous chuckle vibrated against her neck where he'd begun painting a trail of salty kisses and licks. "Orange," he croaked, his voice thick with emotion. He cleared his throat and wrapped his arms around her, crushing her to his chest. "Good to know," he whispered hotly into her ear before nipping at her earlobe and behind her ear, then taking those kisses and caresses down her neck and back up to her mouth, kissing her passionately until they were both out of breath. Booth tightened his arms around his mate and delighted in those little noises she made that only he would ever hear.

"For several delicious minutes, they pushed into each other's bodies and used their clothing as tethers to pull each other closer. Brennan grasped his biceps again, feeling the muscles below tighten in response. She released one arm and followed the curve of his shoulder up over his perfect acromion to his neck, then captured a handful of short brown hair and pulled a little too hard. Booth's fingers tore at the back of her blouse until they found the h and his palms met the smooth skin at the small of her back underneath. Exploring the dip of her spine, he scratched a little too hard, forcing a guttural response to erupt from Brennan's throat into the side of his neck.

"I was wrong," he cooed drunkenly. "You just groaned, but it had nothing to do with pain or exasperation."

"What?" She signed, dragging her forehead languidly over his chin.

"The difference between groan and moan … from earlier. Rber?"

"I don't remember anything from before right now," she said, then chuckled at her own silliness.

"Well, earlier I said that groaning was about pain and exasperation."

"Oh. Yes. But I am in pain, Booth. And I am exasperated." She groaned again, to prove her point.

"You just need some sleep," he chuckled against .

"No, I just need your clothes off," she whimpered, grazing his hip with a raised knee which, finding no purchase, slid back down the length of his thigh. "The fact that my own clothing rains on is equally exasperating … and painful." She pulled up the back of his shirt and found the bare skin beneath. Fourth lumbar vertebra, fifth lumbar vertebra, left posterior iliac crest, right iliac crest, she found herself thinking as she brailed his lower back, moving Twelfth left and right posterior ribs, eleventh left and right posterior ribs, thoracic vertebrae twelve and eleven.

Booth chuckled and squeezed her to his chest again. As they melted into each other they itted intoxicated sighs, and nonsensical words between kisses, and caresses. Things like ...

—Mmmmm ... You feel so good … I could hold you like this forever …  
>—That would be impractical …<br>—I'm pretty sure I don't care …  
>—You feel so good, too …<br>—I know …  
>—I love kissing you …<br>—I'm experiencing a heady downpour of adrenaline …  
>—God bless chemistry …<br>—Especially Fenylethylamine …  
>—Is that the one responsible for…?<br>—Yes, the hormone that …  
>—What? Increases heart rate and sweating?<br>—Yes, and makes your skin hot …  
>—Your cheeks are burning up …<br>—So are yours.

Then followed a jumble of affectionate mumbles like

— I love you —Hoh, I love you more —Fenylethylamine is also the chemical responsible for sending extra blood flowing to the sexual —I know, to the tingling naughty bits —Hmmm? —It's a SNL skit, surely you've seen the Church Lady? —I don't know what that means, is that a Catholic thing? —Hah, no. It's from Saturday Night Live! Dana Carvey? —Oh … —You still don't know what that means, do you? —Did you just bite me? —I did. I totally did —Oh! —Did I hurt you?  
>—No … Then, I'll do it again —Whoa! —Rawr! —Just remember, Booth, that …<em> Agh! you bit me again! <em>—I'd eat you completely all up if I could. —That is an absurd idea, but I think I know what you mean. I find your biting to be quite titillating …—That's what I was hoping … —So, the church lady? —Yes, she calls it _lust_ when the tingling naughty bits are engorged with blood …Whoa, hoh, like right now, right? —Oh, God. God, yes!—You do realize it's been Tuesday for a couple of hours already … yes, painfully aware … God, I love you … and you are turned on by me … Knock, knock. Pot, this is Kettle. You're black … wha … oh, you are saying … I should hope so, that I am, I mean … otherwise … I know, but believe me, I'm fully functioning … so am I … you are also goofy … but you adore me … I do, I can't help it … feeling's mutual … I know …

And a moment later, despite being a tangled mess of arms and hair and hot skin and lips and rumpled clothing, they both became aware of something disturbing.  
>"Bones, not that I'm complaining, but … Are you, uh, thinking what I'm thinking?—As our bodies have warmed the fabric of our clothing … it's the stink from the morgue … stinking morgue with the broken down cadaver freezer! —Hooo. What crappy timing! —Unfortunately, we are in danger of creating sensory associations that could have disastrous consequences … What, that could what … Be detrimental to our work … What do you mean … and our love life … what?! —We don't want to become aroused whenever we smell … morgue smells? God, seriously … it's called sensory association, if we continue making out while perceiving the aromas of decaying flesh and viscera, our prefrontal cortexes will create an association and every time we smell putrefaction … uh, god, we should stop anyway … it's just that you're so … I know … but, do you want to be overcome with the impulse to make love in the middle of investigating … you think I don't already have that … oh, that's right. You just bit me again … I'm a man, Bones, that's how I'm made …<p>

Brennan broke away with difficulty, her heart racing. _I love how you're made,_ she thought. She tried to catch her breath, but now that she was standing on her own, felt quite dizzy.

"What if we just get these off?" She began unbuttoning her shirt, exposing a bra a lot of silky looking skin that jiggled as her shaky fingers wrestled with the buttons. "Then we can change into something clean and make out."

"Uh, my clothes are upstairs!" Booth eyes popped out, his ears started ringing.

"You can wear something of mine," Brennan panted, walking back toward him.

"Whoa, no! That is not fair. I call dirty pool. Besides, won't our—doesn't our—I mean, isn't our skin and hair still gonna smell like—"

"Dammit, you are correct." She stopped two feet from him and frowned in frustrated disappointment. Her eyes became glossy and her shoulders fell.

"It's a sign from God," he panted, running a hand through his hair. "Listen," he said, licking his lips once he'd caught his breath. He held his hand out to her.

She took it, and let him pull her close, then gather her into his arms. "It's just as well, Bones," he said in a soothing voice as he tucked her head under his chin and kissed the top of her head. "You and I both know if these clothes come off they aren't going back on and that's in direct violation of our O.P. agreement."

"O.P.?"

"Operation—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she mumbled against his skin, burrowing her face into his neck. "It's just that you were—really getting to me at the medical examiner's office—and, you're right, I am—so—very tired. I just want to snuggle up next to you and feel your arms around me while I drift off to sleep," she mewed, on the verge of exhausted tears.

Booth sighed heavily and stroked her back. "I know," he whispered above her ear. "But, listen, huh? You go take a nice hot bath in that tub full of Honeysuckle and white ginger or whatever it is. And then get some sleep. I'll come getcha for breakfast, okay?"

"I find I am feeling quite emotionally—overwhelmed as a result of, well, everything."

Booth leaned back and lifted her chin so he could look in her eyes. He frowned compassionately, and arched an eyebrow. "I know. Me too. And," he said, rubbing his nose against hers, "we both need sleep. And I," he sighed deeply and paused, then found he didn't know how to say what he wanted to say.

When he didn't continue, Brennan looked from one of his eyes to the other and back, waiting. Booth closed his mouth and stared blankly back. He pursed his lips, looked away, and shifted his weight. "Umm."

"Booth, it feels like you are pulling away from me and it—I find it very disconcerting," She swallowed hard, her forehead dimpling in concern. "Is this about what's been bothering you all day?" When he still didn't respond, she felt a stab of anxiety pierce her breast. "Booth?" She said gently. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. He swallowed and dropped his eyes to her chin, unable to look up again.

"Your body language seems to suggest that either you cannot tell me, or you do not want to tell me what's going on." She waited again. "Either way, I am experiencing a rising sensation of discomfort in—"

"—There is nothing for you to be worried about, Bones. Nothing. I swear." He looked over her head and around the room. He sighed and smiled wanly, his eyes finding hers again, finally.

"Then—?" She shook her head and shrugged encouragingly.

"Bones," he started, closing his eyes, his brow creased in concentration. He didn't want to upset her, but he wasn't ready for full disclosure yet either. "It scares me sometimes how much I want you. And—sometimes I think I'll fall apart when you kiss me, or touch me. And when that finally happens, Bones—when I finally fall apart—with you—I want it to be clean. I want there to be nothing standing between us. Nothing that I can't give up; nothing that I hold onto. Nothing but you." He swallowed hard, his mouth and chin wrinkling as he fought against the wave of emotions welling up in his chest. The fear, the doubt, the images of the dons that wanted to keep th apart. The love that held him together that he couldn't bear to lose.

Brennan reached up and cradled his face in her hands. Her anxiety was building, but not for herself; it was for him. He opened his eyes. She willed herself not to look away from his naked fear. She forced a smile, but he didn't return it. He was serious. She looked down, unsure what to say. She shrugged one shoulder.

"Is there—is there anything I can do?" She asked plaintively, her hands drifting down to his rest on his chest.

Booth closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers. "Bones, you don't know how long I've wanted this," he said, then stopped himself.

"Booth, what is going on? We are partners. Wouldn't it be better for you to tell me what is troubling you, then for you to battle through it on your own? I am your soft place and I am right here," she insisted, setting her jaw firmly.

"Booth sighed heavily, and nodded, his eyes still closed.

"Remember when we were looking at that painfully tiny casket?" He began.

"In the morgue. Banty Solicious' coffin." She nodded.

"Yeah, well, something's been on my mind all day—for a couple of days actually—and it got me thinking again—"

"You grew quite pale. That was when you rushed off to use the lavatory."

"Yeah," he chuffed uncomfortably, feeling stupid.

"That's why I tried to distract you with all that talk about customs and anthropology and burial practices. But it didn't seem to help. It seemed to make it worse!"

Booth smiled weakly.

"What—what is it that is troubling you, Booth? Please let me help you," she said, then closed her mouth, cocked her head to the side and waited. "Is there something I can do?"

"No. Yes, well, I think so, yes. But first I just need a little … just a little time to myself." He grimaced in supplication, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he willed her to understand.

Brennan pressed her lips together and tried to read his expression. Finally, she nodded slowly, then confidently. "Okay, Booth. I trust you." She exhaled roughly when his relaxing shoulders told her she'd said the right thing.

Booth blew out a lungful of air and kissed her on the forehead. He nodded gratefully, pressing his lips together, and took her face in his hands. He slid his fingers behind her neck and pulled her closer, the two of th touching, forehead to forehead, belly to belly, thigh to thigh. He swallowed loudly, holding her there in silence for a moment.

"There is something you could do for me. Right now," he said.

"Anything," she answered, snaking her arms around his waist.

"Tell me the poem you made up for me."

"A slow smile crept across her face.

"With pleasure, Sir Seeley," she said after a moment. "But you must keep in mind that you are the romantic in this relationship. I am the more rational of the—"

"—You let me be the judge," he assured her.

"Okay. It is a little—full of corn—as they say. You know, supercilious—"

"Uh, I will be the judge. Now— go ahead!" He urged quietly.

She grimaced, dropped her eyes to his chin, and cleared her throat. She swayed side to side for a moment, then cleared her throat again, and began without looking up.

_'It is you, Sir Seeley, who's got me beset, sir._  
><em> It is your lips that cause me to tremble and sweat, sir.<em>'

Booth's mouth fell open. Brennan flicked a glance up at him and flushed crimson, then rolled her eyes, and exhaled unsteadily. She pinched her lips into a tight bow and closed her eyes, waited.

Booth stifled a grin and chomped down on his tongue. This was not at all what he had expected. "Um," he cleared his throat. "Is there, uh, more—?" His eyebrows ran for his hairline in hope that there was.

She wouldn't look up.

"It'sQuiteInferioToYours-IShouldn'tHaveTriedToEven ," she began in one long rush of words. " IMadeTheWholeThingUpInTheCar- OnTheWayHereFromTheMedicalExaminer's -IToldYouIAmMoreRationalThanRomantic. Don'tLaughAtMe, Booth." She chanced a glance up into his eyes and found him staring, speechless at her, his mouth still hanging open. She jammed her eyes closed again. "Excrent," she cursed under her breath.

"Out with it," Booth commanded, stifling an enormous grin which she couldn't see anyway, hiding as she was behind her vulnerability. "Come on," he goaded, caressing her cheeks with his thumbs, but she refused to look up for more than a second. "Are there more than two lines?"

"There are four—"

"Four lines?"

"Four, uh, stanzas." She said with a sheepish half smile.

"Hah. Okay, then. Give it up, Chaucer. Let's see what you're made of."

Brennan sniffed, shifted her weight yet again, and cleared her throat.

_'It is you, Sir Seeley, whose limbs twixt mine long for—_'

"Uh, excuse me. From the beginning," Booth interrupted, "please." His lips wiggled as he attempted to control his delighted smile.  
>Brennan exhaled and rolled her eyes.<p>

_'It is you, Sir Seeley, who's got me beset, sir._  
><em>It is your lips that cause me to tremble and sweat, sir.<em>  
><em>It is you, Sir Seeley, whose limbs twixt mine long for—<em>  
><em>It is your laugh, your smile, your love I belong for.<em>

_"It is you, Sir Seeley, I can't live without, sir._  
><em>It's your scent; your taste, your touch without doubt, sir<em>  
><em>br It is you, Sir Seeley, my blood race and heart swell, sir.<em>  
><em>So hasten, Sir Seeley, my hunger to quell, sir.<em>

_"It is you, Sir Seeley, who stirs my desire._  
><em> It is your voice whose prose sets my skin all afire.<em>  
><em>Come to me swiftly into my brace, sir. <em>  
><em>Lay me down gently; rove all my lace, sir.<em>

_"Make me your own, put your seal on my breast, sir._  
><em>Give me your breath and this final behest, sir-<em>  
><em> It is your love, your life that I long to abide, sir- <em>  
><em>With you on your horse and my bridle beside, sir.<em>

_(CLC, 2013)_

Booth stood in the bathroom and read the po Brennan had written for him. By the time he'd finished convincing Brennan that he really, really, really liked her poem, she was a mess. Blouse hanging half out of her pants, her hair everywhere, her lips puffy, her cheeks and chest flushed, once again. One boot on, the other lying lifeless a foot behind her; one sock pulled half off and twisted at an odd angle under her toes. Booth looked like he'd been rode hard and put away wet as well.

"I want you ..." He breathed across her ear when he knew he had to put an end to this love fest or he'd never make it up to his room.

"Oh, I want you too. So very desperately," she sighed back, covering his mouth with hers once again.

Booth chuckled. "You didn't let me finish! I was going to say, I want you to go find paper and pen and write that whole po down for me before you forget it," he said. "Then I really gotta go."

Brennan slumped in his arms. "Are you saying this so you can sneak out of here while my back is turned?" She glared at him the slit eyes.

"No, absolutely not!" He insisted, feigning offense.

"Pinky swear?"

"Pinky swear," he said, offering her his right hand.

"Okay. I'll be right back," she said, walking backward toward the bedroom as she pointed at her own eyes, then at his, then back at her own. "I've got my eyes on you, Sir Seeley," she cajoled.

Booth imagined how she must have felt when she returned to the anteroom moments later, po in hand, and thought he'd left. In actuality, he'd slunk down on the couch and leaned back. Before he could kick his shoes off and stretch his legs out across the cushions, he'd fallen sound asleep and was on his way to a nightmare that sent him careening into the glass bathroom wall on the other side of a bathing Brennan ... and then out her hotel room door, and up five flights to his own room.

Booth refolded the poem, and slid it into the pocket of the shorts Brennan had grabbed for him from his room. Now, he was ready to tell her everything.


	218. Panic Room

**Author's Notes: **I just wanted to give you a taste of what I'm working on, the rest of which will be coming out next week. I miss all you readers. Life has been crazy for us here as I am sure it has for all of you. What a phenomenal season 8 we're having though ... and YAY to the final announcement of a season 10! ~Mox

* * *

><p><strong>Panic Room<strong>

Booth stood in the doorway separating the bedroom from the ante room of Brennan's hotel suite. He stopped, letting his eyes adjust to the absence of light. As he stood there, his eyes straining, he heard Brennan stand, and then realized she was humming a tune, something he recognized but couldn't remember where from. As she turned slowly toward him, he caught a momentary glimpse of her silhouette and his heart skipped a beat. Just seeing her lifted a thin layer of the heaviness from his heart.

There she was, and she was perfect and she was his … for the moment. He wanted to have and hold her forever. He wanted to give her a beautiful life, with children some day, and all the love she deserved. She deserved it all. He wanted her to see him as reliable and constant, characteristics that he knew were important to her. He wanted her to be confident that he was capable of protecting her from anything that might threaten her happiness. He wanted her to feel that he was vital … and normal. And strong.

He didn't want to shatter the image he was sure she already had of him. A single fear loomed and followed him wherever he went lately: that once she witnessed him paralyzed by the spectors of the families he ruined and the children he killed, she'd see him as weak, cowardly, irresponsible. Like his dad did.

His consciousness stepped into the ring for sixty seconds of mental gymnastics that felt like an hour …

_That's a stupid thought,_ he said to himself in an irritated tone. _She swears that she loves me. No matter what. And she always keeps her word._ But his heart wasn't as confident as his brain.

For the one hundredth time he tried to negotiate with himself. Maybe he could hide this insecurity … the anxiety attacks, the waking mid-scream in the middle of the night, the sweating and puking, the shivering, shrinking from the touch of another human being. He hated all of this with a rage that frightened him, a rage akin to what he saw in his father's eyes when he was on a rampage.

_But, maybe I can swallow it, just bite it back ... all those feelings. Keep pretending as I've always done. If I'm happy enough with Bones and myself and Parker, maybe all the anxiety will just go away?_ But, holding it in, hiding it, was slowly killing him. The hole in his chest where his heart belonged was turning his dreams of joy to ash. _This has to stop! I have to make it stop!_ To do that, he had to expose it. He closed his eyes and sighed resignedly.

_What if she pities me?_ He thought further, feeling a tightening in his chest. It was the same old argument he had with himself everytime he considered telling her about his torment. _Christ! I don't want her to feel sorry for me. I want her to respect and love me. But what if she's disappointed in me? What if I can't make this shit go away? What if there's a way to make it go away that I just don't want to do ... like sitting in a group of people and baring my soul ... blubbering and getting it all out with an audience of strangers. No freaking way am I doing that. But __what if she wants me to? She will be so disappointed if I don't. Shit, I hate this._

Booth dove a hand into his pants pocket and pulled out the paper on which was written her poem, 'Sir Seeley', and rubbed it between his fingers like a worry stone.

_Now, simmer down, Seeley Joseph,_ said a booming disembodied voice from somewhere behind him. _You're setting yourself up for failure here, son._ He imagined two big hands heavy on his shoulders. He dropped his head and stared at the floor, focusing inward at tension in his own body. He took several deep breaths to calm himself and nodded mentally in the dark.

_Life is not about being flawless and neither of you are perfect. I know this because I made you both._ The Holy Spirit fell silent, allowing his message to sink in before he continued. _Pain, weakness, shame, desperation, loss; it's your vulnerability that makes you more human, Seeley._

_But I feel so guilty. I feel so_ … Booth shrugged ... _broken ... when I think of the things I've done. How could anyone do what I did and …_ He couldn't formulate the penetrating desperation into words any longer.

Silence from the presence right behind him. Booth shuddered and rotated his shoulders one at a time as if trying to free himself from some immobilizing force.

_Your life has had many trials and you have persevered._ The voice continued, stilling Booth whose breaths came out in shallow bursts. _What you see as weakness, I see as strength. What you see as failure, I see as preparation for greater things._

More silence.

_But I, I did some horrible, horrible things. I'm going to go to hell, aren't I? I'm in hell already. This crap is going to ruin my relationship with the only person who's ever fully known and truly loved me._ _It's going to destroy me!_

_That is why I sent Temperance to you, Seeley. She will broaden your perspective and remind you of who you are when you falter. Lean on her. She's strong and she can take it._

The gentle voice whispered something, its warmth flowing across Booth's ear: _Be not afraid. I go before you always._

Booth nodded again, but still wasn't feeling very trusting. _Right. It's that easy. Just don't be afraid. Click you heels three times. Why didn't I think of that?_ He chuffed, mentally rolling his eyes.

_Your lack of faith in a solution, simple or not, does not invalidate it, son. _

Booth smirked guiltily. The sweat of his fingers seeped into the paper clutched in his hand. He balled his fists, crumpling the paper into a golf ball sized wad, and swallowed audibly. The chat with HS wasn't having the usual calming affect. A swarm of hornets had taken up residence in his gut, piercing his organs with their frantic pointy anger. He recognized this sensation and cursed himself for the panic attack. The task before him was simply too overwhelming, his paralysis too pervasive to be dissolved by mere words, even if they were from his Maker.

_Trust. Her. Seeley Joseph._ The Holy Spirit remained undaunted. He knew these words would stick in Booth's brain and come to his rescue later when he was able to relinquish control a little more. _Have. Faith. In. Her. Have faith in yourself. And if you get stuck, just stop talking, take a breath, then speak the truth from your heart. And remember that you are not alone._ Ironically, at that moment Booth felt the presence leave. HS had gone into what Booth called 'stealth mode'.

The soothing tone of Brennan's humming began to insinuate itself into Booth's consciousness, pulling him out of his thoughts. Sensing a pounding at his throat and temple, he realized he hadn't exhaled in far too long. His autonomic nervous system was on the verge of inducing unconsciousness if Booth didn't exchange the carbon dioxide buildup in his lungs with some fresh oxygen, and soon. Booth blinked at the floor as things started to go black and blotchy.

"Bones," he gasped inaudibly. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Bones?" He reached out into the emptiness while trying, with difficulty, to swallow with so little saliva in his mouth. For a moment he saw himself turning and fleeing back to the bathroom to dip his head under the faucet to gulp down some water.

Then he took a step forward, swaying slightly. He felt dizzy. Needing to sit, but afraid to take another step.

"I'm right here, Booth," she said, not sure if she should approach or let him come to her. Sweets had warned that people experiencing a traumatic episode need to be given lots of space.

Booth's lips twitched. A flickering of recognition having to do with the tune she was humming sparked, and he clung to it. _Here it is. This is the moment. This is the moment it could all fall apart._ Booth sucked on his bottom lip, hoping this would loosen his tongue from it's sticking place at the roof of his mouth. _What am I doing? I can't do this! I want out. I want out._

The hornets from his stomach vaporized into slugs and began their slippery slide up his neck, leaving a silvery trail of sweat in their wake. Booth's body was awash with adrenaline, rendering him nauseous and poised to take flight. His stomach was a vat of hot, spitting lava. If he opened his mouth, he was certain smoke would slink forward into the room and she'd smell his fear.

_I said I want out!_ The silent scream ricocheted around inside his head like shrapnel agressively tossed into a surgical dish. He bit back the urge to release his anguish into the room, jammed his lips together, and sweat it out in disturbed silence. _Don't scare Bones!_ His entire body tensed, ready to pounce on the enemy. _Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Who-ahh! Rangers lead the way! Even if I am the last man standing._

Brennan sensed the panic in the space between them. She tentatively rounded the couch and walked toward Booth, the air heavy with steam from the hot shower. Surrounding Booth was an aura of uncertainty tinged with the subtle scents of clean male perspiration, musky shampoo, and mint. To Brennan these were comforting proof that he was physically there in the room with her and she was no longer alone to wallow in her own insecurities. Brennan stopped and squinted, looking for his eyes in the back-lit featureless face before her. Her pupils were confounded by the glow spilling from the bathroom and transforming her mate into a life size colorless paper doll.

As color and dimension began to emerge from the dim, a high octave sigh slid down the scale and culminated in a soothing rumble in her chest as she took a step closer and calmly reached for his arm. He flinched at first, his arm heavy, unresponsive, and moist in the crook of his elbow. She paused watching his reaction, then ran her palm very slowly up his arm and across his shoulder to the galloping pulse at his throat. As her pupils adjusted, the beads of perspiration on his forehead confirmed her suspicion that he was fighting an intense battle with his internal demons. He wouldn't meet her gaze, and for a moment she thought he was going to pull away from her. She wanted to fling her arms around him, smash him to her chest, rock him, and kiss away the torment that had Booth in its grip. She felt a flash of anger and realized her jaw was clenched and beginning to ache. She took a deep, quiet breath, quashing her fury at who or whatever did this to her mate. Then she focused, forcing herself to remain truly present with him for now.

Booth closed his eyes. _This is the ultimate nightmare,_ he thought. _Right when everything I want, the only thing I want, is standing right in front of me. So close I can smell the sweetness, hear love's entreaty, while already feeling its impending loss._ He was afraid to reach out for it lest it disintegrate and float away like ash adrift on a silent breeze.

Very slowly, like a stop action film, Brennan reached up and took his face in both of her hands. Without opening his eyes, he allowed her to pull him down until their foreheads met. Her touch was incredibly gentle, her skin soft and cool with a soothing hint of white tea and ginger. Her long slender fingers felt amazing on cheeks still burning from the abuse of the scorching shower and for one moment, Booth thought he might collapse and cry.

He shivered and shook involuntarily, then forced his body to still. Slowly reaching up to cover her hands with his own, Booth pressed against them until he could feel his own hot skin surrounding her cool fingers. He stepped closer until their bellies touched. The partners leaned into each other, one soft chest pressed up against a solid one. Their kneecaps glanced off each other until they rearranged their feet. He couldn't see it, but he thought he heard her brow furrowing, a pained grimace puckering her lips. Or was that just his imagination? Booth himself had the sensation that he'd run down a steep incline one step ahead of a crushing avalanche: flushed, agitated, unbelievably lucky, exhausted and scared shitless. His mind went blank. The lack of torment in his soul for the moment almost tickled.

Into his white consciousness crept the soothing sound of Brennan's humming of that familiar melody. He wondered if she'd been humming this whole time. When Brennan began to gently whisper the words to the song, they appeared in Booth's head - white smoke against a pale blue sky - then dissipated as new words appeared. Then he realized that at some point she'd begun to lead him in a gentle hypnotic sway that made the child in him want to cry out then to be gathered up into her arms and carried away.

Images from the morgue floated by. Good memories. The two of them singing together. Him keeping her warm … holding her … kissing her. Playing all those old songs ...

The music of Jim Croce. That's the song she was humming! 'I Have to Say I Love You In A Song'. And it had been in one of his nightmares!

He straightened abruptly and clasped her hands, pulling them from his cheeks to press them to his chest. He recalled hearing her singing in the dream that landed him on the floor after the glancing blow to his temple by the glass table top.

"I hadn't meant to leave," he blurted, "earlier, I mean." He searched her eyes for understanding, finding only surprise and confusion.

"When?" She asked, realizing he probably meant after she'd written down the poem. "Oh! But how'd you get back into my room?"

"I never left! I fell asleep!" he gasped in surprise, nodding toward the couch. He grasped her fingers firmly and pressed them against his chest and sighed at the realization.

"You never left? That makes sense," she said, with a pensive squint. "Then you were awoken by your dream, ran into the bathroom, smacked into the glass wall between the bedroom and bathroom screaming my name, then ran out the door without explanation. I thought you were inebriated, Booth. I was startled. You looked like you'd seen a ghost."

"Right. And in my dream I was in this cold, wet parking garage and I heard you singing that Croce song, but when I swung around to find you …"

"I was in the bubble bath," she interrupted, "and, yes, I was singing."

"Well, I heard you singing in my dream. I heard you, so I reached for you, and that's when I flew off the couch and clocked myself on the coffee table. I was probably in shock when you saw me." He fingered the tender skin that would be a lovely shade of yellow in the morning.

Brennan probed the slightly mushy patch of tissue covering Booth's temporal bone.

"You were quite disoriented," she agreed, taking his hand and leading him over to the couch. She sat. He didn't. He looked around until his eyes fell on the adjacent matching chair. He dropped her hand, but still didn't sit.

Veering to the left instead, Booth sat down tentatively on the arm of the overstuffed chair, then stood back up quickly as if he'd sat on a cactus. He awkwardly stepped aside and quietly sat on the very edge of the chair, hung his elbow over one of the upholstered arms, then immediately pulled it back, squishing both arms close to his sides. Then he sat, perfectly still except for the breath that hovered around his mouth; his eyes remianed glued to the floor.

"Right. Then you called me, but I said I was fine," he chagrined, recalling how much he'd probably scared her.

"You needed some time and space to work something out … something akin to my fiberglass wrapped heart." She spoke in low tones, which she hoped were unobtrusive.

"Exactly," he said, gingerly scratching his forehead with the very tips of his fingernails. Booth dropped his elbows to his knees, clasped his hands together and rocked forward. His eyes rose to the reflective surface of the glass table before them and hovered there, unseeing.

Brennan leaned back and patiently waited for Booth to continue. She flicked a sideways glance at his features several times, then dropped her eyes in the direction of the glass table as well.

"Have you ever had a chill that wouldn't go away unless you took a really hot bath?" He asked, aware that the soothing effect of the hot shower was long gone, wishing he could get back in that shower … maybe take her with him. He didn't even care if they got in with their clothes on. He just wanted the warmth back, the creeping chill gone.

"You mean cold? Have I ever been that cold?"

"It's different from being cold. I don't know how to explain it, but sometimes I'm not really … cold …" He glanced up to meet her quizzical gaze. After a moment he added, "But it feels like I just can't get warm."

The confusion pinching her features fell away as Brennan nodded slightly after a moment.

"Do you, are you shivering when that happens? And you can't stop?"

"Yeah, but not full out ... not like you're shaking violently." _Though that does happen sometimes,_ he thought to himself. "But just, you know, shivering," he said, his shoulders rising and falling. "And no matter what you do to try and stop it … nothing works, except a hot bath."

"So, it' a restlessness."

"Well. I guess. Maybe a pretty intense restlessness."

"All over your body?"

"Mostly arms. Legs. Wait … along my back maybe, or the sides," he said, jamming his hands into his armpits. "I don't know, Bones, I'm not usually taking an inventory."

"It sounds like an hysterical tremor."

"Wait, what?"_ Hysterical, yes, that's a good word for it,_ Booth chagrined secretly. "I'm not hysterical. I don't get hysterical!"

"When does it happen?"

"I don't know," he lied. Always upon waking from nightmares was when. Then it followed him for hours, sometimes days, until he could squeeze in a good soak or maybe a drink or three … or both simultaneously. Some weeks he soaked in the tub every night. Sometimes twice, on a long night. He refused to think of this as strange whenever he did it. It was a solution that allowed him to function. That was all that mattered.

Brennan dropped her head to the side pensively and considered her mate in silence.

"So, you feel that way now?"

"Yes. No. Maybe a little-" he said. _Definitely._ He looked up, willing her not to label him hysterical.

She grabbed the hem of her sweatshirt and pulled it up over her head, sparks of static electricity crackling in the air. She nearly flashed her bare breasts when the fabric of her tee clung to the rising sweatshirt. Before Booth knew what was happening she was in front of him slipping the neck of the sweatshirt over his head and pulling it over his shoulders. Booth instinctively slid his arms through the warm Bonesy scented sleeves, and groaned unintentionally. Her sweatshirt brought with it an indefinable sense of security or protection. It was good, whatever it was called.

"Bones. You didn't have to do that," he protested weakly as she pulled the shirt over his chest. It was two sizes too small and barely reached Booth's waist. Booth instinctively pulled at the hem trying to stretch it further. Then he impulsively grabbed the neckline of the sweatshirt, pulled it up to cover his nose and mouth, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, emitting a resonant groan. Embarrassed at making the noise, Booth pulled the fabric further up to cover his eyes as well and heard the tinkle of Brennan's relaxed chuckle off in the distance. _If I could just bottle this smell and stick my nose in it every time I was stressed … _he thought.

"Yes, I have felt that way, Booth. After my parents disappeared. I couldn't get warm. Then when the state made us sell the house, it got worse."

Booth allowed the shirt to inch down, revealing his eyes. Brennan gently pulled the sweatshirt back down to his waist. She shrugged and squeezed his hands, then vigorously rubbed his arms for a moment. "But then, after Russ left me," she paused, "when Russ left me and I was all alone. That was the worst. Tremors. I had tremors."

Brennan kissed Booth on the forehead, smiled wanly into his eyes and quietly returned to the couch tucking her feet underneath her.

They sat for a moment in silence, Booth attempting to hold on to the warmth from Brennan's sweat shirt by rubbing his arms and hugging himself. He looked truly uncomfortable. Brennan held her own arms tightly across the chest to keep from overwhelming him by jumping into his lap and wrapping her whole body around him until he was able to relax …

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><p>I know it's not much, but I just wanted y'all to know it's on its way!<p> 


	219. MadMan On The Move

A/N This is not what you expected for the next chapter and I apologize for that. I wanted to continue from the last bit, but didn't have time to complete that while preparing for a trip ... and now I'm on that trip ... but I still wanted to post something. I've had this in the wings waiting for the right time to post, so I put it out there. A little worried that readers are going to kill me, but whatyagonnado?

We're in Alaska. My in-laws and husband are kinda driving me crazy. I'm a lot more tired than I thought I'd be every night after all the hiking, etc. PLBTH! ~M-OX

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><p><strong>MadMan on the Move<strong>

_**Haverford, Pennsylvania** **Saturday Evening **(Excerpt from ch 149 to jog your memory)_

_Why did I plant Aleesha's sacrifice so close to the observatory? _He chastised himself. He knew he should have changed the date of the ground-breaking so he'd have enough time to remove all the evidence.

How would this affect his plans for the bones now being cleaned by his beautiful Dermestidae colony? They would be finished digesting all the flesh from the skeleton in about twelve hours. He glanced at his watch. The companion sacrifice was probably getting off work at the diner. He'd have to get her within the next 36 hours or the miracle would be compromised, the sacrifices wasted, and his loved one would be doomed to a life of … living hell.

The old blue pickup crept soundlessly into the alley behind Madman's second house, a little white cape cod he'd purchased under an assumed name ten years ago. He flipped off the headlights and eased toward the back driveway. Pulling onto the gravel patch, he cut the engine and sat thinking for a moment. The truck's engine emitted the occasional "tick … tick" as the engine block cooled.

He was expected at home across town in less than an hour. That didn't give him much time. Staring at the keys still dangling from the ignition, he frowned. It still grated on him that he'd lost the bone fragment that used to hang there between his house and garage keys. After kicking himself over and over for having lost his only souvenir from his first taste of blood, he banged his fists on the steering wheel then forced himself to breathe deeply for several beats. How could he have been so stupid?

He'd noticed it was missing the night after he buried Aleesha's sacrifice. For days he'd retraced his steps frantically looking for it. He finally forced himself to accept that it must have cracked and fallen off his keychain in Aleesha's sacrificial ground. He hadn't dared go back and look for it then. But now, he wondered if it was possible to get it back. Wouldn't it be on the news if something had been found along with Aleesha's remains? For the hundredth time he pondered how he could get someone to tell him what had been found on the school grounds without raising suspicion? He really wanted to get that toe back.

Snapping out of his reverie of self-flagellation, he remembered that it was more important right now that he focus on his next trip. He had to do a little reconnaissance on the third victim. He liked the girl in Arizona. The Nevada girl was promising but her schedule was irregular. Besides, he didn't want to work that hard with the messy part of this business. Arizona, it would have to be.

He decided not to get out of the truck after all. Leave the lovelies to do their work on the girl uninterrupted. He'd much rather visit after the meat had been removed. Blood, guts and gore were a necessary evil in this kind of business, but they'd never been his favorite part of the ritual. Reigniting the ignition, MadMan slowly backed the blue pickup into the alley behind the cape cod, stopped, reversed, and pulled out of the alley before flipping his lights on.

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><p><strong>Haverford, Pennsylvania<strong> **Sunday Evening**

Slathering cologne on his freshly shorn face, MadMan assessed the attractiveness of his age-weary mug. The alcohol in the cologne stung as he slapped it across his cheeks, over his jaw then around the back of his neck. Over the last ten years wrinkles had begun to feather outward from the corners of his eyes and mouth and lines had appeared like rivers on a map across his forehead. These were all most likely pronounced because of the exaggerated smiling he usually forced himself to do. Didn't want anyone suspecting the nefarious nature of the man lurking just below his attractive exterior.

He needed to remain unremarkable and invisible. Never piss in your own back yard, he always said. He knew better than that, better than to be careless and ruin his chances of success. He promised himself he'd never reveal the extraordinariness of his capabilities to anyone who wouldn't, or, more accurately, simply weren't capable, of appreciating the powerfulness of that he could do—or what he was willing to sacrifice for the sake of humanity. That meant almost no one knew about this side of him. No one but those who revealed his gift to him … no one but his sacrifices and those who taught him how to perform them.

In a couple more years, the girls would find him sweet and cute rather than handsome and alluring. That would be a problem. He needed to be attractive if he was going to lull these girls into unsuspecting compliance. He needed these lambs to come willingly to the slaughter in order for the ritual to be valid. In order to save his love from sinking ever deeper into the depraved lifestyle that had caught her in its web.

Earlier this morning he'd stopped by his white cape cod to pay a visit to his beautiful Dermestidae colony. Using a pair of tongs with the grippers wrapped in suede, he'd extracted all of his first victim's 206 now-pristine bones from the 150 gallon aquarium. Carefully swaddling each bone in a hank of lamb's wool, he'd carefully packed each into his custom made sheepskin-lined leather duffel. He had pulled the zipper fob across the opening, his pulse quickening at the rich _zzphft _of the sturdy teeth.

With his sacrifice packed in accordance with sacred prescription, MadMan had returned his attention back to his lovelies. Tossing several pounds of beef jerky into the tank to keep the little miracle workers happy, he had secured the top of the aquarium before checking the temperature control and locking the shack door as he left. Humming as he went along, MadMan had felt as if an elephant had begun to remove his foot from MadMan's ribcage. This inexorable pressure had been building steadily inside MadMan over the last couple of years until the time came for him to execute this next cycle of the ritual. For a moment, as the elephant picked up the rest of her foot, MadMan thought he might float up into the sky. That's how light he now felt.

Gently setting his duffel bag on the floor behind the driver's seat, he'd begin humming as he put the key in the ignition and slowly backed out of the gravel pathway behind the cape cod.

This never gets old, he'd thought to himself. It was as blessed as the thrill of chasing and capturing a sexual conquest … but it was so much purer and lasted a whole lot longer.

His ability to use his extraordinary gifts had almost come to an abrupt and disastrous end several years ago when he'd been convinced his little cape cod was being watched by plain-clothed cops in unmarked cars. Suspicious vehicles would park a half block down and watch his comings and goings for hours. There'd been two bodies found, a month apart from each other, on the bank of the Schuylkill River and the whole state was in a panic.

He'd had nothing to do with those disappearances but assumed the authorities suspected him for some reason he was unaware of. Why he'd thought that, he couldn't explain; it was just a feeling he had. A sick feeling. If something happened to him before he completed the ritual all would be lost and life as the world knew it would cease to exist.

Up to that point he'd been visiting his colony almost every day but had to stop just in case he really was being watched. Unable to stay completely away, a month later he'd slipped back into the cape cod garage in the middle of the night when the cops were busy busting the house parties of raucous underage New Year's Eve celebrants up and down the block. MadMan had retrieved all of his equipment, but had had to sacrifice the colony. The beetles wouldn't have survived the frigid transfer from there to his primary home on the other side of town. If he'd had the time to force them into dormancy and pack them well, he would have done that, but he didn't have the time or resources.

Besides, if he'd gotten his lovelies back to the house, Betty would find out about them and ask questions. Betty was nosey. Obnoxiously nosey. That simply would not do. The less she knew, the purer she remained and the greater likelihood of the ritual's success—as long as the goddess remained satisfied with his sacrifices that is.

The colony he'd been forced to sacrifice had been made up of descendants of his first beautiful colony. He felt an unusual attachment for that first colony. They had taught him everything he needed to know about raising, feeding, breeding, and maintaining a healthy Dermestes maculatus colony. He'd convinced himself that if his lovelies could have talked to him, they would have all agreed that their sacrifice was worth the good it would do for the world. He had wept the night he'd had to abandon them to the cold.

Once he'd learned everything he could about maintaining a thriving Dermestes colony, he'd focused on the other requirements for the ritual. It had taken him two years to perfect an error-proof timetable for each step. Timing was crucial if the goddess was to be appeased. Sometimes outsiders (everyone was an outsider) would get in the way as he attempted to complete the ritual. More than once he'd felt murderous when this happened, but taking a non-prescribed life would not please the goddess. An unhappy goddess meant no salvation for his beloved. After all these years of perfecting this process, failure was not an option.

Eighteen months after abandoning his cape cod and that first colony, his neighbors were arrested for running a meth lab in the basement of their house. After that mess was cleared up, the plainclothes cops and the unmarked cars disappeared. After another month of drive-bys to convince himself no one was watching, MadMan had reestablished himself and started a new colony in the garage shack behind the cape cod.

Allowing his emotions to get the better of him was the reason the first attempt to perform the ritual had failed, but that wasn't his fault. Some stupid kid had rear-ended MadMan's truck at a stop sign on the way to the airport. The freaked-out kid insisted upon calling his granddad who then called the cops to file a report. The kid was lucky MadMan hadn't torn him limb from limb when he'd found out who the kid had called. He could have pounded the foul-mouthed baby bastard (he couldn't have been more than 15)into the ground, he was so pissed off. However, MadMan assessed the risks and determined it was safer to go along with it and be on his way.

By the time they were finished with the granddad and the cops it was too late to complete the ritual within the prescribed time. Regardless, he still had to complete all the steps of the ritual — he had to respect the sacrifice made by the girls— so that any future attempts would be blessed, but it was a shameful waste! From then forward, MadMan lengthened his schedule to provide ample time for setbacks.

He had also learned that he needed to maintain two Dermestidae colonies at different stages of maturity – thereby decreasing the amount of time it took for all the bones to be cleared of tissue. He also found it sped up the process if he maintained colonies geographically close to each of his hunting grounds so he never had to transport an entire skeleton. No need to arouse the suspicion of nosy airport officials or cops.

Traveling with human bones, even just the four divining ones, was still a risky proposition, however. One false move, one crack in his façade of confidence and indignant self-importance, and he could find himself in prison for life inside a campus fringed with a triple compliment of concertina razor wire, with only 7/8th wide steel bars keeping him safe from some of the craziest fruitcakes on earth. No – getting caught before completing the final ritual was not an option. If the ritual was successful and the goddess was pleased … he could live his final days in prison, he didn't care, as long as he'd been successful. Until then his beloved needed him. So, he must seek the goddess' favor.

Since that first near miss that ended up being all about busting a meth lab, MadMan had always felt a rush of adrenaline as he got four or five blocks away from his little house with a duffel full of bones without being trailed by flashing lights and sirens. The fear of being discovered never left him, and the thrill of not getting caught aroused him.

As time went on MadMan's stopped worrying about being stopped by cops. He realized during his second cycle of the ritual that the possibility of being stopped and questioned gave him an intense rush followed by nausea. Several times on a night like tonight he'd had to pull over at the Wawa convenience store, duck into the ditch, and empty the contents of his gut. No one enjoys puking, but that rush was addictive and worth the discomfort.

When he traveled on a ritual mission, he wore a taupe suit coat with diarrhea brown corduroy elbow patches, a pair of fake wire rimmed glasses and a ridiculous bow tie to complete the look. He carried only three bags: his suitcase, a beat-up brief case held together with duct tape, and a hard-shelled case the size of a saxophone case, but wasn't a saxophone case at all. This third case was custom made by the same people who made his sheepskin-lined duffel and had been specifically designed to cushion the divining bones—two femora and two tibias—in dense dark gray flexible polyurethane foam. This case cost him four times what the duffel had, but the artisans who made it were fast and discrete; two of his favorite qualities in just about anyone.

If he were to get stopped, which he had three or four times, he passed himself off as an anthropologist or a museum curator, both professions for which he had the most authentic-looking identification cards. Lord knows he had plenty of practice playing the absent-minded professor! He also carried some official-looking documentation describing the bones he was carrying if the situation warranted an explanation. Even though the bones he carried from trip to trip varied slightly in size he kept the same set of documents in a large pocket inside the cover of the case.

Cops didn't know how to figure out the age of a human bone or how to extrapolate the height and sex of a person by looking at a femur, so he didn't worry about them suspecting they belonged a recently missing female. He filled the documents with an abundance of information in small print, which no cop yet had had the patience to read while there was a killer on the loose who really needed their attention. The only thing he left out was the date. If he got questioned about the paperwork, he had his answer already figured out:

_"These papers are good for today and tomorrow, that's all I know. That's why I am in a hurry to get to catch my plane (you dim wit). Where's the date? Hell if I know – I've been doing this so damned long I don't even look at the papers anymore. If you can't find it, I'm sure I can't. If you'd like, we can call the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Anthropology and Archeology at Penn State and pull the, uh, well, you don't really want me to go into the boring details. It would take me an hour to explain all the terminology and the hoops we'd have to jump through, so, if you don't have any reason for suspecting an old geezer like myself of foul play may I just be on my way? My flight leaves at 2, sir."_

This was not his favorite part of the ritual, but it was necessary if he was going to perform the duties within the specified timeframe.

Not today, though. There would be no stopping and puking today; and no playing the part of the harried academic. Today the excitement was high, but his focus was even higher, so he wasn't taking any chances—he was taking a taxicab to the airport. The stakes were much higher this time around and he was in complete control. This was the last time he'd be able to perform the ritual with any hope of complete success. Soon his beloved would be too old to receive the goddess' miraculous blessing and a full recovery. If this attempt failed, there would be another try, but there was no guarantee his beloved wouldn't perish anyway.

Once back in the garage of his home across town, MadMan closed the garage door before removing his duffel bag from the cab of his truck. Setting the duffel behind his two-door hybrid, MadMan opened the little trunk, set the duffel gently inside and unlocked the clasps of a smaller case. Into this case he put the four divining bones: two femurs and two tibias. The remaining 202 bones were zipped inside the duffel bag and then locked in a crawl space behind a false wall in the back of a tool cabinet in the back of the garage. The cabinet was then locked with two padlocks and protected by an alarm system that would place a call to MadMan's cell phone if it was ever triggered by an unwelcome busybody.

MadMan then took the smaller case and walked around to the front of the house to set it on the front porch white he unlocked the door. Inside the house, he kissed Betty on the top of the head and grabbed another duffel bag without saying a word. this one full of clothes, toiletries, and various expected trappings for a traveling anthropologist and museum curator. In a well-used brief case he carried a number of magazines about bones and archeological digs and finally, a magazine that he really planed to read: one about hunting wild game and ver

These were his true passions. After all, it was his interest in the lovelies that lead him to the goddess in the first place. He'd been a lonely, desperate man when he stumbled across the article about the ancient Pockitishu commune who curated and cultivated one of the most impressive colonies of Dermestidae in the United States. He went to visit them out of interest in their breeding and housing techniques and found a new hope as well. He ended up living with the Pockitishu people for three months. He learned more in three months with them than he ever could have figured out on his own.

What changed his life, however, was what the outside world didn't know about the Pochetishu … their mystical healing powers, their ability to leach evil from a body and abolish it … without even touching and harming the afflicted person. Having a fear like a cancer eating at his heart for the previous ten years as he watched the center of his world pollute herself with drugs and alcohol, MadMan found the Pochetishu success rates more than promising. For the first time in a decade, he felt he had a chance to make a difference in the world. At least for him and his beloved … his tortured beloved, his whole purpose for living.

When they finally initiated him into their inner circle, he was just as indoctrinated as their two-year novitiates. When they revealed to him the secret rituals that brought about the salvation of the damned, he was neither surprised nor repulsed. He was a smart man. He knew that great achievement would only come through great sacrifice. He was willing to make those sacrifices. As the Pochetishu teachings portend, those who gave their lives—though actuality never given the choice—would relish the opportunity to lay down their lives for another tortured soul. If they understood the import, felt the righteousness of the sacrifice; they would choose it voluntarily for themselves. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough time to give the sacrificed person that choice, so the ritual master had to make it for them.

Leaving behind his hybrid in long-term parking, MadMan ducked into the back of a Royal Crown Victoria taxicab and gave the cabbie the address for the airfield and silently sunk back into the deep leather seat to meditate. The ritual required that twenty-five rounds of incantations be made within the twenty hours prior to sacrifice for each sacrificial gift. MadMan knew his gift's schedule and had an appointment to meet with her shortly after arriving at the airport in Tucson. Petra was a delightful, energetic college student short on funds and in desperate need to get home to be with her parents before they took off for the winter to the Canary Islands.

MadMan had befriended Petra and taken two of her friends on a spin in his Cessna. Convincing her to let him take her three hours north to her folks' home in Nevada wasn't as hard as he'd thought. He'd been cultivating this little friendship for several months. And she was desperate. It wasn't his fault if she felt grateful afterward that she'd taken him back to her cheap apartment and had sex with him. Now, the prospect of getting her alone in his jump seat aroused in him such excitement that if he thought about it for too long he would forgot to breathe.

Transport to the airfield having gone without a hitch, MadMan called Jeff in the tower and received permission to take his Cessna Skyhawk into the air. Ten hours later he landed, directed the Cessna into the hangar, and collected two motorcycle helmets.

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><p>I'm traveling with my family and in-laws this week - if you drop me a note, know that I will get back to you after I return on the 12th of August. Thank you so much, Catherine<p> 


	220. My Love Don't Die Easy

Dear BRAND NEW Reader:  
>If you are new to FanFiction or The When and the How: A Bone to Pick, reading the last several chapters might help you make sense of this if you don't pick it up right away. Where 'Love Don't Die Easy' picks up is after Brennan recently shared with Booth her previous (and current) difficulty committing to relationships as a result of what she calls her 'fiberglass wrapped heart'. Now, Booth is having difficulty sharing with Brennan the depth os his anguish over sins of his past, those things that still haunt him from his days as a sniper. He's had terrifying nightmares as part of his PTSD, and this is what troubles him most.<p>

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><p>TO ALL OUR DEDICATED FANS:<br>And so we move onward ... never getting as far as I intend in one chapter ... but forward nonetheless! I have to tell you I was a chicken and _too nervous to read your comments for the last chapter_ until I got another one out. There was no B&B in it, (and I was nervous someone would say something negative about that and crush my creativity - it happens, you know!) but I wanted to send it anyway because the time had come for More info about MadMan. Soon we will be starting a whole new phase of **The When and the How: A Bone to Pick.** To that end, there will be a TWATH Part II which will have a different rating and be entitled _"__Tuesday's Child__.__"_ I will let you know here when to look for that to appear under its own name!

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Love Don't Die Easy<strong>

_I will stand in the thunder and shiver in the rain while I'm tied to the_  
><em>mast of a leaky boat in a hurricane … but I will find my way back to you<br>even if it's all in vain. My love don't die easy_

_~ Worsham & Tyndell, 2013_

She sat in the dark across from her mate, willing herself to take deep slow breaths, hoping to tame her galloping heart rate. Her mate was clearly distressed. Brennan felt a panicky helplessness that bordered on hysteria. She kneaded her cheeks with the tips of her fingers, shocked at how feverd they'd become. _So this is what it's like to share someone's pain, _she thought. She didn't like it, and she didn't even know what the pain was all about, but knew she'd do anything for Booth. Anything.

She inhaled deeply and slowly, then exhaled. _No sudden movements,_ she remembered from Sweets' book about helping a loved one experiencing extreme emotional stress. _If you overreact to their behavior it will make it much worse because your behavior will feel like an invalidating reproach_. Therefore, _be the embodiment of calm acceptance. Exu-u-u-u-ude acceptance. Assume a nonthreatening posture._ Brennan wiggled about in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her arms until she forced herself to drop her shoulders and lay her hands on her things, fingers straight and separate, like beached starfish on the shore.

Sitting across in the over-sized chair kitty corner from Brennan, Booth wasn't even registering his mate's agitation or attempts to calm herself. He focused inwardly, attempting to pull himself together. His arms remained wrapped tightly around his mid section, his heart racing and his right knee gyrating like a pump-jack in a Saudi Arabian oil field. The balmy air laced with the scent of white tea and ginger from Brennan's bubble bath mixed with the herbal shampoo from his own scalding shower and enveloped him in a humid cloud of proffered tranquility, but his agitated flesh failed to allow absorption. He chastised himself for his inability to calm and wished he could force the blood pooling in his cheeks to go back where it came from. As Brennan focused on her breathing, Booth leaned forward slowly, causing a whiff of Bonesy air to puff into his face from the sweatshirt Brennan had pulled over him in the hopes of warming his shivering body.

He still couldn't shake the convulsive shivering. The tension in his jaw split his brain in half, filling it with lava. _Oh, no. Here it comes. I'm going to puke!_

Booth quickly sank his nose into the neck of the sweatshirt and gulped air like a dying fish flailing on a dock. He focused on the Bonesy scent mingling now with his own brand of musky sweat. Once the nausea subsided, he felt lightheaded, but struggled to unlocked his jaw, wincing at the gravely crunch as the hinges grated against each other. Then he became aware there was something damp and spongy, foreign, tucked inside the clenched fingers of his left hand.

Brennan saw him pull his hand out and hold it close to his face. She heard the sound before her eyes fully adjusted to the darkness enveloping them. There was an indistinguishable dull crinkling noise like the sound of an over-starched shirt being bent to the will of its wearer. She squinted and focused hard on the gentle slope of Booth's forehead, the angular edges of his strong jawline, the length and straightness of his nose, the pouty fullness of his bottom lip. No matter how distressed this man was, she would always find his bone structure, his entire person, to be majestic in every way. She couldn't help it. Even if it hurt her.

In relief, Booth looked like a man bent in prayer, but the buzz of his anxiety electrified the air and prickled the fine hairs on Brennan's arms and legs as if lightning were about to strike. Brennan shivered and forced herself to continue breathing slowly and deeply. Drawn by the crumpling sound, her eyes fell to what had caught Booth's attention: his left hand above which a small ball appeared to levitate like a soul over a grave.

Booth rocked forward; hand outstretched over the coffee table, and gently placed the amorphous lump on the reflective surface, as carefully as if it were a robin's egg, but didn't release it. After a thoughtful pause, he leaned even further forward until his knees met the dark edge of the thick glass. He released the ball carefully as if he feared it might roll away if he hadn't completely stopped it. His fingers backed away, then returned to touch it gently before he clasped his hands together, rested his forearms on his thighs, and sank backward against the overstuffed chair cushions.

"What is that, Booth?" Brennan queried in a hushed voice.

Booth moved forward silently and reverently reached toward the ball again, but stopped just short of touching it. Pointing a limp index finger at it he glanced toward Brennan with the mawkish humility of someone returning a generous yet undeserved gift. He inhaled shallowly and held his breath for a beat before releasing it in a slow hiss. Just as he was about to open his mouth a flash of light shot across the sliding glass doors, startling both of them. Before either could say anything, an explosive clap of thunder resounded, shaking the glass.

The first drops of heavy Seattle rain smacked against the glass doors in juicy spurts, muting any remaining electricity still crackling in the air. Booth sat statue-like, his face marbled from the vertical shadowing of raindrops racing in rivulets down the panes. Brennan focused on his face, his strong cheekbones becoming clear in the dark, and shivered at the heaviness behind his dark blank expression, his clenched jaw, his puckered lips.

After a moment, she leaned forward to get a closer look at whatever Booth had so reverently placed on the coffee table. The drizzling rain shadows made the ball appear to be breathing. Brennan imagined for a moment that it also contained heat and that if the raindrops were to fall upon her skin, perhaps the heat from inside the ball would chase away the chill.

When the second crack of lightening transformed night into day for a split second, Booth shook his head as if being awakened from deep sleep. He leaned forward to examine the amorphous shape, which again appeared to be hovering just above the reflective surface in front of him. He poked it, gingerly, then lay a finger on it. It felt warm. No, it didn't really_feel_ warm, but in his mind's eye he sensed it possessed some kind of healing heat. Unaware that his thoughts echoed Brennan's, he wondered if there might be a fire inside it. Indeed there was, as they both subconsciously knew, but the fire captured in that scrunched-up ball was not Booth's. It came from Brennan. It was the poem she'd created and then written down for him. In a flash, causing a wave of warmth to wash over his flesh from scalp to shin. He shivered involuntarily as if shaking the alst droplets of water from a raincoat and smiled slightly in the dim.

"It's …" he muttered, recalling the susurrus of Brennan's question as it hung in the air. He cleared his throat and swallowed, his brows drawing toward each other. "It's that, uh, the—it's 'Sir Seeley', the poem. Um …" He looked up at her as if this explained everything.

Brennan returned his gaze, emitting a questioning hum. As he searched for the words to explain, she continued. "Why is it like that? Crumpled into a ball?" _Like trash._ When he didn't respond immediately, a shadow of disappointment drifted over her body.

"Well," Booth whispered, not really sure what the answer was.

"Did you ... throw it away ... at some point, Booth?" Brennan's voice was filled with confusion. This did not make any sense at all. Booth puts a premium on intimacy ... _what could possibly be a logical reason for why he might throw away this highly intimate gesture? _It just didn't make sense at all.

He shook his head slowly, sensing the long cold fingers of guarded suspicion hat had begun to swirl around her. "Uh," he insisted, swallowing loudly, "Not at all, Bones." His face flushed crimson at the memory of Brennan's audaciously intimate imagery and the way her eyes shone when she recited it from memory for him earlier. Closing his eyes, he could feel the soft warmth of her lips on his neck after she's recited those incredibly ... provocative ... words. Guilt over making her think he might have disrespected, or devalued everything she put into writing that poem washed over him.

"I don't understand," Brennan gasped, scrubbing a cheek with her much cooler fingers, a cheek whose temperature was slowly rising to an uncomfortable and prickly degree. "Why did you—why is it—_wadded up_—like gar-garbage?" She nodded toward the table, straining to keep her voice expressionless. She bent forward again for a closer look as her heartbeat throbbed in her cheeks and temples. This whole intimacy thing was affecting her much more than she had anticipated. _Why do *I* feel embarrassed? I have no reason to feel embarrassed. What is this all about? This is not me. _She knew, conceptually, that intimacy is all about vulnerability, and vulnerability is all about trust. Ergo, the nature and value of intimacy is precious only because of it's danger.

Layered on top of the possibility of that danger were the weight of hormonally-intensified emotions that threatened to rob a person of their usual grasp on rationality. And that is what she was feeling now: an irrationally intense emotional response to the possibility of being rejected by the one person she trusted with her life and happiness. The tiny hair on the back of her neck stood on end and a frozen shill ran down her spine as she put every last penny on a horse who had just thrown it's rider and bounded over the fence to flee a race it never wanted to be in in the first place. Brennan had on image in her mind of a giant red exclamation point smacking right into her nose and forehead. Shock.

Booth looked back at Brennan uncomprehendingly as the words, _'wadded up like garbage'_ seeped into his semi-consciousness. "What?" He followed her line of sight to the crumpled ball of paper. "Oh, Bones, I am so sorry, no—" he said, "I'm not sure how that—how it got all into a ball like that. I think I was just, I don't know." He swallowed once, then again. How could he turn this around? He picked up the ball of paper and began to carefully unfold it as if it were in danger of disintegrating if he handled it improperly.

"About your poem, I think—it's great, Bones, heh! It's the sweetest, well, _sweet_ isn't exactly the word. It's more like … it's a, uh, kinda … " _Naughty,_ he thought. "It's highly erotic," he blurted, finally stumbling upon the most appropriate word he could find. The flesh of his face and neck burned and pounded at the sound of his own voice saying the word 'erotic' out loud in reference to his relationship with Brennan. He looked toward her and continued to falter. "I'm just not sure—" He shrugged guiltily, and sighed, bereft.

"I don't understand, Booth. Of course it's _erotic," _she cried, surprising herself at the fervor in her voice. Overwhelmed by the emotion of the evening, of her concern for him, she was funneling all her passion in this line of questioning which she knew was inane, but she was helpless to stop. She swallowed, hearing a little clicking sound in the back of her throat. "That's exactly what it was _meant_ to be, Booth." Her eyes watered as a flush washed over her again. "Do—do you find my sexual inclinations toward you embarrassing, or, or inappropriate," she gasped once and then again.

"It's not _you_, Bones! It's me! I'm just—I'm not sure it's _me,_ you know? What if that poem, what if the man in that poem, he's not me?" Booth was nonplussed at her visceral reaction. Immediately his mind went blank. What had he done?

"Wha—? Of course, it's you. Who else could it possibly be?_ I_ wrote it — me, your mate, Booth. You do want me to be your mate ...?"

"Ye-yes! Of course!"

"Well, I am telling you it's all about _you_. Each stanza expresses my thoughts about you and no one else. I do think about you, Booth. Mates are supposed to have rousing sensual thoughts about each other. Stimulating thoughts, ah, rousing thoughts. That is the definition of exotic—" She paused, feeling exposed as her heart beat fiercely against her ribcage. Then she was struck by a terrifying thought: maybe she had gone too far, become too vulnerable, said too much about her concupiscent inclinations toward him.

"—you mean, _erotic_," Booth corrected, "not exotic."

"Yes_, erotic, _of course. Do you know what erotic means, Booth?"

"I—"

"It means 'tending to arouse sexual desire and intense excitement'. It's healthy. It's normal. It's necessary for the continuation of the race, Booth, and I make no apologies for those concupiscent inclinations toward you." She could easily have been speaking in a calm tone using the exact same words, but she wasn't. She was a helpless passenger on an emotional locomotive that didn't have nearly enough track for her to slow to a stop without combusting all over the place.

"Con-_pubescent_?" Booth said slowly.

"What?" Brennan leaned back, derailed by his question.

"You said, 'I make no apologies for _con-pubescent_ inclinations toward you ...'"

Brennan stared expressionless for a moment. "Uh, _concupiscent_. Filled with sexual desire. Lustful." She crossed her arms and shoved a fist under her chin. Both of them sat, staring across the heated distance, in awkward silence for a moment. Both of them felt the crashing of the red river of life as it coursed through each of their circulatory systems, calling out to each other. Brennan swallowed slowly and broke the silence.

"That's how sexual attraction leads to intercourse which then has the potential to lead to conception," she said, fighting the impulse to hide her face in her hands as an overwhelming hunger washed hotly over skin and deeper, causing her heartbeat to throb at earlobes, temples and thighs. _This really shouldn't be that big of deal,_ she told herself. Why did she feel like she had to defend or justify herself?

Booth listened silently, noting the defensive tone in her voice and wanting to kick himself for being the cause of it. He didn't know what to say or how to make it right.

"Modern society would have you think that women aren't as sexual as men are, but that is entirely untrue. I myself have on occasion been highly motivated by sexual yearnings. And when it comes to you— well—Booth—" She said in a strangled voice as she willed eyes that had unknowingly turned into pools of saltwater not to close and spill. "You're my mate," she said plaintively as if it were her final argument in a fight she shouldn't have to participate in. Resigned and emotionally fatigued she was slumped back against the couch cushions and shoved a thumbnail between her front teeth. She felt absolutely absurd for having reacted so emotionally, but she was flailing and lost. She shook her head and stared unseeing in the direction of the coffee table.

"Is it at all possible," Booth offered delicately, folding his hands into a steeple, "that you may be overreacting … just a teeny tiny bit?" He grimaced apologetically as he pinched a centimeter of air to demonstrate.

"Wha—" She stared at him, deflated, and then took inventory. She _knew_ she was having an intense reaction. She_ knew_ it, but still had not wanted to actually, verbally, admit it to herself - not even inside her own head. Her shoulders dropped even further as she sighed in frustration, quickly brushing an agitated tear from her cheek and sniffing juicily. He was right and she had to admit it, but she didn't like it. Damn it.

Booth wondered if she'd even heard his question. He could tell her brain was working on something, so he didn't repeat it.

"Well, I guess-" Brennan whispered, though Booth couldn't make out her words. He leaned forward, but seeing the look of concentration on her face, said nothing. Somewhere along the way her mood lightened as if that one escaping tear had leached some of the irrationality from her body. She recalled an earlier thought about the wording of 'Sir Seeley'. Something was wrong with it, but she hadn't been able to put her finger on it.

_'It is you, Sir Seeley, who's got me all—_

_No, no, no,_ she thought to herself, noticing herself cringing as she thought the words. _That's what it is!_ Her eyebrows shot up and her fist fell from her mouth into her lap. 'Who's got me all _wet_', ugh, that isn't romantic in the least. But it could have been much, much worse: _'When I'm in your presence my stimulated pituitary gland causes vascular engorgement which results in plasma seepage to facilitate increases sperm motility during the sex act.'_ Now_ that_ was the antithesis of 'romantic' and she certainly couldn't find anything to rhyme with seepage.

Booth watched in silence as Brennan processed, her demeanor clearing like the cool air after a spring shower. Booth realized that this odd bunny trail their conversation had taken had actually shifted his focus away from his own quagmire of self-doubt and fear. And he actually felt some levity as a result.

"Booth," Brennan said breathlessly after several introspective moments, "I have decided that the first line of 'Sir Seeley' is crass so I'm changing it from 'wet'"—she crinkled her nose in distaste—" to 'beset' which means to be 'assailed on all sides' or 'overcome'.

_It is you, Sir Seeley, who's got me beset, sir.  
>It is your lips that cause me to tremble and sweat, sir.<em>

Appreciating her incredible ability think her way through just about anything, even her reactions and emotions, Booth's features softened into a smile. "Bones, truly, it's a _wonderful _poem. And of course it's about—uh, what you said it's about," he added in a jumble of swift words, then continued in a rush. "I just—" He dropped his forehead into a palm and chuckles humorlessly. "This is going in a whole different direction than I thought—" He mumbled to himself.

"It's okay if you don't—" She said, not finishing her sentence, some of the confidence from a moment ago slipped away as a heaviness threatened to settle like a stone in her stomach. The need for assurance from her mate was woven throughout her entire presence. About everything else in her life she could be confident, she realized, but this whole issue of intimacy and interdependency made her the most vulnerable she had ever been in her entire life. Rational or not, it was what it was. Her eyes traveled over to Booth's knees and then up his torso to his eyes which she could now see rather clearly. Her own insecurity surprised and hurt. She felt the familiar sensation in her chest that warned she was about to purge herself by weeping if she didn't receive some assurance soon. She had opened herself so wide for him. She was at his mercy, and she could do nothing but surrender, defeatism heavy on her lids. _  
><em>

"No, no, no. That's not it at all, Bones. That's not it at all," he whispered in a fervent hush, reaching out toward her and taking her hand loosely in his. "It's just, um—" he rotated his thumb over her knuckles and searched desperately for what to say. "It's just—"

"It's an antler-y poem," she suggested, calmed by his thoroughly affirming tone and the warmth of his fingers on her skin. "I think that's what Angela would call it. No, that doesn't sound right. Wait a minute … _Horny_. Yeah. It's a _horny_ poem."

Something between an 'Eep!' and a chuckle erupted from Booth's throat. Brennan chucked in grateful relief and waited patiently for him to say something. When the silence stretched into a yawn, she squeezed his hand as if to say, _It's okay. It's really okay_, but noticed suddenly that his hand was sweaty and his focus had shifted back to himself once more.

As Brennan had begun to relax, her response to his touch affected Booth just as forcefully. He knew it was time to come clean and the conviction struck at his heart like a steel mallet, ricocheting off his ribs as they vibrated unable to absorb the impact.

"You sound nervous—or worried, Booth," she said with her heart in her throat. "You can tell me whatever is bothering you. You can. Clearly the poem isn't the problem. Right?" She nodded encouragingly. _  
><em>

"Bones," he said, releasing her hand and leaning back again, wrapping his arms around himself. His knee started to bob up and down. "Listen, it's—that poem blew me away. It really did," he shrugged and glanced up at her, glad she couldn't see the blush torturing his neck and traveling over his cheeks once more as he thought about the passionate sensuality of her first attempt at poetry. He smiled shyly for a moment and sighed as his stomach did flip-flops and his blood turned to back to fire.

"Well, what I meant to say is, what if I'm not really that guy, your Sir Seeley, from the poem?" He looked up and paused, listening to the splat, splat, splat of the rain against the glass. Brennan pursed her lips and waited. This didn't make sense to her. She squinted, knowing there was a Boothy logic underneath it all and she just had to wait. Again.

"I've been lying to you. There are things I have kept from you."

He closed his eyes momentarily, then opened them, staring forward sightlessly at the table in front of him. _This is it,_ he told himself. _This is the moment I've been dreading all week. Breathe,_ he reminded himself. _And remember, God says be not afraid. Have faith in me. Have faith in Bones. This is the right thing to do. Here goes nothin', _he thought, making a mental sign of the cross.

"Bones," he began, still staring at the mottled reflection on the surface of the coffee table, "we've been together for a long time." The near darkness of her hotel ante room hid the fact that it felt like a trail of irritated black and silver scorpions were clamoring up his back forcing a film of sweat to seep into the crevices in his palms and fingers as well as across his forehead and around his ears. He wanted to lean forward and touch her again, but something was stopping him. He had the defeatist sensation that seeking and acquiring any comfort before he purged himself would be cheating. He deserved to feel the full force of his own guilt.

The room was silent except for the distant ding of the elevator arriving on the floor to pick up its passenger. Somewhere in the distance an ice machine dumped a fresh batch of cubes into its voluminous metal compartment and, in the street forty feet below, a woman giggled and then a car door slammed shut. Inside the hotel room, he could hear Brennan breathing and forced himself to slow his own breath by matching hers.

"We've been through a lot together. I mean … a lot, heh," he said nervously.

"Yes, we have," she whispered, her head inclined toward the coffee table.

"You are one of two people who have seen me at my worst and the only person, probably, who knows me probably better than I know myself." She was also the only person who'd ever seen him in real tears, but he wasn't going to say that out loud. "You—" he choked, biting back the emotion that threatened to overtake him, "—absolutely are that person—who—" swallow "—knows me."

Brennan nodded, then stilled, barely breathing or moving. It took all of her willpower not to dive at him and squeeze him until he couldn't take another breath that would allow him to feel anything less than love and acceptance for the rest of his days. She pressed both of her lips between her teeth and bit down hard.

Booth's eyes darted up to hers for a moment, then dropped down to his hands, which he'd clasped together and shoved between his knees. The image of her, now that his eyes were adapting to the dim, was as refreshingly and reassuring as the cold, solid, enduring surface of the statue of Venus de Milo. Solid, reassuring.

"I mean, I hadn't realized until this week how well you really do know me," he said, peeking up at her again. I mean, I feel practically transparent in front of you, naked basically," he chuffed as a ball of dough began forming in his throat. "That makes you, like, just about the m-most important person—" he coughed "— in my life." He paused, telling himself that he just had to get this all out once. _On time, and it would be over with, forget the fact that I never planned to tell this to anyone ever, I mean never ever. Hell, I don't even want to know it myself. _

He swallowed dryly and continued. "There have been so many times—many more than you know—when you've saved my life just by being there for me, you know," he glanced up again, a little longer this time. "Just by being, well, by being you—Bones. By being Bones." He said her name as if he were hearing it for the first time. It was his name for her, a name whose definition they'd recently put words to; words that were absolutely perfect for how he saw her. That's why only_ he_ got to use that name. He and Parker, that is. And Parker was just an extension of him anyway. He didn't, and she didn't, allow anyone else to use that name, the name reserved just for her, and given to her by him. So long ago. And just like that, the path he needed to follow in that moment unfurled before him and he sat back and began to speak.

"Even that very first case we worked together ... Remember that? That was the first time I called you Bones." He smiled with sad eyes.

"Hm. Gemma Harrington. And I didn't really like it," she answered, a soft truncated sigh adding finality to her words.

"You did at first, remember? You said you'd call me 'Shoes' because, you said, my shoes were shiny or something like that." His mouth crinkled at the absurdity of her logic and thanked God that the nickname hadn't stuck.

"You thought it was a stupid nickname."

"Yeah, I did. It was—silly," he grimaced.

"Mmmm," she hummed, nodding slightly as she glanced over at him. "I do remember that. Booth is a much better nickname. I like it," she paused thoughtfully. "It's much more—Boothy, you know, masculine."

"Boothy means masculine?"

"Of course, as well as several other characteristics attributable to one who is—"

"Okay, we're getting off point, Bones—"

"You are correct. Sorry. Perhaps another time we can discuss what I mean by—"

"But not now—" Booth insisted, his look pinning her to her seat, but in a delightful progressive way. And it felt good. This, the banter that was uniquely theirs, normalized the situation for Booth. "There really is nothing to be afraid of," he mumbled.

"I'm not afraid, Booth," Brennan said gently, dipping her chin as if to lift his with a single finger.

"What?"

"You said there is nothing to be afraid of."

"I did?"

"You did. I said that maybe later we can discuss the masculine properties of your surname and you said not right now and then you said there is nothing to be afraid of."

Booth sighed. "Hm. Sorry. Are you sure I said—? Of course, you're sure. It was exactly what I was thinking."

"You were thinking out loud." She nodded.

"Uh, yeah."

"Had you intended to say that to me or to yourself? Because it sounded like you were saying it to me, but since you hadn't intended to say it out loud—"

"I was saying it to myself, Bones." Yes. This banter was good opponent against the mounting anxiety over his intended confession.

"Oh." She paused, understanding this was his way of summoning the courage to do something he didn't want to do, but knew he had to do regardless. "I hope you believed yourself after you said it. In my experience, when people say, you know, that _there's nothing to be afraid of_, it means they are experiencing the physiological sensations that manifest in times of extreme duress." She shrugged so he knew she wasn't accusing him of anything.

At that moment, a live electrical current flowed from her, snapping and crackling its tentacles across the gap between them, reaching toward him, gently grasping and holding his own electricity, enfolding it within its core where it became fully and irreversibly enmeshed with hers. It was powerful stuff he was feeling. And it was just what he needed.

He stared at her, mystified. Stupefied. Humbled. The corners of his eyes and mouth turned up and he felt heavy, solid. Warm.

"Well, you're right. It's about what's been going on. You know, the nightmares and stuff? That's what I gotta tell you about."

"And they are frightening nightmares? Or is it that you are anxious about telling me about them?" She asked gently.

Booth exhaled quickly then held his breath, staring at his knees. He shrugged. "I guess it's both." He looked up quickly, willing her to understand now that the fear was subsiding and he was feeling more confident.

"Oh," she said quietly, "But why? Like you said, we've been through a lot together—"

"Yes," he affirmed looking up to meet her eyes. "Yes, we have. But what if …" He wasn't sure what to say or how to say it. She already loved him so much, maybe too much? And if he did something to ruin that … "Bones, I just don't want to hurt you," he said without thinking. _I'd kill myself before I'd intentionally hurt you,_ is what he meant.

"Booth, we agreed: No protecting each other … not from each other. I want to know what you are going through. Maybe I can help in some way?" She cocked her head to the side and looked at him with forgiving eyes.

* * *

><p>Thank you, dear reader, for spending this time in the Bones Universe with me. My fear is gone as I've begun the serious delve into the dark of Booth's pain and chapters will come more swiftly now. Shorter, but more frequently. Your notes and reviews brighten my days!<p>

~ MoxieGirl


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